A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 21

He sat atop a crate.

Pelias hadn't just stopped by her house—he'd tried to strongarm his way into the Town Hall with his troops. Unfortunately for him, the mayor and his staff had barricaded the entrance, refusing him entry. A brief firefight ensued, but the arrival of Adam, who promptly beat half of their number into the ground, forced the rest to surrender. Medea watched as the Town Guard marched Pelias's surrendered goons into a corner where they awaited processing and imprisonment. The injured members of the White Fang and the others were given medical treatment, albeit from faunus doctors rather than human ones.

"Bastards," she spat, her voice sharp as she spat onto the stone street.

"Who are they?" Sienna asked, striding up beside her.

"They're House Troops of the Argonid clan," Medea revealed. "They used to control this town. When my husband and I returned from our travels, we forced them to leave. Last I heard, Pelias had taken his new seat into Mistral."

Sienna frowned, her mind turning to history. Anima was a patchwork of towns and cities—Mistral being the largest—but there were others, ruled by clans, chieftains, and nobles. The Color Revolution had supposedly done away with such systems, returning power to the people. Yet, something was clearly going wrong here.

"What sort of power allows a former nobleman to march into his old fief?" Sienna asked. "Is that not usurpation?"

"It's illegal, yes," Medea said with a shrug. "But Mistral doesn't exactly care what happens out here in the wilds. Go handle your men. I need to speak with my nephew."

Sienna nodded, understanding. She too needed to speak with Adam, but after everything that had happened, his family surely came first.

"Of course," Sienna replied, stepping aside to allow Medea her leave.

+++

This town looked no different from a Greek village.

The salt of the sea and the sound of waves crashing against the shore filled my senses. Sweat ran down my face and chest, unaccustomed to the warmer temperatures of this place. Guardsmen barked orders at terrified mercenaries, hauling them into cars. Their fear wasn't directed at the shouting Town Guard—it was directed at me.

The sharp sound of boots striking stone and wood against pavement reached my ears. I glanced up.

"You doing okay there, buster?" Medea asked, her voice awkward. Regret and embarrassment flashed across her face as she realized what she'd just said. Gods damn it—she was still thirty, not fifty.

I mercifully ignored her awkward attempt to play the part of my aunt. Well, she was my aunt but she clearly did not know how to act it. Instead, I answered, "I'm fine. I just need some time to… come to terms with everything."

In the distance, a familiar voice caught my attention. Sienna was speaking with her men. She turned, as though sensing my gaze, and waved. I acknowledged her with a small nod before turning back to Medea.

"Where's my father? Pasiphae? Her parents?"

Medea sighed, sitting down beside me. "What do you remember?" she asked softly.

"The Atlesians firing on us with their batteries," I replied.

And so, she told me everything.

I listened quietly.

"Your father and in-laws—they're still on their way here," Medea assured me. "Sienna says they're taking the long way. By that, I think she means they're trying to stay safe."

Good. I trusted Caestus and Atlanta.

"Are you okay?" Medea asked again, worry flickering in her eyes.

"I am," I insisted. "Just… blank."

"Blank?" she echoed.

"Emotionally spent," I said simply.

A pained expression crossed her face, but she sighed and nodded. "I wish I could have been there with you."

"You wouldn't have wanted that," I said flatly. "Nicolasburg was a fight we couldn't win. There's only so much a town of miners can do."

I stood up.

"Wait—where are you going?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

"A walk," I said. "I need to clear my head."

+++

Sienna blinked as Adam marched past, scabbard in hand.

She excused herself from her men and approached Medea. "Where's he going?"

"A walk," Medea replied simply. "To clear his head."

Sienna nodded. She could relate—sometimes being alone with her thoughts was the only way to find clarity.

"What did you see in his nightmare?" Medea asked after a moment of silence.

"Is that important?" Sienna countered.

Medea nodded. "Dreams are a subconscious byproduct of the mind during sleep. Sometimes nonsensical, sometimes factual. In my studies, there are many kinds of dreams. Most are harmless. But Nightmare Grimm induce a state called phantasma—a distorted, non-predictive vision that exists between the sleeping and waking states."

"I've never heard of this," Sienna admitted.

"I wouldn't expect you to," Medea said with a faintly condescending tone. "Nightmare Hunters like me are rare. Our semblances tend to be… how do I put this?"

"Esoteric?" Sienna suggested, ignoring her condescension.

"Esoteric," Medea agreed with a nod.

"So, a sorceress?" Sienna asked.

Medea stared at her for a moment, then sighed. "Like a sorceress, yes. But I don't enchant people for fun."

"You're a boring sorceress, then."

"I can set you on fire, you know," Medea said, raising an eyebrow.

"You wouldn't dare."

Medea rolled her eyes. "You're right. Being a sorceress is expensive."

Her tone shifted, becoming serious. "Now, about the nightmare?"

Sienna leaned back slightly, her expression darkening. "It was in a city. A place utterly corrupted and perverted. He was nailed to a cross in a defiled church. The nails were massive, as big as crowbars. I had to fight a corrupted version of him before I could free him."

Medea's face turned reflective. "What city?"

"I don't know," Sienna admitted. "It didn't feel familiar, and the language there was different."

Medea muttered to herself, her tone thoughtful. "Based on this… I'd say it represents Adam's wish for a different world. A different life. If he was nailed to a cross, then the cross likely symbolizes his burden, and the nails his guilt. And the church… a holy sanctuary desecrated and defiled. Nothing is sacred anymore."

Sienna nodded but stayed silent as Medea's words hung in the air.

Medea hummed softly, then gave a sharp nod. "That settles it."

"Settles what?" Sienna asked.

Medea ignored the question and stood. "Something for later. Now, I'm off to start the paperwork to rebuild my house. And to file a lawsuit against Pelias."

Sienna smirked at the thought of a so-called sorceress doing something as mundane as filing paperwork.

"You," Medea continued, pointing at her, "should go find my nephew. I don't want him getting lost."

Sienna nodded. She had been planning on doing that anyway.

"And don't seduce him, please," Medea added.

Sienna rolled her eyes. "I'm not that desperate."

"Good," Medea said. "Because if you were, I'd encase you in ice."

+++

My footsteps echoed against the streets, the hollow sound bouncing off the empty buildings as I made my way to the sea. The broken moon hung above, its fractured light dancing on the shores like a cruel, taunting memory.

I sat on the beach, the borrowed sword from Pelias lying in the sand beside me, its hilt blackened and scratched. The sea stretched endlessly ahead, its waves rolling in and out, indifferent to the weight of my thoughts.

We failed.

It was as clear as the moonlight.

I failed.

Pasiphae is gone. Dead. Most likely dead. I didn't need reasons or explanations. An explosion that tore apart the side of a mountain? Who in their right mind could survive something like that?

My hands trembled as I lifted them, turning them palm-up under the moonlight.

These hands—stained with blood and burdened with guilt.

These hands—powerless to save her.

The sound of the waves grew louder, filling the silence around me, but it wasn't enough to drown out the memories. Her laughter, her voice, her smile—they played in my head like a cruel melody, mocking me with every note.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms until the pain forced me back into the present.

I wanted to scream. To shout at the sea. To curse the gods, the world, and whatever cruel twist of fate had led us here. But no sound came. My throat was dry, my chest hollow.

I was empty.

The waves crept closer, licking at my boots, as if the sea itself were inviting me in. For a moment, I entertained the thought. How easy it would be to let it all go, to walk into the water and let it wash me away.

But the thought of dying while Jacques Schnee lived?

No.

Not while he still drew breath.

Until that man was dead, I would have to live.

This so-called freedom I had found—it came with choices. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't backed into a corner. I wasn't shackled by the expectations of others. I could do whatever the hell I wanted.

And I will.

No more hesitation. No more second-guessing. No more mercy.

Jacques Schnee has earned an enemy. Among many others, yes—but for me, he is the enemy.

And he will pay for what he's done.

No matter what it takes, Jacques Schnee will fall.

It would not be a wild rampage of revenge, no. It will be careful. It will be coordinated. It will be planned. I hold inside me ideas, timelines of humanity's past history.

As unprepared as I was to meet Remnant's reality, I shall subject unto Jacques Schnee Terra's millennia of suffering and toil.

I took in a breath.

"Adam," a voice called out.

There she was, standing with a hand on her hip, looking down at me.

"Are you alright?" Sienna asked.

"As well as someone realizing their world is gone," I said flatly.

​She flinched. She look away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I am not going to yell at you," I returned. "You had your rights to leave when you did. Besides, you at least helped get my father and in-laws out."

"We owe each other then?" Sienna asked.

"Quite," I returned.

She glanced at my side. "That seat taken?"

I shook my head.

She sat down, feet hugging her legs.

Silence.

"Are you going to recruit me?" I asked.

Sienna's mouth widened at my bluntness. She cleared her throat. "That was ideal, yes. We-"

"I'm in," I said simply.

"That was quick," Sienna blinked.

I stared.

"You would not have saved me if you didn't have a use for me," I noted.

She twitched. "You make it sound like I had an agenda."

"Don't you?"

She stared.

She sighed.

"I do. I will not lie about that."

"Good. Speak frankly to me or don't."

"Is this that famous Solitan bluntness?"

"Words have meaning. Either have something relevant to say or say nothing at all."

"Sounds wise."

"I stole it from someone."

"Not really helping the stereotype, Adam."

​The waves went up.

"I may be in, Sienna," I continued. "But I have my own questions and concerns."

"Ask away."

"Go ahead."

"What is your plan?"

"Get back to Menagerie. Get Ghira to step down. Be the new Supremo of the White Fang."

I tilted my head and urged her to continue.

+++

Sienna straightened, her voice steady as she began. "Leadership demands strength and clarity of purpose. Ghira has lost both. He turned away from our struggle when it became uncomfortable. I do not seek power for its own sake—I seek it because our people need someone who won't flinch when the world bares its fangs."

She paused, her tone shifting as she continued. "I plan a revolution. A balanced one. We have begged, we have pleaded, and still, humans treat us as second-class—if they acknowledge us at all. Our revolution aims to end that complacency. To make the kingdoms feel what we've suffered. Not with empty words, but with organized resistance. Economic sabotage. Tactical strikes. A show of strength they can't ignore. This world only respects power. So we'll speak to it in the only language it understands."

It felt strange, sitting beside Adam like this. The man who had been a firebrand, all fury and conviction, now dulled by loss and failure. Yet, even in his somewhat broken state, there was still something in his eyes—a sharpness that hadn't been extinguished.

Sienna could feel his gaze on her, piercing, dissecting. He had never been one for idle conversation. When Adam spoke, it was deliberate, every word carrying weight. As he turned toward her now, she braced herself.

"You speak of balance," he began, his voice low and measured. "But what does that mean to you, Sienna?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "It means equality. A world where we aren't hunted. Where we aren't treated as lesser beings. Where the Faunus can live without fear."

Adam tilted his head slightly. "Equality? Or dominance?"

"Equality," she repeated firmly. "I'm not looking to subjugate humanity, Adam. I want our people to have the same rights, the same opportunities. To stand on equal footing."

"Yet you speak of resistance," he countered. "Of sabotage. Of striking fear into the hearts of the kingdoms. Do you believe fear builds equality?"

His questions were sharp, like the edge of a blade, cutting through her carefully constructed answers. Sienna took a slow, measured breath, steadying herself.

"Fear is a tool," she replied. "One they've used against us for centuries. Now, we wield it against them. It's not about destruction—it's about forcing them to see us."

Adam's gaze narrowed. "And when they see us? What then? What happens when the kingdoms retaliate? When their fear turns to hatred and they strike back harder than ever before?"

"They already hate us," she said softly. "They've already struck us down time and time again. Look at Nicolasburg. Look at you. At least this way, we're fighting back."

"And if we win?" Adam pressed, leaning slightly toward her. "What does victory look like to you, Sienna? A world where humans and Faunus coexist peacefully? Or a world where the Faunus rule, and humans fear stepping out of line?"

She frowned, her voice hardening. "Victory is a world where the Faunus are free. Where we're no longer shackled by oppression or fear."

"Freedom," Adam echoed. "That's a pretty word. But freedom for who? For the Faunus? For everyone? Or just for those who agree with your methods?"

Sienna met his gaze, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "You're twisting my words."

"No," he said plainly, his voice calm. "I'm asking you to think. You say you want balance, equality, freedom—but those are just ideals. What are you actually fighting for, Sienna? What's your endgame?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words stuck. Her endgame? She had always thought it was clear: liberation for the Faunus. Justice for centuries of suffering. But Adam's questions made her realize how abstract those goals sounded when stripped down.

He didn't let up. "If you want me to follow you, Sienna, I need more than slogans. I need to know you've thought this through. You say Ghira lost his way because he lacked strength and clarity. So tell me—what makes you different? What's your plan to win a war without becoming the very thing we're fighting against?"

Her fists clenched, the weight of his words sinking in. He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't trying to undermine her. He was forcing her to confront the cracks in her rhetoric, to examine the foundation of everything she believed in.

"My plan," she began slowly, "is to build a movement that can't be ignored. To show the kingdoms that we won't be silenced. But we won't become monsters, Adam. We won't stoop to their level."

"And how do you stop that from happening?" he asked, his tone pressing but not unkind. "How do you keep the anger, the hatred, from consuming us? From consuming you?"

Sienna paused, her throat tightening. "By leading with purpose. By staying focused on the bigger picture. This isn't about revenge—it's about justice."

Gods damn it, she was supposed to be the one recruiting him, why did it now feel like she was getting dressed down?

Adam leaned back slightly, studying her. "Justice," he repeated, as though tasting the word. "And who decides what that justice looks like? You? Me? The people you lead? Once the blood starts spilling, how do you stop it from drowning everything else?"

She swallowed hard. "It's not just me. It's not just you. It's all of us—together. We decide. We hold each other accountable."

"And what happens when someone disagrees with your justice?" he asked, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "What happens when someone decides your justice isn't enough?"

The weight of his question hit her like a wave crashing against the shore.

She stared at him, searching for an answer, but he spoke again before she could find one.

"You're asking people to fight, to sacrifice, to lay their lives on the line," Adam said, his voice steady but piercing. "You need to give them more than ideals and promises. You need to give them something real to fight for—something that won't crumble under the weight of guilt and loss. Because if you can't…"

He trailed off, letting the silence speak for him.

Sienna turned her gaze toward the sea, the waves rolling in and out, endless and unfeeling. His words churned in her mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.

"I'll find a way," she said quietly. "I have to."

"And I know you will," Adam replied. "But you gotta think this through. You cannot just be spontaneous about something or it will fizzle out."

Adam's fingers dug into the sand, his knuckles white with tension. His voice was low, almost a growl, as he spoke.

"Nicolasburg...it was a failure," he admitted, the bitterness in his tone unmistakable. "We had no plan. No goal beyond the short-term. Even if we had gotten everything we wanted, we would still be under Jacques Schnee's thumb."

He lifted his gaze to meet Sienna's, his eyes burning with a mixture of anger and frustration. "We wouldn't have any real rights. Nothing that couldn't be taken away the moment it became inconvenient for them. They wouldn't be victories—they would be concessions. Scraps thrown from the table to keep us quiet."

"So we take down the ones at the table," Sienna supplied.

"Or," he said, leaning forward, eyes hard but clear, "we make sure there is no table at all. No head, no foot, no master, no servant. Just people. Everyone sitting hand in hand. Not divided by walls or bloodlines. But equal. Side by side."

Sienna's lips curled. "You would have us sit on the floor? Sounds uncomfortable."

For the first time, Adam snorted. "No. It is equal."

The waves crashed up.

Sienna glanced sideways, the breeze tugging at the ends of her skin. In the distance, something was rising.

She blinked.

"We've been talking for a while," she said, almost surprised. There wasn't annoyance in her voice—just the quiet recognition of time passed not in battle, but in thought.

Adam stood, brushing the dust from himself. "We should get back," he said. "I walloped the Argonids but when huntsmen fight, it tends to be destructive."

She smirked. "Had a little fun, did you?"

"Perhaps. I am still not satisfied though. A little manual labour can fix the buzz."

Sienna looked up at him. His shoulders were broader than she remembered, his face tempered and his eyes, expressive and thoughtful. Something glimmered there. Purpose, maybe. Or understanding.

She liked that.

She stood too. "Adam, can we talk like this again?"

He paused.

"Of course," he said. "We have to plan, after all."

Sienna's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, searching for something. Then her lips curled more at the edges.

The waves crashed again. He moved to walk, but stopped.

She moved to follow, she blinked.

"What?" she tilted her head.

He turned around, back into the sea. Out there, the black sky was shifting.

Sienna folded her arms, standing silently beside him. They stood there, side by side, as the light began to grow.

No orders. No weapons drawn. No speeches.

Just the two of them, and the sky bleeding open.

And there, by the sea, in a sunless realm, the sun rose at last.

+++

And so they began rebuilding.

The air in Cius buzzed with hammers, shouts, and the scrape of metal against splintered wood. The bullet holes in the walls told stories no one wanted to repeat, so instead, they spoke through action—nailing, hauling, lifting, painting. The Mayor, beaming with gratitude, had clapped Adam on the back after it all. Called him "young and steady," and handed him a fine coat like it was some kind of medal.

Adam had taken it wordlessly, eyes flicking toward Medea like she might tell him what to do with the moment.

She laughed from the edge of the crowd, slow-clapping with the rhythm of someone who wasn't quite sure if it was funny or tragic.

"Looks good on you," she hollered. "Try not to ruin it."

The crowd cheered. The moment passed.

And Adam vanished.

Slipped right into the churn of villagers before anyone could keep celebrating. No speeches, no thanks. Just boots crunching gravel, hands already reaching for a hammer.

Most didn't let him work—not really. Too in awe. Too respectful. They called him a hero. And heroes didn't rebuild chicken coops or patch roofs, apparently.

So he went to the only place where no one was afraid to hand him a damn shovel.

Her land.

And it needed him.

The barn had been gutted. A blast had torn through one corner, leaving charred beams jutting out like broken ribs. Half the paddock fence was a memory—blackened wood and twisted wire where goats now tested their freedom daily. Her porch sagged with the weary tilt of a woman holding back tears. Paint curled like dead leaves. The roof, once proud, now wore a jagged grin—a gap in the tin where rain fell through in bitter drips and wind whistled mean lullabies.

But the bones still held. That mattered.

They started with the barn.

He didn't talk. Neither did she. They just worked. She handed nails, he took them. She pointed at rotted boards, he pulled them out. His movements were smooth, efficient—but wound tight, like every muscle in him was coiled for something else. Something harder. Something bloodier.

The animals watched him with the same wary curiosity they gave any stranger. Chickens scattered. The cows gave disinterested moos. But the goats? Oh, the goats were bastards.

One billy with a bent horn sized Adam up, trotted over, and tried to ram him from the side.

Adam didn't flinch.

Just turned, laid a hand on its snout, and muttered something low. The goat froze, snorted, and shuffled away like a kid caught stealing biscuits.

She squinted. "You always been good with assholes?"

"I grew up in a Atlesian mine," he said. "So yes."

She laughed. He didn't.

Next came the house.

What had started as repairs became something more. Expansion. Necessary, sure—but also overdue. A new wing, maybe. An extra guest room. Some space to breathe. Some space to forget.

Adam started the foundation without being asked. Measured by eye. Dug by hand. His coat hung over a post, flapping in the wind like some forgotten flag.

Villagers walked by now and then. A woman brought water. Someone offered bread. One bold girl tried to flirt, too. Adam smiled, polite. Declined.

Medea saw it all from behind her dust mask, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted with sweat and sawdust, braid frizzed and stuck to her skin. Her shirt clung in all the wrong places. Her boots tracked mud across every beam they laid down. But she didn't slow. Neither did he.

They had help too. The White Fang helped. That was fine. What was not fine was her.

Medea watched them. All of them.

She didn't make a habit of eavesdropping. But gods, it grated. For half a day, she and Adam said nothing beyond measurements, tool requests, supply counts. And he said plenty to the Tiger. Low murmurs. Shared nods. Medea wasn't jealous. Absolutely not.

She was dignified. Grounded. A grown woman.

...She just wanted to have an actual conversation with her nephew, damn it.

The chance came at lunch.

Sienna and the rest of the Fang left to gather more supplies, mercifully. For once, the space was hers.

Adam sat on the grass, half in the sun, chewing slowly on a thick sandwich, the kind packed with leftover roast and not enough mustard. Shirt off. Bandages still ghosting his ribs, skin striped with old and new scars. The coat lay beside him, folded like a flag.

Medea loomed.

"Hey," she said.

He glanced up, blinking once. "Auntie."

She scratched her head.

"Can an old woman sit by you...my...uh...my dude?"

He stared at her.

"I politely ask you not to refer to me as my dude, again, auntie. And you aren't old. You're middle-aged."

"You know what I mean, dumb fool."

"It's your land."

So she sat.

Groaned as her knees bent. Settled into the dirt like someone settling into an unspoken ritual. Grass itched the backs of her calves. She plucked a blade and chewed the end, squinting at nothing in particular.

He took another bite. Chewed.

The silence sat between them. Not tense. Just... full.

Gods, what was there to say?

You've grown up?

"Is there something on your mind, auntie?" Adam asked.

Medea chewed the grass stem a little harder, the bitter tang biting her tongue.

Is there something on your mind?

She almost laughed. What a question. There were dozens of things on her mind. The house. Pelias's trial. The orders still waiting to be filled. Him. That godsdamned goat and sheep that kept finding new ways to escape the pen like it had a vendetta against basic fencing. But she didn't say any of that. Not yet.

Instead, she glanced sideways at him.

Adam looked... fine. Which is to say, not dead. His hair was too long, but that was an easy fix. There was still a hardness in his shoulders, something unspooled in his posture like he was always waiting for someone to draw steel. His eyes, though—those told the truth. He looked like a boy who'd seen too much and hadn't figured out where to put it all.

"Yeah," she finally muttered. "Plenty on my mind."

"Like?"

"You, mostly."

He blinked at her. Slowly. Wary.

"What about me?"

She sighed. "Adam, I have not seen you since you were a baby picture. And now you are here half-dead in the back of a stranger's cart. That tends to put a few thoughts in an old woman's head."

"You're middle-aged."

"I swear to every god, I will take that sandwich from your hands and throw it in the chicken coop."

"There's only two," Adam smiled, the barest curve of his mouth. "And the chickens would eat the sandwich."

"They eat anything," she grunted. "One of them tried to swallow a screw yesterday."

Silence again. The wind picked up.

Adam stared at the grass.

"Are you worried about me?"

Medea exhaled through her nose. Not a sigh. More like pressure escaping. She didn't answer right away. She tilted her head back, watching clouds move like ghosts across the sky. She let the question sit there between them, long enough that he might've thought she didn't hear.

Then, "Yes."

She faced him.

"You have faced something no one should bear. Now I hear you planning things with that Tiger. I know you respect her," she said, slow, deliberate. "Hell, I'd be blind not to. She's strong. Smart. And sharp enough to make a steel trap look polite."

Adam raised a brow, curious where this was going. She went on before he could interrupt.

"You should be sleeping, relaxing, getting your mind off things."

​"I can't."

​Medea frowned. "Why not?"

"My spite and hate for Jacques Schnee is far greater than my want to sit around and do nothing."

"And is this doing nothing? Rebuilding?"

She shook her head. "You have already done enough. Let the White Fang do their job in fighting for rights. You? You sit here, relax, unwind. You've suffered enough."

Adam's voice cut sharp in the stillness, colder than it meant to be. "I've suffered enough? Auntie, with respect—suffering isn't a ledger. It doesn't get tallied and stamped and declared closed."

She stiffened.

Adam, regretting his tone, sighed and spoke softly. "I got a bone to pick with Jacques Schnee, auntie. And I will not stop until that bone is done."

"Only Jacques Schnee? Not Atlas? Not humanity?" she asked.

Adam didn't answer right away. His jaw moved like he was grinding words instead of meat. Eyes stayed forward. Wind stirred the grass, made his coat flap lazily like some caged thing with nowhere left to fly.

"I could blame all of Atlas," he said, voice flat. "Plenty do. I could burn the world for how it raised me. The mine. The quotas. The frostbitten air in my lungs. You know what that kind of cold does, Auntie? It teaches you to hate. Not just people. The silence. The way metal echoes in tunnels when someone dies under a beam. You remember that sound more than their name."

He looked at her now. Just once. Brief.

"Atlas was a whip. But Jacques Schnee held it."

He leaned back.

"I don't hate the world. That's the easy way. The lazy way. I refuse to be that."

And then—he laughed. A short, dry thing. No joy in it. Just exasperation wrapped in disbelief, like he was gagging on the memory of someone else's stupidity.

"People keep saying 'the world's broken,' like that means anything. The world isn't broken. Some people are just assholes."

Her brows lifted. She leaned back slightly. "I didn't expect you to say that."

"Why not?"

"I expected you to be angrier. At all of them. Everyone."

"I am angry." His voice was ice again. Not shouting. Just carved from something sharper than reason. "But not stupid."

"Jacques made Atlas what it is. A machine that eats souls and shits profits. Some of them turn cruel to survive. Some don't. Some preserve their humanity despite the weight of the world on them."

She listened, lips parted slightly, heart thudding slow and heavy like hoofbeats on wet ground.

"The world sucks. There is cruelty and malice. But there is kindness too. Jacques Schnee was moved by greed and being a prick. You would think his daughter would be the same but no. She bowed to me. She apologized to me. She did it not because it was expedient, but because it was right."

He laughed.

"People are complicated. The world is complicated. To pretend otherwise is being a hateful spiteful thing. There are good apples. There are bad apples."

Medea watched him. Really watched.

"The only thing left to do is cut out the bad. And the tree will be fine anew."

Even despite everything which had happened, despite losing his world and his wife, Adam thought that. It was naive? Perhaps. But holding on to that told Medea something.

"You got some strength of character, boy," Medea sighed, rubbing the back of her head.

It was cute.

Adam picked up a loose blade of grass, twisted it between his fingers. Medea watched the motion. Not the grass. The hand. The fingers. The scars. The way they moved like they'd forgotten what softness felt like. He murmured. "Jacques is a rot. A tumor in the marrow of the world. And you don't fix a body by forgiving cancer."

She leaned back on her palms, eyes squinting against the light. "So you'll kill him?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

He was quiet.

​Then: "We will get there when we get there."

"Fair enough," Medea said. "Now, let's get back to work, or are you just gonna keep waxing philosophical with your auntie in the dirt?"

His lip twitched.

"There's time for both."

​She snorted. "Fair enough."

+++

A/N: So yeah, low stakes, just relax. Next chapter, more Sienna. More Medea. And training arc.

Updates will resume after Friday. I must study hard tomorrow for the thesis defense.

Wish me luck my guys.

So, some notes:

Why is Adam being so...moderate?

It would be natural to expect him to become the most toxic man alive. But that is not his character. He is not a saint. He still wants to do what must be done. It is simply a man who knows that Jacques Schnee has taken so much from him. If he gives in to his hate, Jacques Schnee is going to take his soul. So frankly, fuck that.

As the Good King Baldwin IV said, "A king may move a man, a father may claim a son, that man can also move himself and only then is that man truly begin his own game. Remember howsoever you are played or by whom your soul is in your keeping alone, even those who presume to be kings or men of power. When you stand before god you cannot say, that I was told by others to do thus; or that virtue was not convenient at the time. This will not suffice. Remember that."