A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 18

Lightning flashed across the skies of Northern Solitas, a kaleidoscope of red, blue, and green flickering and dancing in the heavens. It painted the sky with an eerie brilliance.

It was visible from Atlas.

Of course, it would be. Perched high above the world, Atlas had a vantage point few could match. Even from such a distance, the explosion of light swam vividly against the darkened sky.

Epsilon retreated—and fast. As far as many knew, four ships had left Atlas. Only three returned.

Questions arose. Answers were demanded. Reports surfaced—scattered, incomplete, and raw. Whispers of a town surrounded, besieged. Tales of the Knights' advance being thwarted, held back by a red-haired warrior.

Geyer's heels echoed through the sterile halls of the Council.

The Bundschuh—or Peasant's Shoe Movement—was a loose coalition of frontier settlements. Out of anyone, they had the sharpest eyes beyond the city's walls. They were the first to notice strange movements in the north.

And Geyer had been suspicious of Epsilon's sudden relocation from the start. A battlegroup initially slated for Argus, suddenly redirected north? The paper trail pointed to one man: General Conrad Derringer. Through her network of contacts, she obtained scattered recordings showing the ships barreling northward at full speed, heading far beyond the Bundschuh's reach.

To the farthest edge of the extreme north.

As Geyer moved through the halls, she passed groups huddled around television screens. The ANN news anchor struggled to catch up with General Derringer, shouting questions as he ignored them, striding straight into a waiting car.

There would be interviews with soldiers. Documents to review. Too many loose ends.

Something was off, and Geyer intended to uncover the truth.

Turning away from the gathered crowds, she headed towards her office, her mind frayed with questions. She was halfway through the door when she paused, blinking in surprise as she caught sight of someone leaving. The door closed behind them. She gave it little thought—just a sanitation worker, dressed in the usual custodian's uniform.

Shaking off the distraction, she stepped inside.

And froze.

A box sat on her desk.

Caution flooded her as she instinctively activated her aura. Slowly, carefully, she approached the desk, testing the box for traps. Her movements were deliberate, precise.

She found none.

On the box, a note was taped in place. The handwriting was stark and uneven, almost frantic. It read:

"The truth."

Her pulse quickened. She tore the note off and set it aside before gingerly lifting the lid. Inside, she found bundles of letters—some handwritten, some typed—and a small collection of video tapes stacked neatly at the bottom. The contents were unassuming at first glance, but something about their presence set her on edge.

Taking a handful of the tapes, she crossed the room to the portable player tucked into the corner of her office. Placing the first tape into the machine, she pressed play.

The screen flickered to life.

Geyer watched. 

And she watched in horror. 

​She turned it off. 

Her pulse quickened. 

She took in a breath. 

She forced herself to calm. 

​She needed allies in this. Despite her fire, she was alone. She would need someone in the military for help for that was where the true power lied. The military and business. The latter, it was corrupt beyond all measure. The former, there were still some who could be trusted. 

​She needed Ironwood

She thought to call him but paused as her scroll vibrated. 

"Emergency Council Session called. Your presence is required." 

Damn it!

She turned for the evidence.

"Karl!" she cried for her secretary. "Get a wheelbarrow!" 

+++

Derringer sat stiffly in the chair, his posture betraying the weight on his shoulders.

A cold hand extended a glass toward him.

He took it without a word.

Jacques Schnee turned back to his desk, settling into the imposing chair behind it. He said nothing, allowing Derringer's nervous gulp of the drink to fill the silence.

Finally, Jacques spoke, his voice measured, quiet.

"What happened?"

Derringer gripped the glass tighter. His words came out in a rush, tinged with desperation.

"It worked. The town was secured! Everything was under control!" He paused, his hands trembling slightly. "And then… then half the mountain blew up!"

Jacques remained still, his pale eyes fixed on the general.

"The mountain blew up?" he repeated evenly.

Derringer nodded, his face pale. "Yes. It…it didn't explode upward, though." He struggled, his words faltering as he tried to explain. "It exploded sideways. If it had gone upward, only the town would've been destroyed. Epsilon would've been shielded by the distance. But it didn't. It—"

He stopped, shaking his head.

Jacques said nothing, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he turned to an old map lying on his desk—a relic from his father-in-law's time. The map depicted the surrounding terrain in painstaking detail: a single path winding toward the plateau where Nicolasburg stood. Off to the far corner, the entrance to the mine was marked—a twisting, zigzagging labyrinth burrowing deep into the mountain.

Jacques traced a finger along the map, his tone calm when he finally spoke.

"I asked you to retake the mine, General."

Derringer's jaw tightened. "I tried, Jacques. But the animals were too stubborn."

Jacques didn't respond immediately. He simply stared at the map, his finger resting over the mine entrance.

"I see," he said at last.

Silence fell between them, heavy and unspoken.

Derringer shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His voice wavered slightly as he pressed on. "You… you'll support me, won't you? After all, I've been nothing but an ally to the Schnee Dust Company for years."

Jacques finally looked up at him, his face betraying nothing. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Of course," Jacques replied. "You'll get exactly what you deserve."

Relief washed over Derringer's face, and he offered a weak smile in return.

"Thank you, Jacques," he said, rising to his feet. "In that case, I'll prepare my testimony for the inquiry."

He turned toward the door, reaching for the handle—only for it to swing open before he could touch it.

Winter Schnee entered.

Her uniform was immaculate, as always, but bandages peeked out from beneath her sleeves and collar. Her icy gaze locked onto Derringer, and she ignored his attempt at a greeting.

She marched straight up to him.

And slapped him.

The sharp crack of her palm against his cheek echoed through the room.

"That's what I think of you and your lessons!" Winter spat, her voice cutting like a blade.

Before Jacques could say a word, she reached up to her collar and ripped the Schnee Dust Company lapel from her uniform. Without hesitation, she tossed it to the floor at her father's feet.

"From this moment on, I am no longer your heiress," she declared, her voice trembling with fury. "I will never, ever associate with you again."

Jacques rose, his expression darkening. "You will—"

"I will not!" Winter interrupted, her tone sharper than steel. "And if you try to ruin me after this, I swear on the Gods above, I will hurt you."

For a moment, Jacques simply stared at her, his face a mask of controlled anger.

Winter didn't wait for a reply. She turned on her heel and marched out of the office, her steps resolute.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Jacques and Derringer in silence.

Jacques's gaze drifted to the lapel on the floor. Slowly, deliberately, he bent down and picked it up, brushing it off with his fingers. He stared at it for a moment, the faintest shadow of thought flickering across his face.

Derringer, still recovering from the slap, cleared his throat.

"That girl has always been… difficult," he muttered, his voice dripping with frustration. "If you'd like, I can make sure her future career is… complicated. I've dealt with her kind before."

Jacques didn't look at him immediately. He kept his focus on the lapel, his thumb tracing the SDC insignia.

"I will count on the General to do what must be done," Jacques said quietly. His tone was calm, measured, but it carried a weight that made Derringer straighten his back.

A small, confident smile crept onto the general's face. He took Jacques's words as approval.

"Very well. I'll see to it personally," Derringer said, bowing slightly. "Your trust is well-placed, Jacques. I'll prepare my testimony now."

He turned and left, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

Jacques stood there for a moment, the lapel still in his fingers. He sank back into his chair, his mind churning with thoughts. Winter's words echoed in his head.

"I will never, ever associate with you again."

For several minutes, he sat in silence, staring at the map on his desk, the lapel gleaming faintly in the dim light.

His scroll vibrated. 

"Emergency Council Session called," he read, his voice cold. He sniffed. His hand tightened around the lapel briefly, then set it gently on the desk. He pressed another button.

"Prepare a car. I am heading towards the Chamber."

"Yes, Mister Schnee."

Time was of the essence here.

+++

They gathered.

Once, this chamber had echoed with the weight of empires.

The Winter Palace of the Eisfalk Emperors was now repurposed into something better or worse: bureaucracy. The soaring vaulted ceilings, once meant to humble petitioners beneath their painted depictions of divine conquest and imperial decree remained intact. Frescoes of golden chariots and roaring battles still lingered in the archways like ghosts that refused to leave.

But the throne was gone.

During the Color Revolution, the Eisfalks were dragged from their seat in a riot of blood and fire. The monarchy was shattered; their glory, dissolved. For years, the palace stood empty—looted, desecrated, and finally forgotten. But Atlas never let power go to waste.

And so it became the Council Chambers.

The throne was replaced by a raised platform of polished steel—stark, modern, brutalist. Where once an emperor had sat alone, now three high seats stood, simple and tall: the Triumvirate, the High Council of Atlas. Below them, six lower seats arranged in crescent formation: the Lower Council. Behind that, rows of assigned blocks: the military, the technocrats, the business bloc, and more. What had once been balconies for dukes and foreign princes now teemed with citizens, journalists, and observers under armed watch.

The stained glass windows still reached toward heaven, but no longer bore saints or sovereigns. The figures of Eisfalk lore had been replaced with geometric panes of a lantern and a spear. Symbols of unity. Symbols of progress. 

Councilor Geyer took her place at the Lower Council desk, high collar straight and mind locked. Around her, the crowd thickened. The chamber had never been so full.

Eyes watched from every corner.

She scanned the seats—and there he was. Jacques Schnee, leaning slightly back in his chair, posture lax, fingers steepled. Not a single muscle in his face moved. He looked like a man reading a favorable ledger.

Her lip curled before she masked it.

Then—three strikes of the Speaker's gavel.

"Order. The Council demands order!"

The hall quieted by degrees until the silence was almost total.

The Speaker stood beneath the High Council's platform. His robes were plain, his voice clipped, but his presence still bore the weight of authority. He cleared his throat, then read aloud:

"By permission of the Council and pursuant to Rule Seven of the Atlesian Charter of Procedure, we convene this Emergency Special Session. As per the Rule, the Chamber shall proceed directly to the item proposed without reference to ordinary protocol."

He glanced about the room, steel-eyed.

"If there is no objection, I will proceed with the vote to confirm."

Geyer's fingers hovered over her console. Three buttons: Yes, No, Abstain.

She pressed Yes.

So did many others.

A soft chime sounded. The tally appeared briefly above the dais—overwhelming majority.

The Speaker nodded once. "I hereby declare open the Seventh Emergency Special Session of the Council of Atlas."

His eyes swept across the floor.

"Who wishes to take the floor first?"

And just like that, the knives came out. A few councillors rushed to take the floor, but one was faster.

"The Chamber recognizes General James Ironwood."

All eyes turned to the Lower Chamber.

Ironwood rose with military precision, straightening his uniform as he stepped into the open. His boots struck the steel floor like a war drum.

She tracked every click of Ironwood's heels with quiet calculation. There was no hesitation in his posture. No room for doubt. When he stood, it was as if the chamber itself braced.

"Thank you, Mister Speaker."

Even his voice sounded armored.

"At approximately zero-seven-thirty this evening, a multi-spectrum explosion occurred in the Northern Solitan range—an event so powerful it was visible from Atlas itself."

That was no accident. Geyer's eyes narrowed. 

"Cross-referencing flight logs confirms that the source of the detonation aligns with the final reported location of Squadron Epsilon. Their trajectory placed them above Nicolasburg—the site of an SDC-operated Dust mine."

She didn't look at Jacques Schnee, but she felt the room tilt toward him, a gravitational pull of suspicion. He was the only one here who could sit in hell's shadow and still sip fine wine.

"I would remind the Council," Ironwood continued, "that Epsilon was scheduled for extended patrol rotation in the northern Mistral corridor. The reassignment to Solitas occurred without review by this chamber. Without notice. Without oversight."

Unilateral action. Of course. Geyer's jaw clenched behind her still expression. 

"Squadron Epsilon deployed with the heavy cruiser Wings of Victory, the destroyers Falcon and Robin, and Assault Ship Thirty-Three bearing the 12th Battalion." He paused. "I call upon General Conrad Derringer to speak upon this matter."

There it was. Geyer leaned back slightly, already dreading the coming smoke and mirrors.

Derringer rose like a man enjoying his own show. 

"I'd be delighted to answer your questions, General Ironwood."

That voice was whiskey soaked and smirking beneath the surface. Geyer felt herself cringe.

"The reason for our deployment was straightforward. Nicolasburg was overrun by insurgents."

And there it was. Geyer's lips tightened. Not a single fact yet—just the shape of a narrative, already weaponized. "Insurgents." The perfect word to discredit the dead.

The chamber cracked open with uproar. Cries. Camera flashes. The White Fang delegates surged in protest.

Geyer didn't rise. She didn't need to. Not yet. Let them scream. Let him think he had control.

"Order! Order!" the Speaker shouted. "The Council will come to order!"

"Overrun by whom?" Ironwood asked, voice flat as steel. "You're telling this chamber that an entire battalion was sent north because of a labor revolt?"

Geyer nodded slightly. Ironwood had cut the heart of it. She didn't like the man but when he struck, he struck clean.

"They weren't just shouting slogans and waving signs," Derringer replied. "They seized weapons. Took hostages. Shut down the mine."

"And who supplied that intelligence?" Ironwood's voice was ice now. Each word calculated.

"The Schnee Dust Company," Derringer said. "They followed protocol and reported it directly to the military chain of command."

Of course they did. Geyer pressed a thumb against her temple. The SDC didn't follow protocol—they authored it. The nod Jacques gave was too small, too neat. She knew a pre-written answer when she heard one.

She clicked her mic. "This body was not informed."

Silence struck. Several other councillors leaned in, glancing her way. She saw them—wary, curious, some eager for blood.

"It is not your turn to speak, Councillor Geyer," the Speaker interjected stiffly.

"It is alright, Mister Speaker," Derringer said with a smile, turning to her like she were a student asking about her own grades. "As I've said, it was a classified military response. Disclosing it prematurely risked triggering Grimm activity across the region."

"Or scrutiny," Ironwood said, and Geyer's chest almost snorted. She hadn't expected that one from him.

"We did what was necessary to contain a threat to the kingdom. And we acted fast," Derringer insisted.

Necessary, the excuse to do whatever by monsters who had ice in their veins instead of red, hot blood.

"This does not explain the explosion, General," Ironwood pressed, the heat rising in his tone now.

"I was getting to that," Derringer replied. "Squadron Epsilon was deployed bearing not only combat personnel, but a special envoy of the SDC. Negotiations were established. Progress was made. We even facilitated an evacuation of civilians—Faunus and Human alike."

That was true enough, per the videos that custodian had gifted her.

"And then the insurgents forced our hand."

There it was again. That line. He kept repeating it like a script. "Forced our hand." The surest sign a man wanted to pass blame to the dead.

The chamber erupted again. This time, the anger had teeth.

"ORDER!" the Speaker thundered. "ORDER!"

When it settled, the cold that remained was heavier than before.

"While discussions continued in Nicolasburg," Derringer went on, "a second uprising began in the nearby town of Aurora. Another mine seized. Another SDC installation held hostage."

Geyer's stomach turned. If there were uprisings, she wanted to know why. Not suppress them before the questions were asked.

"This was no isolated event. This was clearly coordinated sedition. The early signs of an organized revolt."

"Coordinated," she echoed silently. Or maybe it was just the first time enough people were desperate enough to stop dying quietly.

"And what of the explosion?" Ironwood demanded.

"A Dust vein beneath Nicolasburg detonated," Derringer said. "We believe one of the insurgents—perhaps multiple—intentionally triggered the reaction. It brought down part of the mountain. The Robin was lost to falling debris."

She winced—just barely. A destroyer gone. How many men? How many bodies crushed beneath that mountain?

"Casualties?"

"Classified pending report," Derringer answered, without a single blink. "But significant."

"Make no mistake," he added, "this was not an accident. This was not protest. This was sabotage on an industrial scale. Terrorism, plain and simple."

Geyer felt her fingers curl. She could feel how the word twisted the chamber. "Terrorism." The hammer of policy. The death of nuance.

"And it would've spread further had Epsilon not intervened," Derringer said. "We restored control. We minimized risk to Dust flow and broader civilian populations. The explosion—tragic as it was—was a result of insurgent actions, not Atlesian aggression."

It was theatre now. A battle report soaked in heroism, polished for mass consumption.

"We buried good men and women to stop this madness."

He let the silence hang like a noose.

"Those are the facts," he said, stepping back. "Now the Council must decide whether to stand behind its soldiers... or behind sedition."

And just like that, he returned to his seat.

Ironwood's voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"General Derringer."

He didn't sit. He didn't move. His presence held the room captive, the weight of a man who had stood on the front lines of every war Atlas had fought in the last twenty years.

"Your account is... convenient."

His tone was calm, measured, but every word carried the underlying tension of steel drawn halfway from its scabbard. The chamber was silent, the tension crackling like static before a storm.

"You speak of insurgents, of violence, of terrorism. Yet you fail to address the central question—why Nicolasburg? Why now? Why a movement so desperate that they would rather bring down a mountain than submit any longer to the Schnee Dust Company?"

Ironwood's gaze, cold and unrelenting, locked onto Jacques Schnee. The air felt heavier, as if the entire chamber leaned toward the confrontation.

"The question, Mister Schnee, is not whether you reported the situation to the chain of command. The question is why this happened under your watch."

Jacques Schnee's expression didn't shift. It was a masterclass in aristocratic indifference, the kind of practiced stillness that said, This does not concern me. But Ironwood wasn't finished.

"Time and time again, the Schnee Dust Company has been at the epicenter of conflict. Labor disputes. Exploitation. Accusations of abuse. And now, an explosion that obliterates a town, takes the lives of civilians and soldiers alike, and destabilizes the entire region. One might think, Mister Schnee, that your company is no longer an asset to Atlas, but a liability."

The chamber rippled with murmurs, the first cracks of dissent spreading through the blocs. Jacques remained unmoved. Derringer shifted uncomfortably. Geyer's breath held. Ironwood was striking, and striking hard. Where was his source of confidence? What made him go on the offensive, risking the wrath of the most powerful man on the planet?

Ironwood turned back to the Speaker, his voice rising with conviction.

"This Council has failed to ask the right questions for too long. We have allowed the SDC to operate unchecked, to treat the people of Solitas as disposable, to prioritize profit over stability. And now, when the consequences of that negligence have erupted—literally—into our skies, we are told to trust the same people who created the conditions for this tragedy to begin with."

He took a step forward, his boots striking the steel floor like thunder.

"I will not stand by while this Council rubber-stamps another cover-up. I will not let Atlas bury the truth beneath another mountain of excuses. This is not just about Nicolasburg. This is about whether we, as leaders of Atlas, have the courage to face the rot within our own house."

He turned his gaze back to Derringer.

"And General Derringer. You speak of classified reports and military protocols. You say Epsilon's actions were justified, that they were necessary. But what I see is a battalion sent to silence voices that dared to speak up against injustice. I see a military operation that prioritized corporate interests over lives. The lives of Atlesian citizens!"

The chamber erupted again, but Ironwood didn't flinch. He raised his voice above the chaos.

"Atlas is not a weapon for hire! We are not the SDC's private army! And if this Council cannot see that, then we are complicit in every atrocity that follows!"

He let the weight of those words hang in the air before delivering the final blow.

"I call for a full investigation into the events at Nicolasburg. I call for the immediate suspension of all SDC operations in Solitas until that investigation is complete. And I call for this Council to remember its duty—not to Jacques Schnee, not to the SDC, but to the people of Atlas."

Ironwood stood firm, his eyes sweeping the room. 

"I yield the floor." He said, returning to his seat.

The silence hung for a brief moment, taut and electric, before it gave way to a low wave of murmurs rippling through the chamber. Councillors leaned toward one another in hurried whispers, while others cast furtive glances toward Jacques Schnee and General Derringer. The former unbothered still, the latter glaring furiously at Ironwood.

The Speaker, visibly unsettled, glanced around the room to gauge the mood. After a moment, he cleared his throat, his voice attempting to restore order.

"Honourable Councillors," he began, his tone slightly strained but composed, "I formally request a recess. The Council will reconvene in ten minutes."

The Speaker's gavel struck the steel podium, the sharp sound echoing through the chamber.

+++

Geyer leaned back slightly in her chair, her fingers tapping the armrest as her eyes darted across the room. The Speaker's announcement of a recess hardly registered. Instead, she was cataloging the reactions: the nervous shifts among the business bloc, the way the technocrats exchanged hurried whispers, the unease rippling through the military representatives. Even the journalists in the balconies seemed hesitant, their pens poised but not yet scratching.

Ironwood's made his move, she thought, her lip curling faintly. 

She couldn't decide if she admired his audacity or cursed it. Ironwood had always been a hammer—unyielding, relentless—but this? This wasn't just a call for accountability. It was a challenge to the very foundation of Atlas' power structure. And it was a dangerous one. But what can you expect from a man with Iron in his name?

Geyer's gaze flicked back to Jacques, whose steepled fingers rested against his lips as if he were contemplating his next chess move. He didn't look at her, but she didn't need him to. She could feel the weight of his presence, the quiet, suffocating certainty that he had already calculated every possible outcome.

The Speaker's gavel struck, jolting her from her thoughts. The room began to stir as Councillors filed out for the recess, their faces masks of thought and calculation. Geyer didn't move immediately. She remained seated, her eyes fixed on the empty dais where Ironwood had stood moments before.

She had to speak to him. 

Ironwood wasn't far. She found him in the hallway, speaking quietly with Winter Schnee. Geyer lingered just out of sight, catching snippets of their conversation.

"Casualty reports," Winter was saying. "The numbers are still coming in, but the initial estimates—"

"Enough," Ironwood interjected, his tone sharp but not unkind. "I'll read the report when it's complete. What I need now is the truth, Winter. No omissions. No gloss."

Winter hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, sir."

Ironwood dismissed her with a curt nod, and she turned on her heel, walking briskly down the corridor. As Winter passed, Geyer caught the faintest flicker of tension in her expression, the kind of strain that came from holding too much inside. Geyer filed it away for later. Even the Schnees were cracking.

When Ironwood turned, his expression was as unreadable as ever. She stepped forward, calling out.

"General Ironwood."

He stopped and looked at her, his posture rigid but not hostile. "Councillor Geyer."

"Inspired speech," she said, her tone edged with something between approval and challenge.

"I wasn't trying to be," he replied simply.

"Regardless," Geyer said, crossing her arms, "you made your point. And I want in."

"In?" he echoed, his brow furrowing slightly.

She nodded. "I have some interesting things you'll find useful."

Ironwood's eyes narrowed. "Useful?"

"Let me show you," she said.

Minutes later, they were in a secluded room off the main corridor. Geyer laid out a datapad and a small stack of letters, the latter worn at the edges but meticulously organized. Ironwood stood beside her, his arms crossed, watching in silence as she brought up the first video.

The screen flickered to life, showing shaky footage—grainy, but clear enough. A line of workers, mostly Faunus, being corralled by armed guards wearing the unmistakable insignia of the Schnee Dust Company. The audio was faint, but the raised voices were unmistakable: demands for better conditions, for safety, for fair pay. For them to leave their town hall. The guards didn't respond with words.

They surged, batons raised.

Ironwood's jaw tightened as Geyer brought up another file. A letter with the hundred signatures, detailing their grievances. 

"These tapes? These letters? They're just the tip of the iceberg. Nicolasburg wasn't a one-off. It was a powder keg waiting for a match. And the SDC lit it." Geyer said.

Ironwood's eyes scanned the contents of the letter, his expression darkening with every line. When he finally looked up, there was a new weight in his gaze—a cold, calculated resolve.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"A custodian," Geyer replied. "But I couldn't catch them. They left quickly."

"And you trust this source?" Ironwood asked. "This mystery custodian?"

​There was the matter of it being given by someone they did not know but as far as she was concerned, this was solid. "Certainly, it has what we need, no?" 

Ironwood was silent for a moment, his fingers brushing the edge of the datapad. Then he straightened, his voice low but firm.

"This changes things."

"It should," Geyer said, her tone sharp. "You wanted the truth. Well, here it is. Now the question is—what are you going to do about it?"

Ironwood stared at the datapad for a long moment, the weight of the evidence sinking into the lines of his face. Then, without looking up, he asked, his voice calm but cutting, "What are you looking for out of this, Geyer?"

She blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second. Then her lips pressed into a thin line, and her tone turned sharp. "It's my job, General. I'm the Commissioner on Corruption and Internal Oversight. What I'm looking for is accountability—what the position demands."

Ironwood lifted his eyes to meet hers, his gaze piercing. "That's a convenient answer. But is that all? A job title? A duty? Or is there something more you're after?"

Geyer's arm twitched slightly, and for a moment, she considered brushing off the question. But Ironwood wasn't the kind of man you could deflect. He'd keep asking, keep drilling, until he got to the core. So she let out a breath, her shoulders relaxing just slightly.

"You want to know what I'm after?" she asked, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. "I'm after ripping out the rot that Jacques Schnee has buried in this kingdom—and I've been after it for years."

Ironwood's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't interrupt. Geyer continued, her words coming faster now, the frustration she'd buried for so long finally spilling out.

"Do you know what Jacques Schnee did after the Color Revolution? While the rest of us were trying to rebuild Atlas into something better, something fairer, he was pouring his money into 'stability.' That's what he called it—stability. But what it really meant was undoing everything the Revolution was supposed to stand for."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a razor-sharp edge. "The Eisfalk dynasty was gone, yes. The monarchy was crushed. But the system? The system stayed. Jacques turned it into something worse. He bought the press. He bought the Council. He bought the courts. He turned every ideal we fought for into a tool for his own profit."

Geyer exhaled slowly, steadying herself. "The Revolution was supposed to give power back to the people. But Jacques? He turned it into a farce. A kingdom with no king, ruled by a man who doesn't need a crown because he owns everything else. The SDC doesn't just control Dust, General. It controls Atlas—and everyone in it."

Ironwood's expression hardened. He didn't need to ask if she was exaggerating. He'd seen the signs himself, the influence the SDC wielded, the compromises made in the name of progress. But hearing it laid out with this kind of clarity hit like a hammer to the gut.

"And that's why you're doing this?" he asked, his voice low.

"There's more, of course," Geyer replied. "The mines he took over, they belonged to others. To members of the Bund. Small and medium sized ones, but they were ours. I hope they be returned. Then there were the lands he took over from the peasantry, General."

She pursed her lips. "And you? Why are you essentially going hot? Risking the wrath of Jacques Schnee?" 

Ironwood stood silent for a moment, his expression as steely as ever. His eyes flicked back to the datapad on the table, the weight of Geyer's words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and deliberate, each word measured.

"Because someone has to," he said, his tone carrying the weight of conviction. "Atlas wasn't built to serve one man's ambition, no matter how much power he's managed to consolidate. It was built to protect the people. To stand as a beacon of strength and order in a world that desperately needs it."

He stepped closer to the table, his gloved hand resting on the datapad as his gaze locked onto Geyer's. "But that's not what it is anymore, is it? Jacques Schnee has turned Atlas into a tool for his own profit. He's twisted its ideals, corrupted its systems. And he's done it while the rest of us have been too busy fighting battles, balancing budgets, or playing politics to stop him."

Geyer raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. "And now you've decided to stop playing politics?"

Ironwood's jaw tightened. "Politics isn't the answer to this. Jacques has rigged the game in his favor. The courts, the Council, the press—they're all his. He's built a fortress of influence, and trying to dismantle it piece by piece will take decades we don't have."

"And what are you proposing, General?" Geyer asked, her voice carrying a note of challenge. "You think you can just bulldoze through it?"

"If that's what it takes," Ironwood replied bluntly. "Jacques Schnee has spent years consolidating power, but he's made one critical mistake. He thinks his money and connections make him untouchable. But they don't make him invincible."

Geyer tilted her head slightly, intrigued. "So, this isn't just about accountability, is it? It's about power."

Ironwood's gaze didn't waver. "Power is only dangerous in the wrong hands. Jacques Schnee has proven he can't be trusted with it. If Atlas is going to survive, we need to take that power away from him—and from anyone else who thinks they're above the law."

Geyer studied him for a long moment, her fingers drumming lightly against her arm. "And you think you're the one to do it? You think the people will rally behind a general with warships and soldiers, challenging the most powerful man in the kingdom?"

Ironwood's expression softened, just slightly. "I don't expect them to rally behind me. But they need to see that someone is willing to stand up to him. Someone who isn't afraid to fight for what's right, no matter the cost."

A patriot. 

A real one.

Geyer's lips twitched into a faint, wry smile. "You're either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish, General. Maybe both."

"Maybe," Ironwood admitted, his tone almost self-deprecating. "But bravery and foolishness aren't mutually exclusive. The way I see it, what Jacques has done to Atlas is a greater threat than anything the Grimm or the other kingdoms can throw at us. If we don't deal with him now, there won't be a kingdom left to protect."

For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, the weight of their shared purpose hanging between them. Then Geyer spoke, her voice quieter but no less resolute.

"Jacques Schnee isn't going to go down without a fight. He'll use everything he has—money, influence, fear—to crush anyone who threatens him. You know that, right?"

Ironwood nodded. "I do. But I also know that if we don't stand up to him now, no one ever will."

Geyer's expression hardened, her earlier skepticism giving way to a grim determination. "Then we'd better make sure we're ready for that fight. Because once we start this, there's no turning back."

Ironwood extended a hand toward her, his tone firm. "Agreed. But if we're going to do this, we need to work together. No half-measures, no second-guessing."

Geyer hesitated for only a moment before taking his hand in a firm grip. "No half-measures," she echoed. "Let's tear him down."

+++

Geyer strode into the Council Chamber with Ironwood at her side, her usual air of calm calculation honed to a razor's edge. The Councillors were already trickling back to their seats, subdued murmurs buzzing through the room. The Speaker's gavel rang out sharply, slicing through the noise.

"The recess is over," the Speaker announced, his voice echoing with authority. "The floor is free."

A tense pause followed. The weight of Ironwood's earlier speech still hung heavily in the air, leaving no one eager to speak first. It was the perfect moment to corner Jacques Schnee, to hold him accountable before the world.

PING.

Geyer froze.

"The floor recognizes Jacques Schnee."

The room fell silent as Jacques rose, measured and composed. His tailored suit gleamed under the chamber lights. He adjusted his cufflinks, taking his time, before stepping to the podium. Steepling his fingers on the surface, he surveyed the room like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker. And thank you, Councillors, for your patience during this... eventful session." His voice was smooth, practiced, disarming. "Transparency and accountability are, after all, the cornerstones of Atlas' strength. We are no longer the old Empire, after all."

Geyer's jaw tightened, but she held her silence, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.

"I must commend General Ironwood for his passionate speech earlier." Jacques inclined his head toward the general. "It's rare to see such conviction in these chambers. And let me be clear...I absolutely agree with much of what he said."

Gasps rippled through the chamber. A pin drop would've been deafening.

"The Schnee Dust Company has always been committed to the welfare of Atlas and its people. And while no organization is perfect, I am deeply troubled by some of the incidents referenced earlier. Such a total and utter disregard for life. The immediate reprisals…"

Jacques let the words hang in the air, lowering his voice as if the weight of it burdened him.

"The truth is," he continued, voice laced with regret, "there has been a failure of oversight in some of our operations. While I cannot personally oversee every aspect of a company as vast as the SDC, I trust my leadership team to act with integrity. But the foreman of this mine? A cruel and petty man. And there have been... many such cases. Instances of abuse by those who thought they could get away with it."

He paused, letting the room absorb his "confession." Then his expression hardened.

"True, corporate had reported the incident to the military. But instead of convening with command, Derringer sent Squadron Epsilon ahead—without authorization or oversight."

Derringer shot to his feet, his face red with fury. He tried to shout, betrayal in his eyes. 

"General, you are not recognized to speak," the Speaker snapped.

Jacques, unshaken, pressed a button on the podium. A holographic image flickered to life, displaying footage of Winter Schnee negotiating with the rebel leader. It captured it all. Her humanity, to some. Her weakness, to others. But still, her voice echoed through the chamber.

"I apologize."

Straightening, Jacques raised his voice above the murmurs. "My own daughter was the envoy on-site. She ensured the negotiations were conducted with dignity and humanity."

He turned, leveling an accusatory finger at Derringer. "It was Derringer who ordered the strikes on Nicolasburg. It was Derringer who classified all relevant reports. It was Derringer who, I suspect, acted without informing even his superior officers. Yes, I asked for help. But I would never—ever—order the bombardment of my own workers!"

The chamber erupted into murmurs, but Jacques pressed on, his voice softening just enough to sound sincere.

"This is not who we are. The Schnee Dust Company is not above the law, nor above reproach. I welcome this Council's scrutiny because I believe in Atlas. I believe in its future. And I believe that together, we can rise above this moment and emerge stronger."

He paused, letting his words settle like a weight on the room.

"General Ironwood," Jacques said, turning to face him directly, "you are absolutely right to call for accountability. And I stand with you in that call. But I urge caution. Let us not allow the actions of one rogue individual to overshadow the greater good we all strive for. The SDC has always been, and will always be, an integral part of Atlas' strength. Let us not forget that."

Jacques folded his hands behind his back, his voice smooth and unshakable.

"The Schnee Dust Company provides dust not just to Atlas, but to the world. Dust that powers our homes, our technology, our defenses. I ask, for the sake of us all, to allow the company to reform itself, to restructure. But that does not mean we will do away with outside scrutiny. In fact, I will submit to this Council full access to SDC communications, dispatch logs, and internal memos related to Nicolasburg. We have nothing to hide. In fact, I insist the investigation be expanded—to include Battlegroup Epsilon's command structure."

His smile widened, polite yet poisonous.

"Transparency is in Atlas' best interest. Wouldn't you agree, General Ironwood?"

The chamber fell silent.

All eyes turned to Ironwood, who stared at Jacques with icy calm. Jacques, for his part, looked every inch the image of contrition.

Ironwood closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Geyer didn't look at Jacques. She watched the Councillors. The ones who had been ready to skewer the SDC moments ago were murmuring now, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. Ironwood's earlier fury had cracked the dam. Jacques was already patching it with gold leaf and rhetoric. And he was forcing Ironwood to agree with him—or risk looking unreasonable.

Motherfucker!

Geyer's hand twitched above her console. Every apology Jacques made was calculated, not real repentance. Jacques didn't bleed—he priced. The foreman he threw under the skids? A nobody. A write-off. Winter's footage? A shield, not a truth. Jacques had taken Ironwood's righteous fury, drained it of heat, and handed it back in a branded box: Transparency. Accountability. Restructure.

It was poison disguised as wine.

And they were drinking it.

"Point of order," Geyer said.

The chamber stilled. Jacques froze.

"The Council recognizes Councillor Florianne Geyer," the Speaker said.

Geyer rose slowly, her movements precise and deliberate. Her voice, calm and measured, cut through the room like a blade.

"Thank you, Mister Speaker," she began, her eyes fixed on Jacques. "Just now, Jacques Schnee gave us a stirring performance about accountability. About transparency. About the good intentions of his company. And now he offers us a villain—General Derringer—as a scapegoat."

She paused, letting the tension build before she spoke again.

"But I'm not satisfied!"

The words landed like a hammer, cutting through the murmurs in the chamber.

The sharpness of Geyer's words silenced the chamber. She let the stillness stretch, the weight of her challenge hanging in the air. Her gaze swept the room deliberately, landing on each Councillor one by one, before settling back on Jacques Schnee.

"Let's pretend, for a moment, that General Derringer was reckless," Geyer said, her voice calm, deliberate, slicing through the tension. "Let's assume he acted without proper coordination. That he sent Epsilon charging into the north like a warhound off the leash. That still doesn't explain why the Schnee Dust Company knew about Nicolasburg before this Council!"

The murmurs began anew, louder this time, rippling through the chamber. Geyer raised her voice, cutting through them like a blade.

"Is the governance of this Kingdom in the hands of the SDC now? Is this a Corporatocracy? Or are we still a Council—a body that governs Atlas and its people? Why was the military looped in before this chamber? Why was this crisis handled in backrooms and secret channels? Who decided that this Council—the elected representatives of Atlas—should be left in the dark?"

She turned her full attention to Jacques, her voice rising in controlled fury. "Does the military answer to the Council, or does the Council answer to the military? And why, Jacques, was the SDC in a position to dictate terms at all?"

The chamber buzzed with unease. Councillors leaned forward in their seats, exchanging glances. The military bloc, largely silent until now, stiffened, their expressions unreadable. Jacques' smirk faltered ever so slightly, but he remained composed, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

Geyer pressed on, her voice steady and sharp. "We are being told this was a tragedy. But tragedies don't happen in a vacuum. Nicolasburg didn't rise up because of one cruel foreman. It didn't explode because of bad luck or insurgent madness. It exploded because the SDC buried its failures—buried them until the only way left to scream was through rubble and fire!"

Her words rang out, heavy with accusation. The murmurs in the chamber grew louder. Jacques' mask of calm was beginning to show cracks, his neutral expression tightening at the edges. Geyer took a step forward, pointing directly at him.

"This wasn't the act of a rogue general. This wasn't the failing of one bad foreman. This was policy!"

The room erupted into gasps and murmurs. Councillors whispered furiously among themselves, some nodding in agreement, others glancing nervously at Jacques. The man himself stood motionless, his smirk completely gone now, replaced by a carefully neutral expression. But Geyer saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight twitch of his jaw.

She didn't relent.

"General Derringer acted, yes. But he acted on the back of intelligence provided by the SDC. He deployed because the company presented the situation as dire. He struck because Jacques Schnee—through channels he owns—ensured the solution would be military. And now we are supposed to believe that the SDC, the company supplying the weapons, building the mines, and feeding intelligence to command, walks away clean?"

The murmurs swelled into a low roar. Councillors shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some nodding, others casting suspicious looks at Jacques. The military bloc remained silent, their expressions unreadable. Ironwood's jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on Jacques with a cold, unflinching intensity.

Geyer took a deep breath, her voice steady but laced with steel. "I motion General Ironwood's proposal for the formation of a Special Investigative Tribunal—fully independent of the military and the SDC—with full authority to subpoena records, detain personnel for questioning, and request civilian testimony under protection."

The murmurs turned into a low roar. Councillors leaned toward one another, whispering urgently. Jacques' jaw tightened, his composure slipping for just a moment. Geyer pressed her advantage, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

"I further motion that all SDC operations in Solitas be frozen until the Tribunal completes its investigation. That includes resource shipments, executive travel, and control over company security forces."

That hit home. Jacques' calm façade cracked for just an instant—a flicker of apprehension flashing across his face before he schooled his expression back into neutrality. A ripple of unease spread through the chamber.

"And finally," Geyer said, her voice cold and precise, "I move that General Conrad Derringer be placed under official investigation—not just for his military actions, but for collusion and obfuscation."

The chamber fell silent. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air. All eyes turned to Jacques, who remained standing at his podium. His hands were still folded behind his back, but his eyes darted across the room, calculating, searching for his next move.

Jacques opened his mouth, but Geyer was faster. She raised a hand, cutting him off.

"You've already had the floor, Mister Schnee."

The Speaker, looking slightly rattled, glanced down at his console. His voice was strained but steady as he spoke. "The motions have been formally submitted. Is there a second?"

"I second the motion," Ironwood said, his tone firm, clear, and louder than it needed to be.

The words struck like a cannon shot. The chamber buzzed with energy as the Speaker banged his gavel, calling for order.

"The motions have been submitted and seconded," he announced. "The Council will now proceed to vote."

Geyer sat slowly, her gaze locked on Jacques, who remained standing at his podium. His smile, once confident, was now thin and brittle. His eyes darted across the chamber, searching for allies among the Councillors. Hands still folded behind his back, he looked every inch the composed executive, but Geyer could see the tension in his posture, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.The chamber's energy shifted as the Councillors prepared to cast their votes. Some glanced nervously at Jacques, others at Ironwood. The military bloc exchanged unreadable looks, their hands hovering over their consoles. The air was thick with uncertainty, with the weight of the decision looming over them all.

And so they voted.

The chamber had quieted to an unnatural stillness. No speeches now. No interruptions. Just the ritual. Geyer cast her votes without flourish—Yay to all—and folded her hands. Now, they would wait.

Councillors made their decisions in murmured turns, pressing their seals, speaking into their consoles, giving the future a name one vote at a time.

Clerks in sober gray threaded through the rows, silent sentinels ensuring the sanctity of the count. Eyes sharp, hands clasped behind backs, they watched for hesitation, irregularity, betrayal. Then they gathered around the Speaker like judges circling a guillotine.

The Speaker of the House cleared his throat. The room felt suspended, air thick with anticipation and dread.

"Let the record reflect the final tally."

Aides moved with choreographed precision—tablets in hand, steps crisp, expressions carved from glass. The central display flickered to life overhead. One by one, the digits began to assemble, mechanical beeps marking each confirmation like a countdown to detonation.

"Motion One," the Speaker began, voice even, "Formation of a Special Investigative Tribunal. Independent of the military and the SDC. With full authority to subpoena records, detain personnel for questioning, and request civilian testimony under protection."

A pause that could have broken teeth.

"Passed. By a margin of three."

The air shifted. Not relief. Not applause. Something taut, electric, running along the chamber walls like lightning searching for ground.

A Councillor exhaled like she'd been holding her breath since the session began. Another reached for a stylus, already marking which names to sidle up to. The faunus delegates leaned in, jaws tight but eyes alight.

Jacques frowned.

The Speaker didn't wait.

"Motion Two: A freeze on all Schnee Dust Company operations in Solitas. That includes resource shipments, executive travel, and control over private security."

The pause here dragged longer. 

"Failed. By a margin of five."

A dry rustle rolled across the chamber. Relief from some. Disappointment from others. But it was inevitable. Someone had to keep things running. The Faunus scowled in disappointment, but what could they do?

The Speaker moved on.

"Motion Three: Formal investigation of General Conrad Derringer for misconduct, collusion, and obstruction."

He glanced up then. Just briefly. The words were already heavier than their syllables.

"Passed. By majority."

Not murmurs now—gasps. Audible, sharp, cracking like twigs beneath bootheels. No deniability left. Derringer didn't rise. Didn't flinch. Just sat there, motionless, jaw clenching so hard it made the tendons in his neck stand out. A man turned inward, listening to the echo of a career crumbling beneath his boots.

Ironwood shifted beside him.

Just once.

His eyes never left the front of the chamber, but the tilt of his body said enough. Distance. Deliberate. Measured and final.

Derringer turned, just slightly. As if to speak. As if expecting something—reassurance, defiance, a last command.

Ironwood turned away.

The Speaker's voice softened—not from pity, but because there was nothing left to raise it for.

"This session is adjourned. Tribunal initiation procedures shall begin immediately. Coordination with civilian judicial oversight will be finalized by midday tomorrow. Let the record be sealed."

The gavel rose.

CRACK.

+++

Far away, beneath fractured skies, the vehicles came like revenants.

Wheels biting through ash. Engines howling over broken stone and earth.

Boots hit the ground. Voices cut through the smoke.

"Search for survivors!" Sienna Khan's voice cracked through the chaos like a whip. "Go!"

The forest—what was left of it—burned in amber waves. Trees were jagged silhouettes, flames licking at their bones. The mountains loomed, shattered and blackened, their faces cracked like old porcelain. Above, the sky was a dirty wound, bleeding red and gold as sunset fought the smoke. The wreckage of the Robin still smoldered on the ridge, its twisted fuselage jutting out like a rusted blade, flames chewing at its hull, defiant to the last.

Nicolasburg loomed in the distance—fallen walls, fires devouring what remained.

This was hell.

And Sienna walked through it without blinking.

Her mask shielded her from the grit in the air. Blood soaked one side of her tunic. The whip at her hip swung with every determined step. She moved through the wreckage like a ghost haunting a battlefield, every breath dragging the weight of a hundred dead behind it.

A voice rasped through the haze.

"H...help..."

She froze.

Her head turned, eyes sweeping the carnage. Fire popped nearby—wood collapsing into itself. And then she saw him.

Pinned beneath a slab of hull plating. Atlesian navy. His uniform was half-burned, his face smeared with soot and blood. Lips split. Hands trembling. Brown hair matted against his forehead. Middle-aged. Eyes glassy with pain.

He lifted a hand.

"Please..."

Sienna approached, her steps measured, boots crunching bone and glass beneath her. She stopped just short. His legs were gone. A red smear stretched beneath the metal. The look in his eyes said he already knew.

But he was asking anyway.

Her gaze drifted up—past the dying man, past the wreckage, to the burning skeleton of the town.

No mercy had been given here.

She raised her whip.

There was no hesitation. Just the wet, sharp snap of metal through air, and the quiet that followed.

A breath. Then—a voice behind her.

A sharp inhale.

She turned.

One of hers. Young. Eyes wide and wet. Ash streaked his cheeks. His rifle hung limp in his hands.

"Sienna?"

"He would've done the same if it were you," she said flatly, voice level, dead steel. "Look around. Do you see mercy in this place?"

The soldier said nothing. His mouth opened, then closed again. He didn’t argue. That was enough.

"Sienna!" another voice broke through the haze, urgent, cracking. "It's him!"

Her stomach twisted. She turned, running now—shoulders stiff, breath jagged.

A downed Bullhead lay ahead. One wing torn off, the entire frame curled in on itself like something trying to die in secret. One of her men knelt beside it, next to a body bag pulled half-open.

She slowed. Each step felt like it might betray her.

"How the hell did you find him in this?" she asked, voice low and fraying.

The soldier didn’t look up. He tapped the body bag once.

"It was labeled."

Sienna’s breath caught.

She knelt beside the bag. Her fingers hovered above the cloth, trembling.

Adam Taurus.

His face was still. The firelight played across his features like it was trying to wake him, trying to convince the mask not to fall. But it had. The red mane was dull. The pale skin slack. The eyes—closed.

A silence settled over her shoulders.

She had sworn to return with help. Armed them. Supplied them. But they were too late. She was too late.

It was over.

She bowed her head and leaned down. Her lips brushed his forehead—a benediction too late to matter.

Beating.

A flicker beneath her lips. A whisper where silence should’ve been.

Beating.

Sienna’s eyes snapped open. The firelight caught in her irises like the gleam of a drawn blade. She pressed her ear to his chest, skin meeting skin.

Beating.

Faint. Unsteady. But there.

Tiger instincts surged. The way prey twitched under leaves. The way footsteps trembled in soil. That heartbeat rang louder than gunfire in her skull.

"He’s alive," she hissed.

"What?" one of the soldiers blurted.

Her head whipped around, eyes wide, feral. "Aura infusion kit, now!"

They stared a moment too long.

"NOW, DAMN YOU, OR HE DIES FOR REAL!"

They scrambled, boots skidding over scorched earth, ash trailing in spirals. One returned clutching the hard-case kit like it might explode in his hands. Sienna didn’t wait. She grabbed it, dropped beside Adam’s still form, and popped the latches.

Inside were a syringe and a cord. A crude but effective method to transfer aura. Nothing healed faster than aura—but forcing it into a broken body carried risks.

She jammed the needle into her own arm without hesitation. Her aura flared—hot, fierce, violent.

The second needle pierced his chest, just below the collarbone.

“Ready?” her man asked, his hand hovering over the activation button.

“Do it,” she snarled.

Click.

The infusion hit like thunder through dry soil.

Sienna hissed, her body convulsing hard as her aura poured into his dying form. The kit whined. Lights blinked. The air reeked of burnt ozone and blood.

Adam’s chest stuttered. Then again. Shallow. Weak. But moving.

Her hands gripped his shoulders. “Come on, damn you,” she growled, pressing her forehead to his. Sweat and soot mingled between them, hot and bitter.

The kit whined again. The machine bled light. His heartbeat thudded louder now. Stronger.

"Again!" she barked.

"But it’ll—"

"AGAIN, DAMN IT!"

The button clicked.

The device screamed. Sienna’s body arched violently, her aura ripping free like wildfire. Pain lanced down her spine. Her teeth clenched so tight blood bloomed from her gums. She didn’t let go. Couldn’t.

The needle in her arm glowed white-hot. The conduit in Adam’s chest pulsed, veins lighting up with borrowed life. His back jerked. His mouth opened in a silent scream.

The firelight bent around them.

Sienna’s vision blurred. Her body swayed.

But Adam glowed.

Bright—brighter than the sun, or a phoenix born screaming from the pyre. Not human, not anymore. Something fae. Something beyond war and ruin. His fractured aura surged back together in a defiant blaze.

And then—

Gone.

The light vanished. His chest rose once, sharply, then fell. His limbs slackened. But he was breathing.

Barely. Ragged. Wet. Each inhale a body trying to remember how.

It was enough.

The machine let out a choking buzz and died. The last of Sienna’s aura drained with it. She collapsed forward against him, her body crashing into his like a ruined cathedral toppling into its own bones. Her vision spun, her body trembling, her lips split and bleeding.

She laughed.

Low. Breathless. Wild.

“He’s... alive…” she murmured, not for them, but for the sky, the gods, and the ghosts watching from the burning ridge. “I did it... I fucking did it.”

Above, the sky split for a moment. A single ray of gold broke through the smoke, brushing her blood-matted hair.

It didn’t last.

The smoke swallowed it again.

Sienna rose—shaking, defiant. Her hand brushed Adam’s cheek, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not done yet, Adam Taurus. Not when our people still breathe.”

Her legs trembled, but she stood.

“Let’s go.”

"Go where?" her second asked.

She paused.

"He cannot stay here. It would be far too dangerous."

Her second glanced away, into the distance. "Would somewhere further work?"

Sienna thought about it. "Where?"

"How about his father? Didn't he say they were going somewhere safe?"

Sienna remembered. "I have not spoken with his father."

"Oh, well, there ought to be a record of it somewhere."

And they would find it.

The one place his father thought they'd be safe, him and Atlanta and Caestus.

Mistral.

+++

A/N: My brain brokem.

IF there are any mistakes, I will edit it tomorrow. 

Enjoy. 

Edited. The original ending felt like ass, ngl. Adam would be in no position to swing shit around. Anyway, let us pretend that ending did not happen and this was canon and true and yes.

I am actually going to sleep now.