A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 15

+++

Jacques Schnee tapped the crystal tumbler on the lacquered table—once, twice. His fingers stilled after the third, the movement precise, deliberate. A single cube of ice clinked, catching the amber glow from the chandelier above and scattering fractured shadows across the polished boardroom. Seven executives sat before him, their gazes fixed, their posture tense—the way prey watches a trap shift.

They had just finished watching a video of the negotiations, carefully edited, of course. Jacques had no intention of letting them see his heiress bow her head to a vagrant.

When the screen dimmed, a board member cleared his throat.

"Sir… why are we even entertaining these rebels?"

Another chimed in, voice edging on incredulous. "Why talk at all?"

Jacques turned to them, his gaze as cold and sharp as the ice in his glass. Did he truly have to explain something so painfully obvious?

"They hold the mine," he said flatly. "The alternative is an assault—which risks destroying the Dust. I could fire every last one of them and send in fresh staff, but the vagrants would simply shoot them."

The first man faltered. "Ah… apologies, sir. I didn't—"

"Think?" Jacques cut him off, the word an icicle. "No, you didn't."

Another voice broke the awkward silence. "So what then? We discuss their terms?"

Jacques exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, as though the very thought carried a stench.

"They want improved wages, independent safety inspections, full medical benefits for all injured workers, and legal immunity for those involved in the takeover." He listed the demands with no inflection, no emotion—just a grocery list of absurdities.

A young board member gave a brittle laugh. "They want to unionize with guns."

Dirty looks passed around the room like a contagion.

"Unionizing isn't exactly illegal," someone ventured, tentative.

Jacques turned his gaze on the speaker, glacial and unyielding. "It is when they seize company property at gunpoint. That isn't a union. That's insurrection."

The room shifted uneasily. Chairs creaked, fingers tapped, but no one dared speak immediately. Even the air seemed to constrict.

"Perhaps," someone suggested, voice hopeful, "we could review their contracts—find a clause that forbids unionizing?"

Jacques didn't even look at him. Instead, he reached for the decanter, poured precisely two more fingers of whiskey into his glass, and spoke with the weary patience of a man correcting the obvious.

"As far as I see, the miners will not surrender—at least, not unless their demands are met." His voice was low, composed, almost bored. "It all sounds reasonable to them. But to us? It is not."

He let the silence stretch, his words settling over the table like dust on velvet.

"If the other mines see this…" He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping the room with the detached precision of a butcher choosing his next cut. "If they see a ragtag mob hold one of our most productive sites and walk away with better contracts, better conditions… it will start a chain reaction. They will grow bold. They will believe they can force our hand."

He plucked a folded linen from his lap and dabbed the corner of his mouth with surgical precision.

"And we," he said softly, eyes narrowing, "will be at their mercy."

A collective unease rippled through the room. Glances darted. Pens twitched. Jacques let it linger.

"I trust you find that idea discomforting." He leaned forward slightly, the ice in his glass chiming softly. "I find it revolting."

One of the younger executives, emboldened by silence, spoke up. "Assuming for the sake of argument… wouldn't improving conditions across the board be seen as a boon?"

Jacques laughed—not with mirth, but with the sharp precision of a scalpel on bone. It was brief, cold, silencing. He set his glass down, untouched.

"Spoken like a man who's never negotiated with parasites."

The room stilled.

"'A boon,' you say? Tell me—do you know what happens when you show a starving pack of dogs that begging works?"

He waited. The man didn't answer.

"They don't stop barking because you've thrown them a bone. They howl louder. You feed them once, and now you're feeding them forever. You appease them, and every single site we operate becomes a question of endurance—not discipline, not order, not productivity. Just which camp has the loudest voices and the biggest rifles."

One of the younger members ventured hesitantly, "But if we phased improvements in—"

"You don't phase in weakness," Jacques interrupted, his voice cutting like a blade unsheathed. "You don't negotiate with mutiny. These aren't labor complaints brought through the proper channels. These are criminals. Terrorists. They seized a private asset by force, are holding SDC employees hostage, and now think they can dictate policy."

He rose, glass in hand, though he did not drink. He held it like a talisman, a symbol of control.

"And the moment we give in to one group, every other mine watches. Mistral. Vacuo. They'll say, 'If it worked there, why not here?'"

An older man at the end of the table—a relic who'd made his fortune bleeding four continents dry—nodded gravely. "He's right. Even if we improved things across the board, we'd be doing it under duress. The market would see it. Investors would see it. Hell, the Kingdoms would see it. We'd lose standing. Confidence. Control."

"And the margin," another murmured, as if confessing a sin. "Every 'concession' cuts into the profit margin like rot. Safety inspections cost lien. Medical plans are worse. Labor courts are a nightmare."

Jacques added, "Many of the mines are old. Should we discuss the cost of bringing every site up to modern standards? Mining has always been dangerous. It's not as if we can turn each mine into a utopia."

No one replied.

"And if we grant them immunity, we might as well publish a handbook on how to get away with sedition. Set that precedent, and next time they won't stop at a mine. They'll take a factory. A convoy. A ship."

Silence thickened. Jacques's glass touched the table again, soft but final.

"We are not here to play benevolent monarchs. We manage a global supply chain of the most vital resource on the continent. This isn't charity. It's business. And I will not remind you what happens if the SDC fails to produce Dust."

"So… what do we do then?" someone asked hesitantly.

Jacques didn't hesitate. "Besiege them. They'll run out of supplies sooner or later. True, they sit on a Dust vein—but it's raw. Useless without refinement. Nicolasburg is a mining site, not an industrial hub. Their claim is a bluff dressed in earth and rock."

He tilted his head. "Water?"

A rustle of synthetic paper. One executive, tanned skin trembling as he read the dossier, looked up. "A mountain spring, sir. Meltwater routed through surface piping into their reservoir."

Jacques blinked once. Then: "Cut it."

He said it not as a suggestion, but as a correction to a flaw in a system. A number gone awry.

"They'll ration, panic, then break. Most will drink reserves. Some will barter. Some will steal. A few will fight. The only question is how quickly they decay."

"Food is imported," the same man added. "They had six months' worth stockpiled for the blizzard."

Jacques paused. The silence was clinical. Not hesitation. Calculation. Six months. Acceptable.

"Then in six months," he said, turning back to the room, "they will die."

His fingers brushed the edge of a chair as he passed, his voice quiet but final.

"When they are hungry, sick, dehydrated, and breathing dust without filters, they will crawl to the intercom and ask what we want. Then we take what we need. And make an example of the rest."

He turned, voice never rising.

"No bloodshed until I say. No theatrics. No speeches. These aren't martyrs. They're laborers. Frightened. Confused. Untrained."

And with that, Jacques Schnee sat down, the ice in his untouched glass chiming softly.

"Is this not unethical?" a board member hesitantly suggested, his voice trembling with the weight of the question—fully aware of the absurdity of breaching such a topic in this room, considering how he had made his own fortune.

Jacques didn't react immediately. He let the words hang, giving them nothing but silence—cold, oppressive, final. When he finally turned his gaze to the man, it was with the detached curiosity of someone inspecting an insect pinned beneath glass.

"Unethical?" Jacques repeated, his tone laced with mockery so subtle it felt surgical. He leaned back in his chair, fingers brushing the rim of his glass. "Do you believe ethics built this company?"

The man flinched but didn't respond. Jacques pressed on, the weight of his words deliberate, crushing.

"Do you think the Schnee Dust Company rose to power because we were kind? Because we were fair? Because we played the part of moral philosophers while others seized opportunities?"

His voice, though soft, carried the force of a hammer. Around the table, no one dared interrupt.

"This is not a charity. This is not a temple. This is business," Jacques continued, his eyes narrowing. "And business does not concern itself with ethics. It concerns itself with results. With power. With survival."

He leaned forward slightly, the ice in his glass chiming softly as it shifted. "You speak of ethics as though it is some universal currency—as though it matters to the market, to investors, to what keeps this company standing. But tell me, if we abandon the mine, if we let these so-called rebels dictate terms, what will ethics buy us? Confidence? Control? Profit?"

His voice dropped, colder now, sharper. "No. It will buy us weakness. And weakness is the only true sin in this world."

The hesitant board member looked down, his confidence shattered entirely. Jacques let the moment linger, then swept his gaze across the table, ensuring his words struck everyone present.

"Unethical?" he repeated one last time, almost laughing, though there was no humor in it. "If you are uncomfortable with what must be done, you are welcome to resign. But do not mistake this table for a confessional."

"What do we do with the battlegroup there? As I understand it, General Derringer is stationed in the region?" a board member asked cautiously, though the answer was already clear.

Jacques raised his glass but didn't drink. "Derringer is my eyes and my ears," he replied, his voice calm but cutting, each word honed with purpose. "He will ensure that the valley is locked. No one gets in or out unless they have my express permission."

The statement was delivered without flourish, as if such an arrangement were as natural as the changing of the seasons. Around the table, no one dared question the implication, though the weight of it settled like a lead curtain. Such was the power of the Schnee Dust Company—to command not only wealth and influence but the obedience of the Kingdoms' military itself. To use an army battlegroup as its own muscle, its own enforcers, with no need for justification beyond its control over the continent's most vital resource.

"And what about young Miss Winter, sir?" one of the board members ventured cautiously, each word chosen with care. "If we do not actually intend to negotiate with them, sending her there is a waste of time, no?"

Jacques's fingers tapped the rim of his glass—once, twice—before stilling. He didn't look up immediately, allowing the question to linger in the air, its weight palpable. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, deliberate, and cold.

"Miss Winter's presence is not about negotiation," he said, each word precise, as if carved from ice. "It is about optics."

The boardroom fell silent, though Jacques noticed the faint flicker of confusion on a younger executive's face. He caught it instantly and continued, his voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel.

"She is there to project control. To show strength. To make it clear that we are not a company cowering behind its boardroom walls but one that sends its own to the frontlines when necessary." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room with the weight of someone accustomed to absolute authority. "Her role is not to appease rebels. It is to remind them—and anyone else watching—exactly who they are dealing with."

Another board member hesitated, then spoke, his voice tentative. "But if the rebels see through—"

"They won't," Jacques interrupted, his tone sharp and final, leaving no room for argument. "They will see an heir to the Schnee name standing in their midst and believe, for a time, that they've gained the upper hand. That we are desperate enough to send her. It will embolden them, yes, but it will also blind them."

He leaned forward slightly, the ice in his glass chiming faintly as it shifted. "And when the time comes to crush their little uprising, it will be all the more devastating. They will realize too late that her presence was not a concession, but a calculated move in a game they never had a chance of winning."

Jacques straightened, his gaze cold and unyielding. "Miss Winter is not there to waste time. She is there to waste theirs."

He allowed the words to settle, the room steeped in heavy silence. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, his tone soft but no less cutting:

"Is there nothing else?" Jacques asked, his voice low and composed, though the steel beneath it was unmistakable.

No one dared to make a sound. A younger executive, who had been on the verge of speaking, caught himself and quickly looked down at his notes, pretending to read them as if they suddenly contained the meaning of life. The older, more seasoned members of the board simply sat in silence, their postures stiff, their expressions carefully neutral. The message had been clear, and none were foolish enough to challenge it.

Jacques let the silence linger for a moment longer, savoring it like the finest whiskey. Then he leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of leather breaking the stillness.

"Meeting adjourned," he said, his voice quiet but final, like the closing of a coffin lid.

+++

"This is concerning," Ghira muttered, his deep voice steady, carrying an unmistakable authority even through the screen. His amber eyes flicked to the gathered Faunus around him, their faces tense with quiet apprehension. Behind him, the verdant hills of Mistral swayed gently in the breeze—a serene landscape in stark contrast to the dire reality unfolding.

Sienna shifted in the cramped vehicle, the faint hum of the engine and the uneven jolts of the road doing little to ease her growing frustration. She leaned forward, her sharp eyes narrowing as she spoke, each word cutting like a blade.

"They've taken over the mine, Ghira, but they're outnumbered, outgunned, and out of time." Her voice was firm, carrying weight, but beneath it lay an urgency that bordered on desperation. "They need our help."

Ghira's ears flicked subtly. He glanced off-screen where his advisors spoke in fervent, overlapping murmurs of caution and concern. Their words were faint but enough to feed the tension in the air.

"Jacques Schnee will not hesitate to starve them out," Sienna pressed, her tone hardening. "You know what he's capable of. This isn't a game to him—it's war. If we don't act now, those miners will die. Every. Last. One."

Ghira's gaze returned to her, calm but resolute. "And what exactly do you propose we do, Sienna? March into Atlas with a militia? Storm one of the most fortified Kingdoms in Remnant?" His voice was a low rumble, steady as stone. "We are a non-violent organization. At most, we can send supplies, raise public pressure, and appeal to the Atlesians to avoid bloodshed. But we cannot engage in warfare. That is not what the White Fang stands for."

Sienna's jaw clenched, her frustration barely restrained. "So what? We just sit here, wringing our hands while Schnee tightens the noose? Supplies and public pressure?" She scoffed, her voice dripping with bitterness. "Do you really think the SDC cares about a few protests or crates of food?"

Ghira sighed, rubbing his temple before straightening to his full height, his broad shoulders filling the screen. "I understand your frustration, Sienna. Truly. But violence will only escalate the situation. If we take up arms against Atlas or the SDC, it will give them the excuse they need to brand all Faunus as terrorists. Do you want to give them that power? Do you want to see our people hunted down, not just in Atlas, but in every Kingdom?"

Sienna's claws dug into her palms, her voice dropping to a sharp edge. "I'm not suggesting we start a war, Ghira. But we have to do something." Her tone softened, anger giving way to desperation. "Nicolasburg is risking everything to stand up to the SDC because they believe in a better future. If we abandon them now, what kind of message does that send?"

The voices behind Ghira wavered—less certain now. He glanced to the side, ears twitching, before turning back to her. His expression softened, though his resolve remained unshaken.

"I understand what's at stake," he said quietly. "But we must be strategic. If we act recklessly, we risk not only the lives of those miners but the future of the White Fang and Faunus everywhere." His voice firmed. "We can send supplies—food, water, medicine. We can rally protests in other Kingdoms, draw attention to their plight, and put pressure on Atlas. But we cannot engage in open conflict. That is not who we are."

Sienna leaned back, exhaling sharply. "And if it's not enough?" she asked bitterly. "If Schnee ignores the protests, if the miners starve before the world even notices their suffering—what then, Ghira? Do we just write them off as casualties of some noble ideal?"

Ghira didn't respond immediately. His silence was heavy, contemplative. One of his advisors—a younger Faunus with sharp, lupine features—stepped forward, her voice steady but cautious.

"If Schnee lets them die, it will be his undoing," she said. "Public opinion may not matter to him, but it does to the Kingdoms. In the meantime, we-"

"And in the meantime?" Sienna snapped.

Ghira raised a hand, silencing the rising argument. "Enough," he said firmly. His eyes met Sienna's, heavy with finality. "We will do what we can with the resources we have, but we will not become what they accuse us of being. The White Fang exists to uplift and protect our people—not to lead them into senseless violence. I know you don't agree, but this is the path we've chosen."

Sienna's lips pressed into a thin line, her golden eyes burning with quiet fury. "Then you've chosen to let them die," she said coldly. "Because that's what this is, Ghira. A death sentence. You're just too afraid to admit it."

She cut the call before he could respond. The screen went dark. For a moment, she sat in silence, the hum of the truck engine the only sound. Her claws dug into the upholstery as tension radiated from her in waves.

"Idiots," she muttered under her breath, venom dripping from the word. "All of them."

"...What now, Sienna?" the driver asked cautiously.

Adam had secured their transit out, the civilians dropped off as planned. But now?

Now, Sienna didn't know.

Sienna stared out the windshield, the snow-covered valley stretching ahead like a frozen graveyard. Her mind churned, torn between fury and helplessness. Nicolasburg had been an opportunity—an insane, dangerous opportunity—but a chance nonetheless. They could pressure the Atlesians to raise their standards, forced the world to see the Faunus' plight.

But Sienna knew better now.

The Faunus had not been granted Menagerie because of peaceful protests or petitions. They'd been forced into it—won by battles like Fort Castle, where Lagune's forces had been destroyed. Blood had been the price of freedom then, and it would be the price again now.

Sienna's claws flexed against the seat as her thoughts darkened. Adam had taken the mine. He hadn't done it with words or empty promises. He'd raised his hands and fought.

And maybe… maybe he was right.

"Shit!" the driver yelped, jerking her from her thoughts as the truck screeched to a halt.

Sienna's head snapped forward, slamming into the dashboard before she could activate her aura. She groaned, rubbing her forehead as a sharp pain throbbed behind her eyes.

"What the hell was that?" she snapped, tail lashing against the seat.

The driver's throat bobbed as he gripped the wheel, knuckles white. Slowly, he raised one gloved hand and pointed out the windshield.

Sienna followed his trembling gesture—and her breath caught.

Beyond the swirling veil of snow, the pass opened into a field of death.

Two trucks—or what was left of them—lay half-buried in slush and ash. One was upright but scorched black, its cargo bay peeled open like a gutted carcass. The other was on its side, its frame twisted and smoking, torn clean through the middle. The snow clung to the wreckage like a shroud, stained gray with ash and flecked red with blood.

And then there were the bodies.

Scattered like discarded dolls, frozen in grotesque shapes. Some half-buried, others sprawled in the open. Blood painted the snow in jagged starbursts, stark against the white.

Sienna shoved the door open before the driver could speak, her boots crunching into the slush as she stepped into the biting cold. The wind howled, but the chill felt distant, numbed by the heavy weight sinking into her gut.

She moved forward slowly, each step deliberate, as if daring the scene to vanish. But it didn't. The closer she got, the worse it became.

A Faunus woman lay face-up in the snow, her antlers snapped clean off at the base, her throat a dark, gaping wound. Another body had been flung against the cliffside, its torso caved in like it had been crushed by a machine. One man still clutched a satchel to his chest, his arms rigid with rigor mortis, a bullet hole punched clean through both the bag and his heart.

Behind her, the driver followed, rifle in hand. His hands trembled, the barrel of the gun shaking ever so slightly.

Sienna crouched by the fallen, her sharp eyes scanning the wreckage for answers. Gently, she pried the satchel from the lifeless hands of its owner. Inside, she found papers—signatures, notes, and a photo. The picture showed a group of Faunus, huddled together in front of the mine. Some smiled; others looked stoic. All of them looked proud. 

The evidence.

A bright red scarf stood out in the photo, worn by a woman in the front row. That same scarf now lay a few feet away, frozen in the snow, its once-vivid color now darkened with blood.

Something glinted in the corner of her vision. Sienna turned, stepping closer to the wreckage. Beneath the charred remains of the truck's chassis, she spotted a blackened metal cylinder. She crouched and picked it up, turning it over in her hands.

A drop pod.

Unmarked, save for one symbol burned into the side: a lantern impaled on a spear.

Her breath hissed between her teeth. "Knights."

The driver cursed softly behind her. "These were the people you sent out, Sienna," he muttered. "Looks like Atlas got to them."

"I know," she growled, her voice sharp with grief. Then, softer, as though the admission hurt her more than she could bear: "I know..."

The driver hesitated. "I only see two trucks. Maybe the other one got away?"

Sienna didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed on the bodies, as if they were whispering to her, their torn throats and sightless eyes speaking truths she didn't want to hear.

Her claws tightened around the photo, crumpling it in her grip. Her shoulders began to shake, her breaths coming fast and shallow.

"They never even had a chance," she murmured, her voice hollow.

Her mind flashed with Ghira's words, his calm, measured tone echoing in her head:

"We must not escalate. We must not become what they accuse us of being."

Lies. Cowardice. Ghira's naivety had cost them everything. His restraint had left their people to die in the cold, butchered like animals while he preached peace from the safety of his home.

Her claws smashed into the side of the overturned truck. Metal shrieked under the force of the blow. The frame shuddered.

"This is what non-violence has won us," she spat, her voice raw. "This is what peace looks like."

She flung the crumpled photo into the wind, watching as it tumbled away.

"Look at them." Her voice cracked. "Look at what they did to us."

She stood there, chest heaving, claws twitching uncontrollably. And then, like a dam breaking, the scream tore from her throat—a sound of grief turned to fury, raw and jagged. It echoed off the mountains, carried far by the wind. A sound of mourning. A sound of defiance.

When the scream died, she collapsed to her knees, the snow soaking through her trousers. Hot tears streaked down her face, freezing against her skin in the bitter cold. She didn't bother to wipe them away.

"I believed in him," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I believed in the cause. In peace. I thought—maybe if we didn't become monsters—they wouldn't treat us like ones."

Her eyes scanned the carnage. Red scarf. Broken horns. Bloodied snow. Atlas steel and Faunus flesh.

Her claws dug into the frozen ground.

"I was wrong."

The silence stretched heavy, unbroken. Even the wind seemed to still, as if holding its breath in reverence.

Sienna rose slowly. The tears were gone, burned away by the fire growing in her chest. What was left behind was cold, unyielding resolve.

"No more retreats," she said quietly, her voice like granite. "No more waiting for help that doesn't come. No more asking for permission to survive."

She turned to the driver. "Gather the bodies. Burn the rest."

He swallowed hard. "Burn the trucks too?"

Her eyes flashed. "I want the world to see what Atlas does to peaceful Faunus. And I want Schnee to know that from today forward, none of us are peaceful anymore."

She turned her gaze northward, toward Atlas.

"To hell with non-violence."

She started walking, her boots crunching through the snow.

"I'm done begging."

+++

In another part of Solitas, the air was charged with a different kind of energy. A pulsing, seething anger that swelled and surged like a rising tide. Snow fell in thick flurries, but the cold couldn't dampen the heat of the crowd gathered in defiance.

A Faunus man stood atop a makeshift platform, his voice booming over the gathered workers. He was broad-shouldered, his horns curling sharply around his temples like a crown of defiance. A bandage wrapped around his head, just above his golden eyes, which burned with righteous fury. His fists clenched as he gestured to the crowd, his voice raw with passion.

Aurora was the nearest mine to Nicolasburg, and the survivors of the convoy had slipped out undetected. They'd spread their message like wildfire, their stories igniting the anger that had long simmered among the workers here.

"ARE YOU WILLING TO JUST LET THEM TAKE AWAY YOUR WAGES?" the speaker roared, his voice cutting through the howling wind.

"NO!" came the thunderous response. The crowd surged as one, a wave of bodies packed tightly together, their collective roar echoing across the frozen expanse.

Pictures and testimonies were scattered at the edges of the gathering: bloodied scarves, signed letters, photographs of workers smiling in front of the very mines that had become their graves. Evidence of lives stolen by greed, of dreams crushed beneath the heel of the SDC.

The speaker nodded, his voice growing sharper, louder. "LOOK AT WHAT THEY HAVE DONE TO US!" he shouted, his words cracking with emotion. "SHOT AND CRUSHED! LEFT TO DIE IN THE SNOW LIKE DOGS!"

The crowd roared again, a guttural, furious sound that seemed to shake the ground beneath their boots. Some held signs hastily painted with slogans: "WE ARE NOT SLAVES!" "FAUNUS RIGHTS NOW!" Others raised their fists, claws glinting in the pale light of the overcast sky.

A woman stepped forward, her face streaked with tears and soot. She held up a torn and bloodied scarf, the fabric stiff with frost. Her voice trembled, but it carried above the din. "My brother," she said, her words cutting through the cold. "He worked that mine for ten years! TEN YEARS! And they MURDERED him like he was NOTHING!"

His body lay in the corner, frozen in fear, handiwork of the SDC. 

The crowd howled, stomping their feet, the icy ground cracking under their collective rage.

The speaker raised his hands, and the crowd slowly quieted, though their anger hung heavy in the air, simmering just beneath the surface.

"They think they can do whatever they want to us," he said, his voice low but no less powerful. "They think they can work us to death, crush us beneath their boots, and get away with it. They think we won't fight back."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, growing louder as his words struck home.

"But we can fight back! Nicolasburg is proof of that!" he thundered, each word a hammer striking steel. "We've bled for their profits long enough. We've died for their greed long enough. NO MORE!"

"NO MORE!" the crowd echoed, the chant spreading like wildfire. "NO MORE! NO MORE!"

The speaker stepped down from the platform, moving among the crowd, his voice rising above the chant. "The time has come to show them that we are not weak. That we are not afraid. That we will NOT be their pawns anymore!"

He stopped in front of a group of younger Faunus, their faces hard but uncertain. He placed a hand on the shoulder of one, a boy barely old enough to be called a man. "It won't be easy," he said, his tone softening, though his words remained firm. "They'll call us criminals. Terrorists. Monsters. But we fight because we must. Because if we don't, they'll keep taking. And taking. And taking. Until there's nothing left of us."

A young woman in the crowd shouted, her voice clear and strong: "What do we do now?"

The speaker turned, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces, each one filled with anger, pain, and—most importantly—determination.

"Now?" he said, his voice steady as a glacier. "Now we strike!"

The crowd erupted in cheers, the sound deafening, as if the very mountains might crumble under the force of their collective will. The speaker raised his fist high, his voice cutting through the chaos like thunder.

"Solidarity forever!"

The chant echoed through the icy air, a rallying cry that could not be ignored.

But before they could organize further, the crowd's energy shifted—an unease rippling through them like a cold wind. From the edge of the gathering, figures emerged, their silhouettes stark against the snow.

The foreman of the Aurora mine strode forward, flanked by SDC guards clad in white armor, their rifles gleaming in the dim light. The foreman, a stocky man with a thick coat and a face hardened by years of enforcing corporate orders, sneered as he approached.

"What the hell is this?" he barked, his voice dripping with disdain. "Get back to work before I have you all fired—or worse."

The crowd bristled, some stepping forward, others clenching their fists. The speaker moved to the front, his golden eyes narrowing as he confronted the foreman.

"We're done working for scraps," the speaker growled. "We're done dying for your profits."

The foreman laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Is that so? Well, let me remind you who owns this mine. Who owns you." He gestured to the guards, who leveled their rifles at the crowd. "Disperse now, or we'll make you."

The crowd murmured, anger bubbling to the surface. The speaker raised his hand, quieting them, but his voice was cold as ice. "You're not scaring anyone. Not anymore."

The foreman's grin faltered. "You think you can take us on? You're just a bunch of animals."

The speaker lunged first, his horns slamming into the foreman and sending him sprawling into the snow. The crowd erupted, their fury unleashed in a wave. SDC guards fired warning shots, but it did nothing to stop the charge.

The brawl began in earnest. Faunus workers collided with guards, claws against batons, fists against rifles. The snow churned beneath their feet, stained with blood and ash. The speaker fought like a storm, his horns and fists driving back anyone who dared face him. Around him, the workers fought with the desperation of those who had nothing left to lose.

The foreman scrambled to his feet, only to be dragged back into the fray by a pair of miners. His shouts were drowned by the chaos.

+++

A/N: Jacques does not intend to negotiate, check. Sienna crashes out, check. The survivors of the convoy have accomplished their goal, check.

Oh yeah. It's Blair Mountaining time.

People have asked where the Grimm is at. Again, they are in the very north of Solitas where it is cold as hell. The Grimm can't survive there due to how cold it is. Solitas is already a challenge let alone the very north.

​