A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 14

+++

"They're here! Atlas is here!"

The cry cracked across the air like a gunshot, sharp and jagged with panic, serrated by the wind. It echoed off stone, metal, and mountain like some ancient omen.

Boots thundered against the frozen dirt of the courtyard. No clean formations, no military discipline—just the wild, frantic energy of people who knew the cost of hesitation. Old men stumbled out with rusted revolvers, grim-faced Dust miners yanked on jackets and belts, and wide-eyed teenagers clutched scavenged rifles that looked too heavy for their arms. A woman in a nightgown hurried barefoot across the frostbitten ground, clutching a canister of incendiary Dust to her chest like a child.

And above it all, the town bell screamed. There was no rhythm, no ceremony—just a wild, stuttering clang as someone yanked the rope with all the force of their soul.

The sun was already up, though it didn't feel like it. Pale and low, it bled amber light through thick fog that clung to the valley like smoke. The air itself felt wrong—too bright, too quiet, too cold.

I was halfway into my coat when I heard her stir behind me.

Pasiphae's voice was soft, hoarse with sleep, but her eyes were sharp and awake. She sat up in the bed, her hair falling in tangled waves over her bare shoulders. The sheets had slipped down her back, and in the cold light, her skin gleamed like polished steel.

"Adam…" she murmured, her voice carrying more than just my name.

I froze for a moment, caught between the weight of her gaze and the chaos outside. Then I forced myself to move, tugging my coat tighter and reaching for my boots.

"Stay indoors," I said, pulling the laces tight. My voice was sharp, maybe too sharp, but I didn't have time to soften it. "Take care of Dad."

She didn't answer. Not at first. Then, faster than I expected, she was across the room. Her hands caught my face, and she kissed me hard—fierce, urgent, like it was the last thing she'd ever give me. It tasted of cinnamon and embers and salt.

"You be strong," she whispered, her breath warm against my skin. "I'll be safe. But you—don't die trying to be a legend."

I swallowed the burn behind my teeth and nodded. There wasn't time for more. I turned and ran.

The courtyard was chaos. Lanterns still burned where the wind hadn't snuffed them out, their flames flickering like nervous hands. Shadows stretched long across the ground, thrown by the cold, pale sunlight and the trembling glow of Dust-fueled torches. The air was thick with the sound of shouted orders, clattering boots, and the metallic scrape of weapons being loaded.

Kids darted through the crowd, passing out Dust canisters and ammo clips like candy. A man in a bloodstained butcher's apron knelt beside a wheelbarrow, fastening crude explosives to the frame. A woman in patched boots barked instructions as she tied together bundles of grenades with trembling fingers.

I climbed the wall, my boots slipping on the ice-slick rungs of the ladder. The higher I went, the colder the wind bit at me, raw and biting like it wanted to flay the flesh from my bones. My fingers froze against the iron as I hauled myself onto the ledge.

And then I saw them.

Four monsters, black against the pale sky.

The central behemoth floated like a god above the valley, its bulk so massive it seemed to drag the heavens down with it. Its hull was white and black steel, dripping with floodlights and bristling with weapons. For a moment, the sun disappeared completely behind its shadow.

Below, the ground came alive. Instant towers rose from armored crates, their walls snapping into place like clockwork. Antennae speared the sky, blinking red. Flak nests rotated, already tracking the ridges around us. The air stank of charged metal, ozone, and burning Dust.

Bullheads swarmed outward from the launch bays, their sleek bodies darting like predators through the valley. Mantas followed, heavier and slower, laden with cargo that I didn't want to imagine. They hovered with deliberate menace, casting long, dark shadows over the ridges.

I heard someone beside me murmur a curse, soft and shaken. I didn't bother turning.

The bootsteps behind me were steady, deliberate. I knew who it was before she spoke.

Sienna stepped up beside me, her coat snapping in the wind. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, strands whipping free to frame her face. Her expression was unreadable—calm, but not cold.

"A Victory-class heavy cruiser," she said, her voice low and even. "Two Hunter-class destroyers, and an assault ship."

She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch my eye. "Congratulations. You have earned Atlas's attention."

"That's not a compliment," I said.

Her lips curled into a thin smile. "No. It's a sentence."

"What are we dealing with?" I asked, ignoring her jib.

"Blizz," she called over her shoulder.

Blizzard appeared a moment later, his frame silhouetted against the morning light. His breath fogged in the cold as he leaned against the parapet, his eyes fixed on the ships.

"The cruiser's running twin railguns, long-range," he said, his voice low and steady. "Missile pods under the hull. Laser batteries all along the spine. Flak cannons for point defense. The destroyers have more missile pods, and twin laser batteries, mostly as escorts to the cruiser."

He cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the cold air.

"And they've got drop pods."

I frowned. "For Marines?"

"No," he said grimly. "For AKs. Atlesian Knights."

The words hit like a hammer. Blizz turned to look at me, his expression hard. "You know what AKs are, right?"

"Atlesian Knights," I said, my mouth dry. "Combat robots."

"Yeah," he said. "And the lander? It has a full battalion. Mostly AKs, but some Marines. The AKs are dumb as bricks. The Marines are not."

I gripped the parapet until my knuckles turned white, my breath fogging in the frigid air as I scanned the valley below. The encampment Atlas was constructing wasn't just an army. It was an executioner's blade, perfectly balanced and poised to fall on us. My people weren't ready. I could see it in the way they moved, in the way their hands trembled on their weapons, in the wide-eyed fear that crept across their faces like frost.

But fear was a poison, and I couldn't let it spread.

I turned back to the courtyard, raising my voice so it cut through the clamor. "Double the guard on the outer posts!" I barked. "Everyone else, keep moving. We don't stop preparing until they're at the gates!"

A miner—barely more than a boy—looked up at me, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the bolt of his rifle. His voice cracked when he spoke. "Adam, that's a whole army out there! What're we supposed to do against that?"

"They won't shoot at us," I said, forcing my tone to harden. I couldn't let him—or anyone else—hear the doubt clawing at my chest. "We occupy a Dust mine. They need it. They won't risk destroying their own supply chain."

The words tasted hollow, but I had to say them. Lies, truth—it didn't matter, as long as it kept them moving.

I stepped forward, my boots crunching against the frost-covered ground as I raised my voice again, louder this time, letting it carry across the courtyard. "Do not lose hope! Even now, word is spreading. The other mines will rise. Soon, we will have fire spreading across Atlas, from north to south, east to west! From sea… to shining sea!"

It wasn't much, but the words lit a spark. A ragged cheer rose from the crowd, hesitant at first, then growing louder. It lacked real conviction, but it was enough. Enough to keep them moving. Enough to keep them fighting.

For now.

I turned back to Sienna, who was watching me with that unreadable expression of hers. The wind tugged at her coat and loose braid, strands of her hair whipping across her face like dark silk. She didn't say anything at first, but her silence said more than words ever could.

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her gaze. "I'll need your help," I said, my voice low.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "A private word," she said.

I hesitated, glancing back at the miners scrambling in the courtyard below. The chaos hadn't abated, but it was organized chaos now—enough that I could afford to step away. I nodded once and led her to a quiet corner of the parapet, where the wind howled like a living thing and the noise of the camp was muted.

She leaned back against the cold stone, crossing her arms over her chest. The silence between us stretched, tense and brittle, until I finally broke it.

"You're leaving," I said. It wasn't a question.

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't deny it. "We don't have the supplies to fight here," she said evenly. "The volunteers I brought—they aren't soldiers, Adam. They're volunteers with their own lives. Social workers, doctors, nurses. Each one a veritable library of knowledge. I need to reallocate resources while we still can."

"Reallocate resources," I repeated, bitterness creeping into my tone. "That's what you're calling it?"

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger flashing across her face. "Don't twist this," she snapped. "I believe in you. In this. I thought we had a bit more time thanks to the blizzards but Atlas is not waiting. At this time, I cannot throw away lives we can't afford to lose."

I took a step closer, my fists clenching at my sides. "And my people?" I demanded, my voice rising. "The miners? The kids? Are they just sacrifices to you?"

She flinched, just barely, but it was enough. Her voice softened, but her resolve didn't waver. "I'm not abandoning you," she said. "Blizzard stays, with volunteers as insurance. But the trucks, the other volunteers—they're too valuable, Adam. I can't justify keeping them here. They have to get out while we still have a chance."

"Insurance," I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "A bargaining chip."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping low. "Don't make this harder than it has to be." Her eyes searched mine. "You know I'm right. If we lose everything here, the fight dies with us. The movement doesn't end with this mine, Adam. It's bigger than you, than me, than any one battle."

Her words struck a nerve, and I looked away, my gaze falling to the valley below. The miners scurrying in the courtyard. The children clutching rifles too big for them. The old men and women who'd spent their lives breaking their backs in the Dust mines, now preparing to fight a war they couldn't possibly win.

The truth was, I did know she was right. But knowing it didn't make it any easier to swallow.

I gritted my teeth. "Get the very sick out," I said finally, my voice tight. "Non-combatants too, as far as you can. But the rest of us stay. We hold the line."

She nodded, relief flickering across her face. "We'll move quickly," she promised. "But only the very sick. There's no time for more."

I turned back to her, my voice low. "How long until you can return?"

She hesitated, just for a moment. "Soon," she said. But the word sounded thin. Fragile.

We stared at each other.

"Get out of here," I said finally, my voice rough. "Before my bitterness swallows my judgment." I turned away from her, gripping the cold stone of the parapet so hard my fingers ached.

I heard her sigh behind me. She lingered for a moment, as if she wanted to say something more, but in the end, she just turned and walked away. Her footsteps faded into the wind, leaving me alone with the cold.

The courtyard was alive with activity when I descended the ladder again, but beneath the frantic motion, I could feel the fear simmering like a sickness. I didn't have the luxury of feeling it myself, though. Not now. Not while they were looking to me.

I spotted Blizzard near the center of the camp, barking orders as he directed the placement of barricades. His presence was a steadying one, and for that, I was grateful. I needed his calm. His steadiness. Because I wasn't sure how much longer I could fake my own.

As I stepped into the chaos, the weight of the coming battle settled over me like a shroud. The sky was darkening, and the shadows of the Atlesian ships loomed ever closer. The air was heavy with the scent of burning Dust and the metallic tang of fear.

We weren't soldiers. We weren't ready.

But we didn't have a choice.

Atlas was here.

But so was I

+++

"Look at them, Miss Schnee. Like rats."

The voice was a drawl, rich with contempt, curling through the chill air like cigar smoke. General Conrad Derringer didn't bother to turn his head as he said it, his crystalline glass catching the pale morning light with each idle rotation of his wrist. The amber liquid inside swirled lazily, as if mocking the tension that hung between them. Winter Schnee thought it unprofessional for a General of Derringer's stature to be drinking so early, but she knew better than to voice it. He was an old fossil that occupied a position far too high for her to criticize openly, and decorated. 

No one questions heroes, whatever they do. 

She stood to his right, her back ramrod straight, boots polished to perfection, her cadet's uniform crisp and suffocating at the collar. Her breath misted faintly in the cold air, and her fingers were folded tightly behind her back—too tightly. The bridge of the ANS Wings of Victory was quiet except for the muted hum of consoles and the low murmur of officers behind her, who were careful to keep their distance. No one lingered too close to General Derringer for long.

Her being here was her father's idea.

Winter's jaw tightened at the thought. She could still hear his voice from their last conversation, cold and sharp as a blade. He'd phrased it as a lesson—learning on the job, understanding what it meant to be his heiress—but Winter knew better. This was punishment for her barbed tongue. And standing within a few feet of Derringer was punishment enough. The old fossil reeked of liquor, cigar smoke, and that faint, sour smell only the truly ancient seemed to emit. His uniform strained against his bulk, buttons threatening mutiny, and yet his arrogance filled any gaps his appearance might have left.

"Don't be shy, Miss Schnee," Derringer said at last, swirling the amber in his glass as he turned his gaze to her. His eyes glinted, half amusement, half condescension. "Speak your thoughts. You're not a flower in a vase here. What do you see?"

Winter's lips pressed into a thin line. She chose her words carefully, the measured cadence of her voice betraying none of the irritation clawing at her throat. "I see faunus caught between the frying pan and the fire."

For a moment, silence. Then Derringer barked a laugh, loud and grating, his head tipping back as though she'd delivered the punchline to a grand joke. "Aptly put, Miss Schnee! Truly, you have your father's genius! Why, I think you should make Specialist with that!"

Winter couldn't tell if his praise was genuine or laced with sarcasm. Knowing Derringer, probably both. She kept her expression neutral, refusing to rise to his bait. Why couldn't it have been General Ironwood instead? He didn't stink of liquor, didn't drip condescension with every word. At least Ironwood treated his subordinates with respect—or, at minimum, professionalism.

Derringer laughed again, shaking his head as if she were some amusing pet. "Don't worry, Miss Schnee. You'll be well and safe here. What can those filthy faunus do against the full might of the Atlesian Air Fleet?"

Winter's spine stiffened. "I wouldn't be so overconfident, sir," she said evenly. "General Lagune had superior forces at Fort Castle, and the faunus managed to surprise him."

Derringer waved her comment off with a dismissive flick of his hand. "Bah! We are neither Lagune nor his Valean rabble! We are Atlesians. The strongest, most advanced military on all of Remnant! Fort Castle was a fluke."

She wanted to remind him that the Valean forces he so easily dismissed had been the most experienced army in the world, veterans of the Great War. But it would be a waste of breath. Derringer didn't want her insight; he wanted a mirror to reflect his own ego.

"XO," Derringer barked, turning sharply. "Progress on deployment?"

A younger officer at a nearby console straightened, his voice crisp. "Boats are fifty percent unloaded, sir. The 12th Battalion is deployed on the ground. The remaining cargo is supplies awaiting distribution."

Derringer nodded, satisfied. "Good. Steady as she goes."

He turned back to Winter, his glass still in hand, the amber liquid catching the light. "Now, Miss Schnee, has your father tasked you with anything else? Perhaps something I can assist with?"

Winter resisted the urge to sigh. That had to be the tenth time he'd asked. She suspected his offers of help had less to do with genuine interest and more to do with puffing up his own importance. Still, if humoring him would bring her a moment's reprieve, it was worth it.

"I'm to negotiate with the workers," she said at last, her tone clipped. "Find out their grievances and convince them to stand down."

Derringer smiled, a thin, oily curve of his lips. "Your father is a wise man. The workers respect strength, Miss Schnee, and you—" he gestured vaguely at her with the glass, as though she were some theoretical concept rather than a person—"are a symbol of that strength. It'll be a valuable lesson for you."

Winter didn't respond. She had no intention of debating the matter with him. In truth, she didn't understand why her father hadn't simply fired the entire workforce and replaced them. It would have been more efficient. But Jacques Schnee rarely wasted time on sentimentality. Whatever his angle was, he wanted her to figure it out on her own.

Her father was always playing a longer game.

Derringer's voice cut through her thoughts. "Negotiations, is it? I suppose your father hopes to groom you for the boardroom as well as the battlefield." He chuckled, the sound grating against her ears. "Not that the faunus are worth the effort. Rats, the lot of them."

Winter's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Derringer took another sip from his glass, savoring the moment before speaking again. "Ah, but don't you fret, Miss Schnee. Whatever you need to do down there, just remember—we hold the cards. They're desperate, and desperation makes people predictable. Use that to your advantage."

Winter's gaze flicked to the viewport, where the valley stretched out beneath them. The faunus encampment was clustered like an anthill, surrounded by the cold, unyielding grip of the Atlesian military. Derringer's confidence was infuriating, but not entirely misplaced. The faunus were outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched.

But desperation did not always mean predictability. If anything, it was dangerous in its chaos.

She took a slow breath, forcing her frustration to the back of her mind. "If there's nothing else, sir, I'll prepare for my task."

Derringer waved her off with a lazy flick of his wrist, already more interested in his drink than in her. "Of course, of course. Go on, Miss Schnee. Show them what a Schnee is capable of."

Winter turned sharply on her heel, her boots clicking against the polished floor as she strode away. Behind her, Derringer's laughter followed like an unwelcome shadow.

+++

"Adam!" A voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

I turned, my eyes narrowing as I saw Pasiphae running toward me, a heavy coat thrown hastily over her shoulders. Her breath fogged in the cold air, her steps uneven against the frostbitten ground. The worry etched into her face made my chest tighten.

"Pasiphae? What are you doing here?" I stepped forward to meet her, confusion and frustration knotting in my throat. "I asked you to stay with my father."

She shook her head, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. "My parents took over," she said, her voice breathless. "Adam, where are the White Fang going? Why are they pulling out?"

I hesitated, glancing toward the White Fang rushing to take down their tents and re-packing their supplies. 

"They're leaving," I said finally, my tone heavy. "Sienna didn't bring fighters. They're not equipped to hold the line here."

Pasiphae's brows furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Then we should go with them."

I shook my head firmly. "I can't. Nicolasburg needs me." And I was being frank with the fact. Without me, Nicolasburg would fall apart. I placed my hands on her shoulders, my grip firm but not unkind. "You need to go with them. Take your parents. Take my father. Get out of here while there's still time."

Her eyes flashed with defiance, a fire I'd come to know well. "No," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I stay with you. I can't just abandon you."

"You'll be safer with them," I insisted. "Who will watch over my father if not you?"

She gave me a sharp look, crossing her arms despite the cold. "My parents, duh," she said, her voice biting. "I'm your wife, Adam. A wife's place is at her husband's side."

Her words hit me like a hammer. On one hand, it was heartwarming—comforting, even—to see her loyalty. But on the other, the thought of her here, in the middle of this, made my stomach churn. I didn't want her to stay. It was too dangerous, too unpredictable.

"But my fath—" I began, only to have her cut me off.

"My parents will take care of him," she repeated, her voice firm. Her eyes softened slightly as she stepped closer, her hands brushing against mine. "Do not send me away, Adam. Please."

I clenched my jaw, glancing away for a moment. The fear of what might happen to her gnawed at the edges of my resolve. "This will get dangerous," I said finally, my voice low. "You know that."

"I know," she said, her voice unwavering. "This is my choice. I accept it. If this is what it means to be the wife of Adam Taurus, so be it."

I stared at her, searching for any sign of hesitation. There was none.

Finally, I let out a long breath, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. "I don't know what I did to earn such loyalty."

She smirked, her lips quirking into a small, cheeky grin. "You married me. I married you. Comes with the marriage, doesn't it?"

Despite myself, I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "Fine," I said after a moment. "But you have to get our parents out with the White Fang first. Promise me that."

She nodded. "I promise."

I opened my mouth to say more, but before I could, a voice called out from the wall. "Adam!"

I turned sharply, my hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of my sword. "What is it?"

Cletus, one of the sentries on the eastern wall, leaned over the edge, his face pale against the morning light. "We've got a bullhead and some aircraft landing over yonder! Do we shoot?"

My heart skipped. "Just them?"

"Eyyup!"

I hesitated for a moment, then shook my head. "Don't shoot! Let them land."

"Yupyup!" Cletus called back, disappearing behind the parapet.

I turned to Pasiphae, my expression hardening. "Go. Now."

She nodded, her eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer before she turned and ran, her coat billowing behind her as she disappeared into the crowd.

+++

The Bullhead touched down on the open field beyond the ridge, its engines roaring as the aircraft settled into the frost-covered dirt. A squadron of Atlesian soldiers disembarked first, their movements precise, their weapons gleaming in the cold light. They fanned out in a tight formation—a wall of steel and discipline.

At my side, Blizzard and his cameraman recorded everything.

And then she emerged.

Winter Schnee descended the ramp with measured steps, her pristine uniform an almost blinding white against the gray morning. She was flanked by two more soldiers in heavier armor, their faces obscured behind visors. Her expression was as sharp as the chill in the air, her blue eyes scanning the encampment. However, she looked a bit younger, and the uniform was that of the Academy.

So she hadn't run to the army yet and was still under Jacques' thumb.

She looked young. Not naïve. Just... too clean. Her boots hadn't sunk in red mud. Her sleeves hadn't tasted soot. The real world hadn't clung to her skin yet.

I liked her. Who wouldn't? Everything about her was engineered to inspire respect, even admiration. But admiration didn't help the men coughing blood in the dark. I couldn't afford to indulge whatever part of me thought she was doing her best.

I stood above the gate, flanked by armed miners. The scaffold groaned beneath our boots. Shotguns. Carbines. Homemade Dust bombs in crates. Not a trained army, but angry, desperate, and past fear.

They stopped a good distance from the gate. Out of rifle range. Not out of sight.

Winter turned to one of the soldiers at her side. He nodded, slinging his weapon as he moved forward—alongside him, a second man with a camera, already filming. Another angle. Another narrative, ready to be edited down to a soundbite.

Beside me, the tension was volcanic. Teeth clenched. Fingers danced near triggers. I raised a hand, palm down. Breathe. Not yet.

The soldier cupped his hands and shouted, "Who is in charge here!?"

"We all are!" Cletus hollered back, and the men roared with laughter.

"To whoever is leading this," the soldier called, admirably steady, "we urge you to lay down your arms. This is not the proper way to address grievances. We've brought a representative from the Schnee Dust Company to hear your concerns."

My hands curled into fists at my sides. Bastards. Filming us. Playing at diplomacy with a platoon parked behind them. Trying to paint us as unreasonable.

"I'm not going to talk to some no-name soldier," I called. "I want the representative. Directly."

"Then come down and speak with her."

"And what assurances do I have that I won't be gunned down the moment I step out?"

A beat.

"Then she comes in!"

"Impossible!"

But then—

Winter stepped forward.

The soldier froze, clearly not expecting it. She ignored him, advancing until her boots met the frostline between us. Her voice cut clean through the tension.

"We talk in the middle. One guard for each. Equal distance. That's fair."

I met her gaze from the parapet.

She didn't blink.

Fair enough.

"I'm coming down."

Immediately, I recognized that she really didn't belong here. Everyone had smells. Us miners smelled like dirt and sweat; the SDC guards reeked of armor and battle. Winter, on the other hand, made my face scrunch up—her soap and perfume stung my nose. 

I wrinkled my nose without thinking.

She noticed. Just a flicker in her eyes, a brief knit in her brow. I forced the reaction down.

I stopped ten paces away. Close enough to talk without shouting. Far enough that if one of us twitched wrong, we'd both have time to die proud.

"Speak," I said.

"I am sent by Headquarters to negotiate on their behalf. What has forced your hand to take over the mine?" Winter asked.

"Have you ever stepped foot inside your mine, Miss Schnee?" I asked bluntly.

"You know me," Winter said simply.

"I'm your employee, so yes," I replied, equally blunt. "You're the heiress of Jacques Schnee, our glorious overlord."

At my side, my escort grinned.

Winter's lip twitched. Barely. Not a smile—just the ghost of one, aborted before birth. Her voice was level, practiced, as if she'd run this line in the mirror a dozen times. "He is still the owner of the mine. I'm here in his place to represent the company's interests and ensure the safety of all involved."

I sucked in a breath.

Professional.

Remain Professional.

My boots shifted in the frost, and I took a step forward, feeling my voice start to rise without permission. "Where the hell was your concern when we were dying by inches in those shafts? When half the air filters were rusted through and the other half clogged with Dust residue? When my own father is coughing his own lungs out from dust lung?"

Damn it.

Her shoulders twitched, barely perceptible. Hands still folded behind her back, too tight, too tense. She didn't flinch, but it wasn't nothing. It was control.

"I am not responsible for—" she began, quiet but insistent.

"No," I snapped, voice too sharp, slicing through the cold air like a drawn blade. I paused, taking a second to calm down. I could feel the cameras on me. "We didn't take this mine to get rich, or play pretend revolutionaries, Miss Schnee. We took it because we are forced to the limit. Our wages getting cut, watching out family members cough their lungs out, having the boots of enforcers against our faces," I said, gesturing to my own damaged face.

I thought to show off the scar behind my back but that was a trump card I was going to have to save. Not now. It was far too early.

Her expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes buckled. A flicker, like an exposed wire sparking in the cold. Still standing at parade rest. Still doing her job. Still trying.

"I don't believe you understand the complexity of managing a global supply chain," she said, and I could hear how tightly the words were leashed. "Without centralized control—"

"We understand survival," I growled. "And what it means to bleed for something while someone else gets rich off the corpse."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. A crack in the façade, not anger—frustration. Not at me. At how far we already were from common ground.

"And what do you intend to do with the mine?" she asked. "Run it yourselves? Sell Dust to the black market? You've put the entire region at risk with this occupation, no the world."

My jaw clenched hard enough to pop. "We intend to work it," I said. "Safely. Fairly. With every lien going to the people who actually swing the picks and push the carts. We want conditions improved, our pay restored to pre-Jacques Schnee days, to where being a miner for the SDC was something to be proud of, not something to be ashamed of. We want our family members to get medical attention."

The wind cut between us, sharp and bitter. Her coat snapped behind her, the pristine white of it catching the early light like a threat. But she didn't reach for the comms. Didn't signal the soldiers. She stood there, breathing slow, steady.

Behind her, the cameras whirred. Behind me, the miners watched, rifles resting in calloused hands, hearts pounding too loud in the hush.

"You've made your grievances clear," Winter said, each word chosen like a chess move. "But there are lawful channels to pursue these concerns. You didn't have t-"

"Lawful," I spat, like the word itself tasted rotten. "Miss Schnee, if those channels actually worked, do you really think we'd be out here with guns and barricades?"

Winter stiffened. Then, to my surprise, bowed her head ever so slightly.

"I... I apologize," she said. And it sounded real. Uncomfortable, but real. "I didn't mean to sound dismissive."

Woah.

Holy shit.

She apologized.

Winter, you are a good girl. But you know jack.

"Apology accepted," I offered graciously. 

She let herself exhale. A quiet moment passed.

"If concessions are made," she continued, tone careful, "wages raised, safety measures improved, inspections conducted by a neutral third party... would that be enough? Would you lay down arms? Return to work?"

I didn't answer right away. I made her wait for it.

"We would. But no retaliation. No shadow courts. No legal tricks waiting to gut us the moment we step back into the shaft. We get protection."

Winter nodded. "I'll carry that to command. I'll speak to my father."

"Good," I said simply. 

She looked over me, towards the mine. "And the human employees? Where are they?" 

"Alive and unmolested," I said, cool and level. "Confined but they're fed, have heat, water and entertainment. We're angry, not rabid."

"And the foreman?" she asked.

I smiled simply. "Enjoying our hospitality." 

"Alive?" 

I nodded. "Alive." 

"I've been instructed to request the release of personnel," she said. "The officers of the mine, and the foreman, and other civilians. As a gesture of good faith."

A hawk shrieked overhead, cutting the cold sky. Behind me, someone coughed—dry, ugly, wet at the end.

Winter didn't blink.

I folded my arms. "You want good faith, but what are you offering?"

"If it's within my authority, I'm willing to grant concessions now. Immediate ones," Winter said, and for the first time, there was something like urgency beneath her voice. "Some supplies. Evacuation transport for noncombatants."

​I thought of the White Fang inside, and of Sienna wanting to get her people out of dodge. If I secured their safe passage out, I can get our sick out of danger as well as Sienna owing me big time. 

"Some select officers and their families. No foreman. We send out trucks. They carry elderly workers, their families, the injured. You don't stop them. You don't scan them. The trucks leave unmolested. In return, we'll drop the remaining human hostages outside the valley. Safe. Unharmed."

"Only some?" Winter asked.

"We love some of our officers so much, it would pain us to part with them," I said simply. 

No way in hell were we going to let the more valuable officers and officials leave. 

Winter paused to press into her communicator. Her eye flickered between me and the airship in the distance. 

"We are willing to agree to the trucks but you will receive no supplies from us," Winter stated. 

Sienna was coming back anyway. And losing the aged and young humans would mean less resources wasted on them.

"Very well."

+++

I watched as the trucks rolled out. Their engines coughed smoke into the pale morning light, tires crunching over frozen gravel, old axles whining beneath the weight of elders—too thin, too tired, too broken by years of shaftwork and silence. A few had blankets wrapped tight around hunched shoulders, threadbare coats stained with soot and spit. One old man grinned as he passed the barricade, gumming a biscuit and saluting no one in particular. A child waved through a cracked window. 

They were getting out. That mattered. My father, and the most sick, would be safe. And we'd be rid of the most vulnerable—harsh as that sounded.

Winter had retreated into her transport, and it had departed long ago.

She talked to me like I wasn't a thug. She stood her ground while I flayed her with words. She didn't bark orders, didn't play the chain-of-command card, didn't hide behind a rank she hadn't earned in blood. And when I spit that rotten word—lawful—like it was bile, she bowed her head. She apologized.

She was a soldier trying to be human. That's rare.

I turned back to Nicolasburg and was met with cheers. Pasiphae rushed to me, wrapping me in a tight hug. Blizzard, however, intercepted me.

"Why didn't you ask for more?" he asked, camera lowered. "You've got the most valuable thing here—the Dust mine. Why stop at trucks?"

"I could have asked for more," I said, "but this is still the opening salvo, not the climax. The siege has only just begun. It was important to get our sick, and your people, out. I asked for the trucks because they were the cleanest trade. It made her look good. Made us look better. No blood, no broken oaths—just a gesture. A quiet win."

He tilted his head. "What about the supplies she offered?"

"She wasn't exactly forthcoming with what kind of supplies. For all we know, she could send us a crate of pencils. Besides we know Sienna is coming back."

Trusting Sienna was a gamble. She could've told me that just to get out of dodge. But she struck me as sincere. No one willingly goes out of their way to come here unless they believe in what they're doing. And she owed me—for getting her out without scrutiny. The human hostages had been kept far away; as far as they were concerned, they were just Faunus. Strangers, yes—but Faunus.

And we still had our people out there, fermenting the other mines to rise and of course, our evidence. 

​No matter what would happen, things would still be in our favour. By phrasing everything graciously, they surely could not attempt to paint us badly. Yeah sure, a mine rising would be bad but word always got out, no? Surely we can't be blamed for starting that when it could be the miners themselves who heard it. 

Either way, we would have the upper hand. 

​I could not celebrate yet, however.

This whole thing had only just begun. 

+++

She returned to the Wings of Victory, and found it unusually quiet.

The hangar bay, typically alive with noise—engine diagnostics, barking crewmen, the constant rattle of armored boots on metal—was eerily still. The only sound was the soft hiss of hydraulics as the Bullhead's hatch opened.

General Deringer waited at the base of the ramp, hands clasped behind his back, his sharp uniform immaculate. He greeted her with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Welcome back, Miss Schnee," he said with that silken drawl. "How was your meeting with the terrorists?"

"Tense," she answered, voice clipped.

"I could feel it," he replied smoothly. "You made some... interesting choices."

She studied his expression, eyes narrowing. "Interesting?"

"Well, it was your call," Deringer allowed, tone carefully neutral. "And I believe you know what you're doing. Surely, the next generation of Schnee is showing us the future of the company."

Winter wasn't sure if that was praise or poison. She inclined her head slightly, a gesture that revealed nothing.

Deringer cleared his throat. "Your father would like to speak with you. The bridge has been cleared for your privacy."

Only Jacques Schnee could command that level of deference. An Atlesian general emptying his bridge—not for the Council, not for Ironwood himself—but for her. The weight of it pressed at her spine.

"Thank you, General," Winter said.

"No, no. Thank you, Miss Schnee," Deringer murmured with a ghost of a smirk.

She turned without another word and ascended the steel steps, boots echoing sharply in the cavernous silence.

Her mind was not quiet.

Winter Schnee walked with precision, back straight, expression unreadable—but her thoughts churned like glacial melt under a frozen river.

She had walked into enemy territory with no guarantees, with cameras on her and rifles aimed in her direction. She had extended her hand, not her blade. She had not compromised security, but she had compromised something else—her distance. Her ability to pretend this was all simple, binary, righteous.

And she had apologized.

Not because it was strategy. Not to defuse tension. But because it was true.

That miner had called her out, his voice ragged with contempt and grief. Spoke of lungs blackened by Dust, of wages stolen and futures bled dry. She had nothing in her training, no bullet point in her protocol handbook, to counter that. Because he was right.

She hadn't been down in the mines.

She hadn't seen what they did to people.

She hadn't known how deeply the Schnee name burned on tongues not in reverence but in rage.

And yet... she had stood her ground. She hadn't recoiled or deflected. She hadn't resorted to force. She had spoken. Listened. Negotiated. Not with terrorists—but with people. Angry, armed, desperate people. But people.

It wasn't peace. But it was progress.

How could she not do what she did, when she looked into his eyes, his eyes so full of pain?

What stories she could hear from him?

She entered the bridge.

The great command deck was emptied of its usual officers, the control stations unattended, the lights dimmed slightly to frame the command screen—the glowing pane at the front that now bore the sigil of the Schnee Dust Company.

A moment later, it flickered, and his face appeared.

Trim, perfectly coiffed, his expression carved in that permanent mask of cordial disapproval. He sat in his office, backlit by tinted windows, his hands clasped before him like a judge awaiting confession.

"Winter," he said, smooth and cold.

"Father," she replied.

"You met with the insurgents."

She stood tall. "I did."

"You deviated from the mission protocol. You authorized civilian transport. You compromised company assets. You engaged with armed criminals alone. Without direct approval." His voice was not raised. It never needed to be. It carried judgment like a scalpel.

"I made a choice," she said evenly. "The situation on the ground required adaptability."

"And is that what you call surrender now?" he asked softly.

Her jaw tightened. "I didn't surrender. I prevented bloodshed. I opened negotiations. I upheld your interests without firing a shot or losing a man."

"You showed weakness."

"No. I showed leadership."

Jacques leaned forward slightly. "And what did that leadership gain us? The mine is still occupied. The hostages are still in enemy hands. The company's reputation is bleeding out in real time, while you stand there, congratulating yourself for not having pulled the trigger."

Winter's eyes darkened, but her voice remained calm. "We've secured a temporary truce. Civilians are being evacuated. The occupied personnel are safe, unharmed. If we act on what I've learned—if we treat this as an opportunity to correct course—we can end this without escalation."

Jacques scoffed. "We do not negotiate with mutineers. We eliminate them. If your goal was to make yourself feel better about the family name, you should've joined the PR department."

"They're not mutineers. They're people we failed."

"You think compassion is the solution to Dust shortages? To profit margins? I didn't build this company with apologies, Winter."

She breathed out through her nose, slow and controlled. "No. You built it with exploitation. With fear. I'm trying something different."

His smile didn't touch his eyes. "Idealism is expensive. And you are not here to try—you are here to execute orders. You represent my authority. And I am rapidly running out of patience for insubordination."

"You sent me here to negotiate, to steer things, Father. I am doing it my way. If you wanted to do things your own way, you should have sent another mouthpiece of yours, or went here yourself," Winter bit back. "If you feel that I have failed you, then go. Take me back. Send someone else instead." 

He went very still.

Then, he leaned back. "No, to pull you back would be to admit that there is instability at the top. We cannot have that."

His eyes blazed. "Do as you will, within reason. I do not want to see you apologize or show weakness ever again, understood?" 

"Understood, Father."

The screen went black.

Winter stood there, staring at her own faint reflection in the dead glass. The bridge remained silent, the hum of machinery the only witness.

She didn't speak.

She felt very, very tired.

+++

Jacques Schnee steepled his fingers, resting them beneath his chin, and stared at the now-blank monitor.

Winter had spoken out of turn.

Worse—she had acted out of turn.

Her tone, her posture, the words she'd chosen. She hadn't flinched. She hadn't groveled. And she had dared—with that little flicker of righteous heat in her voice—to stand against him.

His daughter had gone soft.

But not entirely.

Jacques reached for a remote and, with a flick, played back the footage relayed from the field—the camera drone's feed. Compressed, clipped, but enough to study. Winter stepping forward past the frostline. Her proposal. Her bearing. The way she stared down that haggard miner without blinking.

Negotiation. De-escalation. No shots fired.

No dead miners for the front page. No civilians riddled with bullets on his payroll. No martyrs. No accusations of a massacre to inspire a second wave of rebellion across other holdings.

He grimaced.

He hated that she had handled it well.

A bloodbath would've been easier to manage. Cleaner. A security breach can be mopped up with force. A riot is a PR nightmare, but a short-lived one. But sympathy? Compassion? Images of injured workers getting quietly evacuated with aid provided by the SDC's own envoy?

That would spread.

Worse: it would inspire. The very thing he'd spent a lifetime crushing in labor forces across Remnant—hope that they were more than replaceable parts.

Still... he had to acknowledge the moves she had made correctly.

A direct approach had limited fallout. She maintained poise, didn't lose control. The exchange of human capital—the aged, the wounded—could be spun as humanitarian. Clever. Palatable to investors. Not a concession. A "logistical relief operation." That wording could hold. That could be salvaged.

With the high value SDC personnel? Less acceptable. She should have asked for more, goodness. The no scanning the trucks concession was a big thing to ask for in exchange for low level officers.

Still...it could be spun off as some nonsense for caring about the lower ranks. 

And then that apology.

That single, nauseating phrase: "I apologize."

To a mutineer. A thief. A man who'd taken his property and held it hostage.

Jacques Schnee's lip curled in contempt.

He could already imagine the way the board would react. Splintering. The old men might see her as humane, even commend her for 'keeping the peace.' The newer blood would see it as instability—doubt—one foot out the door of the empire he'd built brick by bloody brick.

And Ironwood would love it.

Ironwood would see this as some virtuous rising star. A soldier with a conscience. Just what his so called reforms needed.

Jacques stood abruptly and crossed the room to his bar, pouring himself a precise glass of Solitas blue-label whiskey. He let the liquid settle before taking a measured sip.

She thought herself independent. Thought herself moral. Oh, true his daughter always had that sense of nobility in her. But that snake Ironwood was deviating her from what she should be, a dominating force. 

She had no idea how fragile power truly was. How easily the machine broke if even one cog hesitated.

But this was still round one.

He had more assets. More options. The miners believed they were organized. Oh please. They were desperate, angry, and led by amateurs. 

Still, he would have to tread carefully. Let this play just enough that when the crackdown came, it felt earned. Justified. Controlled.

As for Winter...

Again, it was still the first round of negotiations.

Soon enough, reality will bear down on her.

​She will see why he thought he did. 

All for control. All for power.

And for never letting anyone else hover over them ever again. 

​+++

A/N: Ah, my brain. It is mushy. 

If something wrong, do tell,

I sleep now.