A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 13

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I stood over the wall, gloved hands braced against the cold steel lip, watching the convoy begin its slow, careful descent down the switchbacks. The wind knifed through my coat and sliced across my face, but I barely felt it.

The sound of the engines echoed off the mountainside in slow, thunderous groans. We watched them go like people watching lifeboats leave a sinking ship.

The morning had started before the sun crested the peaks. Arguments filled the main hall of the old administration building—sharp voices clashing, some shouting, others whispering bitter cutting words. But in the end, the decision wasn't made by decree or force. It was made by a show of hands.

Three trucks were chosen. White Fang vehicles stripped of insignia and weapon mounts. Copies of the documents Sienna and I had scoured through, recordings of wounded men, dead ones, buried paystubs, and the damning silence from corporate HQ. Alongside that evidence were volunteers from the mine itself.

Their mission was twofold.

First, to to fan the spark of Nicolasburg into other mines. An inferno of mines rising to bring the weight of the North against Jacques Schnee.

Second, to spread the truth. Flyers, videos, stolen records, a signed letter detailing all our pain, our stories with every single miner's signature on it. 

I watched the trucks vanish into the pale haze below, swallowed by the folds of the mountain.

One by one, those around me began to drift back. Some to patrol. Some to the infirmary. Others to rest, the first real break many had. 

But I stayed a little longer.

Pasiphae stood beside me, her hands clasped together, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wind howled past us, carrying with it the faint, metallic tang of snow.

"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Let someone hear our cries."

The world must listen.

They have to.

She sighed, finally pulling herself away from the wall. Turning to me, she forced a smile, her ears twitching slightly with the motion. "I'll get us some breakfast," she said softly.

I nodded. She descended the stairs, but stopped halfway as she nearly collided with two figures ascending.

"Oh, uh, sorry!" Pasiphae stammered, stepping aside.

Sienna waved her off casually. "It's fine," she assured her, stepping past as Pasiphae hurried down the stairs with a nervous laugh. Sienna watched her go for a moment before turning to me, pulling her coat tighter against the wind.

"I'm long used to unholy hours," she said, yawning. "But you all make it look so easy."

"Part of the job," I replied, shrugging.

Sienna leaned on the railing beside me, her sharp gaze following the faint tracks left by the convoy. "Worried?" she asked after a moment.

"A little," I admitted. "I can't help but wonder—will they make it out?"

She tilted her head slightly, her expression a mix of amusement and reassurance. "We're a bit hardier than most humans, you know. We survive in extremes—heat, cold, darkness. Depending on your animal trait, you gain something extra. A strength, or a drawback."

She gestured to herself. "For example, I'm a tigress. That makes me an excellent swimmer and twice as agile as most people."

Her finger shifted to Blizzard, who stood a few feet away, keeping silent watch. "He's a hare Faunus. That means he can run faster than most."

"And I'm a bull," I said dryly. "So I'm hard-headed."

Sienna snorted. "You've been surprisingly flexible for someone so 'stubborn.'"

"I'm trying," I said. "Stubbornness is situational."

She smirked. "Quite. Now, all we can do is wait. I still have plenty of supplies left before I need to move them."

"You're sending your trucks away?" I asked curiously.

"Only when they've exhausted their usefulness," she replied. "Keeping them here is risky enough. These aren't just any trucks—they're custom-built to weather the worst Atlas can throw at them. Expensive, and irreplaceable."

"Every Fang operation is self-sufficient," she continued, brushing snow off the railing. "No supply lines. No logistics hub. We get orders from the White Fang Council, who in turn answer to Ghira."

I tilted my head, intrigued. "Tell me more about the organization."

Sienna's lips quirked into a faint smile and gestured with an open palm to the top, then following down. "Ghira Belladonna—Chieftain of Menagerie and Supremo of the White Fang. Below him is the White Fang Council, then regional leaders, and their subordinates."

I frowned slightly. "The Chieftain of Menagerie is also the leader of the White Fang? How does he manage both?"

Trying to run a country while also leading a international organization was time consuming.

Sienna and Blizzard exchanged a knowing glance before Blizzard spoke. "Ghira has help. His wife, Kali. When he's away, she rules Menagerie."

"But Kali is also Menagerie's Chief Diplomat," Sienna added. "When she's away, rule passes to the Menagerie Council. It's a delicate balance, but it works."

I nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. Considering this, it only made sense why Blake was how she was.

Sienna noticed my sudden silence and raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind?"

"You wouldn't get it," I said, clearing my throat.

Sienna shrugged and turned back to the horizon. "How much do our people here know about Menagerie?" she asked.

"Best to ask them yourself," I replied. "I can only speak for me."

"Fair enough. And you?" she pressed.

I hesitated. "I know it's our nation, and that's about it. I was born here, in Solitas."

Sienna chuckled softly. "You wouldn't last long in its heat, I promise you that. Kuo Kuana, our capital, is a city by the glimmering sea. No gleaming towers  like in Atlas or bustling culture like Vale but it's ours. The sea, the sun, and freedom."

She sighed, wistful for a moment. "But it's dangerous. The New Continent isn't kind."

Blizzard chimed in, his tone grim. "Imagine lizards that spit poison, insects that nest under leaves and ambush you, or colonies of ants designed to tear you apart."

I blinked. "What?"

Sienna laughed. "The patrols keep them at bay, but even Huntsmen tread carefully."

"Maybe I understand why some prefer the Grimm," I muttered. 

"You should've seen it when we first started," Sienna said, laughing lightly. "That was a challenge."

Blizzard nodded. "Kuo Kuana is home, but jobs are scarce. Resources are limited."

I frowned. "Even barren land can be made useful with effort."

Blizzard shrugged. "We make do. There's the tar, for instance—looks like Grimm pools, but we use it for heating when dust is scarce."

I raised an eyebrow. "Tar?"

"It's secreted by the insects," Blizzard explained. "Useful, but harvesting it provokes the colony. We get ours from harvesting from abandoned colonies. The arrangement works. Live and let live."

Live and let live, it seemed. Even freedom had its costs.

"Live and let live," I murmured, turning the phrase over in my mind. It felt strange to think about living alongside creatures like that—surviving not by conquering them but by careful avoidance. It was a concept foreign to Solitas, where survival depended on dominance over the harsh cold, the Grimm, and the endless exploitation of resources.

Sienna nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It's a philosophy that's served us well in Menagerie. The land isn't forgiving, but it's ours. We've learned to live with it, instead of against it. Perhaps that's something the rest of the world could stand to learn."

I glanced at her, studying her profile as she leaned against the railing. The wind tugged at her coat, the edges of her scarf whipping against her cheek. For someone leading a dangerous insurgency in one of the most hostile climates in Remnant, she carried herself with remarkable confidence—calm, composed, and deliberate. It was hard not to admire her.

"You know," I said, breaking the silence. "You don't strike me as someone who just follows orders."

She turned to me, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? And what do I strike you as?"

"Someone who should be leading more than a cell in a frozen wasteland," I replied honestly. "You're educated. You're smart. You could build something—something real. Yet here you are, freezing your tail off with the rest of us. Why?"

Sienna's amber eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, I thought I'd overstepped. But then she laughed—a low, warm sound that cut through the cold like a fire sparking to life.

"Flattering," she said, her voice tinged with amusement. "But you misunderstand. This is exactly where I need to be. No one else wanted this post, and I volunteered. Not because it was easy, but because it mattered."

I frowned. "Why wouldn't anyone want it? This place—"

"Solitas is more than just cold," she interrupted, her tone sharper now. "It's the heart of the SDC. The Schnee empire's crown jewel. Every mine, every outpost here is a monument to their greed and exploitation. If the White Fang is to make a difference, it has to be here, where their power is strongest. And that makes it dangerous. Too dangerous for most."

She paused, her expression softening as she turned back to the horizon. "But I accepted that risk. Because if we can prove that even here, in the heart of their empire, we can stand up to them—then there's hope for the rest of Remnant."

Her words hung in the air, carried by the wind. I found myself nodding, not because I fully agreed, but because I could see the conviction in her eyes. She believed in this fight.

Admirable.

"It's worth it, I think," Sienna added after a moment, her voice quieter now. "Nicolasburg has been a highlight. Proof that even in the face of overwhelming odds we can make a difference."

"I'm glad we were," I said simply.

She smiled faintly. "Now it's up to us to make sure it continues to be more than a footnote."

Behind us—soft, deliberate—a throat cleared.

Pasiphae.

She stood there with a tray in both hands, her coat pulled tight against her shoulders, ears twitching under the sting of wind. On the tray: two tin mugs steaming with bitter coffee, a plate of reheated hash and dry bread and eggs, and a pair of forks nestled between bundled napkins.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," she said evenly, her voice steady but unmistakably cold.

Sienna turned, expression untouched by the sudden chill. "Not at all," she said, brushing snow from her sleeves. She nodded once to me. "I should get back to my men. We've still got a long day."

"Sure," I said.

She dipped her head, then turned. Blizzard followed her without a word. As they passed, Sienna glanced once at Pasiphae in polite acknowledgment.

Pasiphae didn't return the look.

"You better eat before this gets cold," she muttered, setting the tray down on the ledge beside me. Her voice was carefully casual, but her fingers lingered a bit too long on the rim of the plate as she handed it over.

"Thanks," I said, accepting the mug first. The heat was sharp, bitter, scalding in a good way.

Pasiphae didn't take her own plate right away. She leaned beside me, arms folded, dog ears twitching.

"You were talking a while with her," Pasiphae said suddenly, not looking at me.

"Hm?" I asked around a mouthful of bread.

"Sienna." Her tone was neutral. 

I glanced sideways. "She was explaining more about the White Fang structure. Menagerie. The New Continent."

"Right," Pasiphae said. Then she added, "She talks fancy."

I blinked. "Fancy?"

Pasiphae gave a stiff shrug. "She's got that diplomat way of talking.  Like everything's been practiced in a mirror."

"She's good at what she does," I said, not thinking much of it.

Pasiphae gave a quiet, almost inaudible snort. She picked at her eggs with the dull end of a spoon, stabbing instead of scooping. "Yeah. I noticed. You seem to notice."

My chewing slowed.

"Phae."

"What?" she said, still not looking at me. "She's important. Important people have things to say. People like me—"

"Don't do that," I cut in.

She froze mid-bite.

"You're important."

She turned to me now, ears flat, jaw tight. "All I do is carry food up stairs. I cook. I clean. I just do. I am not some hot-shot college scholar like...like-"

I set my plate down.

"Pasiphae," I said, stepping in front of her. "You think I'm impressed by speeches? Sienna's sharp, sure. But it's not her I rely on to watch my back when I'm bleeding. It's not her I wake up beside after four hours of broken sleep."

Her mouth twitched, uncertain.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" I asked. "Not some 'unpolished thing.' I see a cute girl who tries her best despite not having much. You put your heart on your sleeve, you don't have agendas. You are sincerity manifest, and the most beautiful girl in the entire world."

Pasiphae blinked rapidly. Her voice came out a little hoarse. "You're good with words too, you know."

"Maybe," I said. "But I mean them."

She didn't reply, not with words. Instead, she took her mug in both hands, shoulders relaxing slightly.

Then, after a moment, she muttered, "I still don't like how perfect she sounds."

"Are you jealous?" I asked gently.

Pasiphae flinched. Then she huffed.

"What good woman would not feel jealous when they see their lover talking to some strange girl?" she pouted.

"I'm not following her speeches," I said. "I'm following you."

She blinked, her ears twitching.

"I need you here, Phae. I need you be ecause you're real. You speak plain because you mean every word. And I trust that."

Her lip trembled. Just once.

"I hate feeling like this," she said, quieter now. "I hate wondering if...if I'm enough."

"You are," I said, no hesitation.

She looked up, and I saw it, the rawness in my eyes.

"You don't need her words," I told her. "You've got fire. And teeth. And me."

She let out a shaky breath, then leaned forward until her forehead pressed lightly to my chest.

"I'll keep bringing you breakfast," she murmured.

I smiled into her hair. "Then I'll keep showing up for it."

We stood there, unmoving, letting the cold pass around us, replaced by comforting warmth.

+++

The road was vanishing beneath them.

No matter what happened, they had to get this out.

Inside the lead truck, the driver leaned forward, goggles rimmed with ice, jaw set like stone. The windshield wipers squealed, useless against the wall of white slamming into the glass. The defroster had quit halfway through the last mountain pass. Frost bloomed like veins at the corners of the cabin. 

They'd been rolling for nearly twenty hours. 

The driver's gloved fingers gripped the wheel tight enough to split leather. He didn't blink. Every second was a wager—one wrong twitch, one misread drift, and they'd tip into the abyss.

"Mav," he said, voice hoarse with cold. "Still with me?"

"Yeah," came the muffled reply. Mav hunched in the passenger seat, scarf frozen stiff around his neck, shivering fingers digging into a crumpled paper map. The thing was half-disintegrated, decades old, the ink bleeding at the edges. The creases had hardened to bone. "Trying to find the damn fork."

"Should've hit it ten minutes ago."

"No shit," Mav snapped. He wiped the fogged window with the side of his coat, only to reveal more white. The world outside was blank—no trees, no rocks, no signs of life. No road. "Feels like we're in a snow globe. Or the world ended and didn't tell us."

"I've seen worse," the driver murmured, almost conversational. "Northwest corridor. Two trucks vanished. No wreckage. No radio. One blink and the cliff took them. No bottom to the fall."

Mav let the silence hang. "Thanks. Really fucking inspiring."

"This one's worse," the driver added, eyes on the road.

Then the wind screamed louder, angrier—a sidelong shove that punched into the side of the rig. The chassis rocked. Tires skidded. The rear fishtailed toward the edge, but the driver spun the wheel just in time, and the weight bit down again with a brutal chunk, clawing onto something solid. Barely. The edge blinked past, inches away—beyond it, a depthless dark, a canyon wide enough to swallow God.

"This isn't a storm," Mav whispered. His voice was paper thin. "This is punishment."

"Then we outdrive the punishment."

"Unless it outdrives us first."

A corner of the driver's mouth twitched. Almost a smirk.

Then the world exploded.

A light slashed across the pass—blue-white. Heat followed, then sound, and then the mountain shook.

The cliffside erupted, snow vaporizing, rocks tearing skyward. A geyser of fire and ice blinded them. The truck shuddered as the shockwave hit—tires squealed, suspension screamed, the entire rig lurching sideways on two wheels before slamming down again, hard. The second truck ahead jerked, skidded, clipped the edge, teetered like a coin on its rim—then slammed back to earth, roaring forward again.

The driver didn't wait.

He stomped the gas. The engine screamed as it clawed forward, throwing slush and ice in twin serpents behind them.

And then came the sound.

A howl—mechanical, angry, inhuman. It rose through the snowstorm. 

The sky tore open.

Floodlights ripped through the white. A hulking mass emerged, slate-gray and angular, descending like a vengeful angel. Twin turbines carved the air, sending cyclones of snow and fury in every direction. Thunder pulsed from its hull. The sigil burned white-hot beneath its underbelly.

A lantern, impaled on a spear.

"What the fuck is that?!" Mav shrieked, hands pressed against the windshield, eyes wide.

"Atlas," the driver said. Not a question. Not a hope.

The cruiser's underbelly split open.

Drop pods shot downward, blazing hot contrails of fire. One screamed past their cab, smashing into the road ahead. Another hit the third truck—obliterating it in a blossom of snow and steel. The pod cracked open on impact, smoke curling outward. Inside, red eyes flared.

"AK's!" the driver barked, yanking at a panel overhead. It was wasted.

The windshield imploded inward in a scream of glass and heat. Bullets poured through. They hit the driver center-mass. His chest lit up like a dying sun—blood, steam, muscle shredded apart. He convulsed once.

"Shit! SHIT!" Mav howled, flailing at his seatbelt, struggling to get free. Steam mixed with blood on the dash. 

The last remaining truck didn't wait. It punched through fire, an engine bellowing, trailing smoke and flame. Its lights were gone. Its windshield shattered. But it kept going.

Then they were alone.

Mav twisted, chest heaving, looking back into the cargo space. Four bodies huddled in shadows, clutching the satchel like it was a relic from a world that still made sense. A case full of data. Names. Records. The letters.

They had to protect it. At all costs.

Mav slammed his hand against the cab wall. "Out! OUT! MOVE YOUR ASSES!"

The rear latch fumbled open, metal cracking in the cold. A gust of wind punched through, dragging snow and sound and the scent of blood with it.

"They're here!" someone screamed. "They're right on us!"

"No shit!" Mav bellowed. He yelped however as hands grabbed him. 

Metal hands

He was ripped from the seat, hauled backward through the busted windshield. The storm hit him like a fist. He tumbled into the snow, back first, breath stolen. He hit hard, grunting, choking, clutching at nothing.

Above, the cruiser loomed. Another behind it. And another. And another. And another.

The storm parted like curtains around them, floodlights crisscrossing the cliffs. 

Shouts cracked through the storm—broken, desperate, cut short. Weapons barked, rapid and merciless, and each report was followed by a dull, human thump. Someone screamed in a voice he recognized, then went silent mid-word. Snow muffled the rest, but Mav didn't need to hear it all. He knew what was happening.

The sound of boots—heavy, synchronized, cruel—approached through the smoke. The thrum of hydraulics. The hiss of servos rearming. Somewhere behind him, another drop pod hissed open like a tomb cracking its seal.

He tried to crawl.

He did not get far

Metal came down on his foot with mechanical indifference, an armored boot pinning him in place like an insect. Bone popped, tendons snapped, nerves screamed up his spine and exploded behind his eyes.

"FUUUUUCK!" he howled, the pain white-hot, vomiting into the snow as he twisted, clawing for anything. His foot was gone, pulverized. 

The Knight above him adjusted its stance, watching him flail, watched him scream.

It tilted its head, calculating. 

Mav reached for the pistol tucked under his coat but the Knight moved faster. A blur of silver. Its boot shifted, then kicked, sending him sliding backward through powder and blood, tumbling like refuse. His head cracked against a buried stone. The world blinked. His limbs went soft.

He watched as the barrels of the Knight's cannons aligned.

Mav coughed harder, blood bubbling in his throat. 

Three shots.

Each one lifted him an inch off the ground, flesh and jacket detonating into sprays of red mist. 

One more shot—straight through the skull. 

His body twitched once. Then stopped.

The Knight lingered a moment. Then it turned into the truck. 

​It raised its cannons. 

Others followed. 

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A/N: Oh no. 

Now, they said that the new continent was dangerous but never really showed up. So in my headcanon, the place is literally Skull Island.