A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 10

+++

I took careful breaths.

I tossed the crowbar away.

The SDC men flinched.

"Get their weapons, their equipment," I rasped. My body felt like hell—every nerve burned, every muscle screamed. Exhaustion clawed at me, sinking deep into my bones. But I held myself upright, steady. I had to. Appearances mattered now more than ever.

The other miners nodded, rising up and moving quickly to follow my orders. I turned toward one of the nearest buildings, my vision swimming but my focus sharp.

"Someone bring out a chair!" a voice called.

Quickly, one was produced. 

I exhaled as I finally sank into it, my body sagging with relief.

People began to filter in, cautious at first, then bolder.

I glanced up, and familiar faces came into view. My dad—rough, battered, but alive. My father- and mother-in-law stood close together, their hands clutched tightly. Their eyes glittered, filled with hope and no small amount of fear.

"So," my dad rasped, his voice hoarse but steady. "When were you going to tell me you had aura?"

"I didn't," I replied simply. "Not until today."

"How?" Caestus asked, his brow furrowed.

"Are you a huntsman?" Atlanta chimed in, her voice tinged with awe.

Considering the world we lived in, I thought it would have been common knowledge how aura worked. But as I looked around at their faces, wide-eyed and full of reverence, I realized why they were asking. Aura, semblances—those were things people only associated with huntsmen.

I shook my head.

"The trauma of what happened, I think it unlocked it," I answered honestly. "And no, Atlanta, I'm not a huntsman. Being a huntsman is a job you need to be licensed for."

It felt like a fair enough response. I wasn't about to tell Ercole—or anyone else—that I was a stranger inhabiting the body of his son. Or that, somehow, I'd merged with him.

"Now what?" Caestus asked, his voice steady but tinged with unease.

"Now?" I groaned as I pushed myself to my feet. My body protested every movement, but I forced it to obey. "Now, we go to the Foreman. We air our grievances—eloquently."

"You stay here," Ercole muttered. "You've done enough. Rest."

True enough. I had taken down the biggest threat which was Frick. But no, I did not want to rest until we had secured the whole town.

"No. I am going," I answered. "I will take a break when the whole town is ours."

"We are taking over?" A miner asked out loud.

I nodded. "We've already gotten on Mr Bones Wild Ride. That ride is not stopping anymore."

The same miner blinked. "Mr Bones?"

"Too late to stop now," I answered as I gestured outside.

They all glanced at each other. Doubt flickered in their eyes, realization dawning that they never expected to reach this far. But when they turned to me, that doubt vanished.

"You're going to lead us, right?"

I paused.

I nodded.

"To the finish," I replied.

Courage burned in their eyes.

"Then let's go," the same miner growled.

+++

"Barricade the doors!" the Foreman bellowed, voice high with panic. "The windows too—everything!"

SDC men scrambled like kicked ants, dragging chairs, crates, filing cabinets—anything—into makeshift barricades. Boots thundered across the floor. Someone knocked over a lamp. A woman screamed. In the back, children wailed against their mothers' chests. As this was a long term assignment, some had brought families for the long haul. There also were other positions that needed to be filled. Technicians, surveyors, all that was needed to run a mine.

"Get rifles! Batons! Anything you can fucking shoot or swing!" the Foreman roared, already fumbling at his own belt.

"Foreman! They're coming!"

The voice cracked like a whip through the hall.

A bead of sweat traced down his cheek, caught in the deep groove beside his nose. He ripped the revolver free from its holster and spun the cylinder with shaking fingers. Six shots. Not enough.

"Everyone who can fight—to the windows!" he shouted. "If they get through, we hold the line there!"

He glanced around, wild-eyed.

"Signalman!"

"Here!"

"Has Headquarters been notified about the riot?"

The signalman's headset crackled, hissing like a broken fuse. "Sir, the blizzard's jamming the CCT. We've tried multiple frequencies, but—"

"I don't care!" the Foreman snapped. "Keep trying! Headquarters, the Army, the fucking Coast Guard! Do it!"

He turned toward the window.

Beyond the fogged glass, shadows loomed. Slow-moving at first. Then still. They'd stopped just short of the floodlights. Indistinct shapes. Dozens. Maybe more.

Then—

A microphone crackled. A voice, all grit and gloating, cut through the cold.

"Foreman!" someone shouted. "This is Cletus Brown! Give it up or we'll gut ya!"

The Foreman's hand clenched around his revolver.

He would rather die than be carved open by a pack of animals.

But then—

Another voice. Quieter. Rough, but familiar.

"Foreman."

The room hushed. Even the crying dulled.

"Lay down your arms," Adam said, voice steady despite the rasp. "Too much blood's been spilled today. Don't add more to it."

The Foreman blinked, caught off guard. Not defiance. Not a threat.

A plea.

Adam continued, "Open your doors, and I give you my word—no harm will come to you or anyone inside."

Silence hung heavy.

Then the Foreman laughed—tight, high-pitched, more fear than mirth.

"Fat chance, Taurus!" he shouted, stepping to the window. "You think I'm that stupid? That I'll just hand myself over to you?"

This was insulting. He was the very symbol of SDC authority here. Said authority had neglected to help him and even signed off on his own branding.

Another pause.

Then the calm voice returned, edged now with steel.

"One last warning. Surrender willingly—or we storm the building and drag you out."

His heart pounded faster.

Adam again: "Think of your men. Their families. Are you really going to risk them for you?"

He turned—saw them. The young SDC recruits, barely older than boys. The engineers, trembling behind console banks. Mothers shielding children. Fathers pressing against the walls, rifles shaking in their hands.

Then back to the window.

"You're going to kill me!" he screamed.

Adam's reply came swift.

"We will not."

A pause. He could almost see the man out there, standing tall amidst the snow and wreckage.

"Come quietly," Adam said, "and we'll treat you and everyone else here with dignity. We're not here to slaughter. We're here to talk. To make the SDC listen. Not burn it down."

The Foreman's mouth moved. But no words came out.

His fingers twitched on the revolver's grip, slick with sweat. Six bullets. Maybe enough to buy a few seconds. Maybe not even that. His gut twisted like old rope under tension, pulled tighter with every heartbeat.

He looked around the room.

The barricades wouldn't hold. They were built with desperation, not strategy. A few desks, some crates, overturned filing cabinets—joke defenses against a mob burning with fury and purpose. Most of the town's security had been out in the streets and likely prisoners now. What remained were only a few he had set aside.

The civilians were worse. Huddled in corners. Children clinging to parents, eyes huge and wet. Women whispering prayers. Engineers gripping tools like clubs.

He stared at them. And they stared back.

Terrified.

Not of what waited outside—but of what he might decide.

He turned to the window again. The figures beyond the frost didn't move. They didn't shout. They waited.

And waited.

He drew in a shaky breath, chest heaving against the tight knot in his throat. His voice cracked through the glass, raw and loud:

"I have a family!" he shouted. "If I die, who's gonna be there for them?! Who puts food on their table?! Who keeps them safe?!"

There was a pause.

Then Adam's voice—calm, resolute, but not cold.

"We're not killing you, Foreman," he said. "We need you. You and every other human in there. You're part of what comes next. We can't negotiate with the SDC without you!"

That steadiness only made the fear twist deeper in the Foreman's gut.

He gritted his teeth, voice rising again with bitter fury.

"I want to believe you, Taurus. I do. But I can't!" he snapped, spittle flying as he yelled at the window. "You've got every damn reason to put a blade in my throat and call it justice! After everything that's happened? After what we've done to your people?!"

"So you aren't gonna give up?" Adam asked calmly.

"No!" The Foreman cried. "I am not going to be lynched to death by a bunch of animals!"

He screamed, spittle coming out his mouth.

Silence.

Then: "This is the man who is entrusted to lead you," Adam cried. "When the going gets tough, he would rather have you all go down with him than take one for the team!"

He blinked.

"He has signed off on your lives, the lives of your family!"

"Are you going to trust this man?"

The Foreman scoffed, sharp and bitter, like he'd just bitten into something rotten. "You think they'll listen to you?" he barked toward the window. "You're a goddamn traitor with blood on your hands! You think one speech makes you a savior?"

He turned around, sneer already curling on his lips—ready to see his people standing tall behind him, guns in hand, fire in their eyes.

Instead, he found hesitation.

Weapons lowered.

Eyes unsure.

Even the ones gripping rifles weren't gripping them like they meant it. One man, barely out of his teens, was staring down at his own baton like it had grown thorns. A woman near the window had her fingers trembling against the curtain, just watching the shadows outside. The signalman had pulled off his headset entirely.

And worse—they were listening.

To him.

To Adam.

The Foreman's mouth opened, then closed again.

No one looked at him. Not like before.

They weren't afraid of Adam anymore.

They were afraid of what might happen if they stayed with him.

"You seriously aren't considering his offer?" the Foreman barked, eyes wide, voice climbing in disbelief. "You think surrendering to them is gonna save you?"

He looked around, waiting for someone to step in, to echo him, to stand with him.

But they didn't.

A man near the window met his eyes. 

"Sir," he said, quiet but firm, "we have our families here."

He stepped forward.

"If we stay with you… they die."

He rifle was levelled against him.

+++

"We're coming out, faunus!" a man shouted.

We watched as an SDC soldier emerged, the Foreman in front of him with his hands raised. His face was glum, hollow—betrayed by his own men. But really, the choice was simple: die for the company or live for your family.

"Drop your weapons to the side! All of them!" I ordered, my voice sharp and cutting through the cold air.

"We keep our pistols!" one of them barked back, defiance flickering faintly in his tone.

"All your weapons!" I snapped, my voice sharper now, leaving no room for argument.

"Grrk!"

The man hesitated, his jaw tight, but finally relented. Teeth grinding in frustration, he and the others dropped their weapons into a pile. I gestured for the others to step in and secure them.

I marched forward, Caestus and Cletus flanking me, their presence radiating quiet authority. Cletus stepped ahead, taking the rifle from the soldier who had escorted the Foreman out. He leveled it against the Foreman, the barrel hovering just shy of his head.

"You're making a mistake if you think the SDC will negotiate," the Foreman spat, his voice dripping with venom. "They'll sooner bombard this place than talk with the likes of you."

"Jacques Schnee is not so greedy as to blow up his own mine," I retorted, my voice calm but firm, steady as steel.

Behind the Foreman, one of the turncoats shifted nervously. "What's going to happen to us?" he asked, his voice filled with tension and uncertainty.

I turned to him, meeting his gaze. "You and your families will be safe, as I promised. But you'll be under guard."

His distrust was written all over his face—the pinch of his brow, the tightness in his jaw—but the sincerity in my voice seemed to cut through the fog of doubt.

I had no intention of brutalizing the humans. Doing so would only undermine the moral high ground we needed to hold. It would chip away at the leverage we had worked so hard to gain. Burning down the mine or harming its workers would be a mistake we couldn't afford to make.

"Take the Foreman to the jail," I ordered, breaking the silence.

Cletus grinned. "Come on, Foreman. I hear the jail's nice and warm this time of year," he cackled, his voice dripping with mockery.

As Cletus led the Foreman away, flanked by a handful of guards, I let out a long, heavy sigh.

We had crossed the line now, committed to walking the dangerous and impossible path. There was no turning back.

I turned toward Caestus. "Call the leaders. We need to have a discussion about this."

He gave a sharp nod. "Town Hall?"

I nodded in return. "Town Hall."

​And so, boots marched, others being dragged away. I watched as the women and children were led away. Most looked on in fear, others with apprehension. Understandable, really, as they had no idea what we would do to them. Again, while lashing out would feel pretty damn good, that was a bad idea in the long run. 

I sighed.

Time to get things done.

By the time I arrived at the Town Hall, the cold gnawed at my skin like a living thing. My father stood under the battered arch of the doorway, the wood frame half-splintered from years of weather and neglect. Pasiphae was there too, a firm hand on his shoulder, steadying him though he seemed to stand taller at the sight of me.

Their heads turned as I approached. I gave my father a smile—small but real. Pasiphae earned only a nod, clipped and distant.

Pasiphae's hand clutched tighter around my father's arm, her gaze scanning me from boots to crown.

"Adam..." she breathed, half awe, half fear. "What happened to you?"

Fair question. If my husband suddenly turned into a one-man wrecking crew, I'd have questions too.

"My aura activated," I said simply. The words felt foreign on my tongue, but there was no point in dancing around it. I shook my head, cutting off whatever she was about to say. "We'll talk later. Right now... we have bigger things to figure out."

Before she could press me, I pushed past and entered the hall.

Inside, the air was thick with sweat, dust, and the electric tension of expectation. People were huddled in clusters, scattered across the pews, all eyes turning as I stepped through the threshold. Some stood. Some sat stiff-backed. None spoke.

I thought, for a moment, to simply join them, to find a quiet corner and vanish into the crowd.

That option was closed now—not when I had just torn a man to shreds.

I inhaled slowly.

So much for staying on the sidelines.

I hobbled forward, my legs protesting with every step, until I reached the dais at the front. A crude thing, barely raised above the ground, battered and scuffed from decades of town meetings nobody wanted to remember.

"I beg your patience," I muttered, my voice carrying despite the low volume. "But I need to sit while talking. Doing all I did today... well, it took a lot out of me."

A ripple of nervous laughter answered—thin, raw, but laughter all the same.

Someone moved quickly, bringing forward a chipped white chair. I dropped into it with a grateful grunt, leaned back, and let the weight bleed from my shoulders for just a second.

Then I straightened.

"We have effectively taken control of Nicolasburg," I began, sweeping my gaze across the room. "Now what?"

A pause.

Then glances, murmurs.

"What do you mean, Adam?" someone asked from the pews.

I folded my hands together.

"I mean—what do we do collectively afterward? How do we hold what we've taken?"

A young Faunus—bull horns, dusty overalls—stood up, voice ringing with unspent adrenaline. "I say we negotiate!" he shouted. "We got control of the town, we got control of the mine! If Jacques Schnee wants his dust, he's gonna have to listen to us!"

A chorus of agreement roared in response—stomps, claps, fists pounded against pews.

But another voice, rough and aged, cut through the noise. An older Faunus, grey streaking his ears, leaning heavily on a cane.

"You really think Jacques Schnee is gonna negotiate with you?" he barked, his tone heavy with bitterness. "He'd sooner see us dead or chained before he bends."

The room cooled again, the fire from earlier flickering.

I raised a hand, and they fell quiet.

"That's true," I said, "if we didn't control the mine."

I let that hang.

"Jacques Schnee is greed incarnate, yes. But he isn't stupid. He won't destroy his own investment unless we leave him no better option."

The old man shook his head, face grim. "I'm not gonna risk staying here, Adam. I don't wanna be around when his irritation lands on us."

I met his gaze, steady and hard.

"You'll risk it whether you like it or not, Tom," I said. "There are only two ways in or out of Nicolasburg. Tram or bus. Both controlled by the SDC. You wanna leave? Fine. But your only other option is to walk through a blizzard that would gut a huntsman in an hour."

He bit his lip.

Then slumped heavily back onto the pew.

Murmurs grew louder again.

"So this is it then?" he muttered. "This is our only choice? To sit here... and hope they talk to us?"

"It seems limiting," I agreed. "But we have leverage."

Another worker stood, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"He could..." he hesitated, glancing around. "...He could just fire us. Bring in new Faunus to replace us. Ones willing to bow and scrape."

They shifted in their seats, a low rustle of clothes and boots filling the space as the weight of it all settled onto their shoulders. No more torches and chants. No more righteous charges. Now came the hard part—the part no one liked to sing songs about.

"We need to agree on a policy going forward," I said firmly, cutting through the murmurs. "We have collective power. We have the mine. But if we start pulling in different directions, we'll lose everything we've bled for in less than a week."

I let them chew on that for a moment.

"I'm also pretty sure," I added, my voice dropping into something wry and grim, "that none of you fought this hard just to give it all up for nothing."

A chorus of rough, muttered agreements answered—fists pounding once against pews, heads nodding grimly.

One man in the back, broad-shouldered with a battered cap clutched in his hands, spoke up first.

"If we're negotiating, what exactly are we asking for?" he asked. "Higher wages? Better treatment?"

A younger woman—dark hair cropped short, burn scars peeking from under her sleeves—stood immediately after.

"Proper wages! Our overtime and everything else paid!"

"I want safety guarantees," another worker added. "For our families. For our homes."

"Medical," someone else said. "Compensation if someone gets hurt on the job. Real doctors, not just a bottle of pills and a 'suck it up.'"

Another Faunus leaned forward, knuckles whitening against the pew in front of him.

"And control. Of the mine. Not full, maybe... but enough. Enough so they can't just replace us the second they feel like it."

The ideas poured out now, rough and angry and half-shaped, but real.

Real needs. Real demands.

Real hope.

But not everyone looked convinced.

"What if they stall?" Tom rasped, stubborn even now. "What if they pretend to talk, keep us penned up here like rats till the SDC sends in the army to clean up?"

A grim silence followed.

It was a fair question.

A hard one.

"We prepare for that too," I said. "We fortify. We ration. We train."

More glances, more nervousness.

"They'll outgun us," someone muttered.

I nodded. "Maybe. Probably. But every day we hold this place, every day we keep the dust flowing or threaten to shut it down—that's a day Jacques loses money. That's a day the investors get nervous. That's a day the world starts watching."

I made sure to eye them. "This is something that will not just be kept hidden. We too can go and send people out to the other mines, get them to agitate too."

Another worker, this one older, his beard streaked with dust, grunted from the middle pew.

"Money talks louder than blood ever did."

"Damn right," someone else agreed.

"So then what?" a younger man asked, jittery, voice sharp. "We sit here forever? Wait for them to starve us out?"

"No," I said.

I rose from the chair, my legs screaming, but I stood anyway.

"We draw up a list of demands. We send word. We make it clear—we're willing to work. We're willing to keep this place alive."

I looked around at all of them. All the beaten, bloody, stubborn faces.

"But not as slaves."

The room rippled, tension twisting into something harder. Something sharper.

"And if they refuse?" someone asked, voice barely above a whisper.

I let the question hang.

"If they refuse," I said finally, "no more money for Jacques Schnee."

A recess was called afterward. But essentially, it was agreed that a return to normalcy was preferable. Actual benefits, squalor reduced.

I sighed as I sat back down on the chair.

This was exhausting.

I glanced up to see two people approach.

"Look at you, a leader," Dad mulled, his face amused. He was supported by Pasiphae, who smiled as well.

"I am only the speaker for them, not their chief," I replied.

"Humble. That is a good sign," Dad said. "It seems I did a good job after all."

I snorted. I turned to Pasiphae. "We have control of the town. This is our chance to get him some meds. Go and take him."

She nodded, then paused. Her face seemed to be thinking of something. I caught it.

I did promise her we were going to talk.

"Can you ask your parents to take Dad there?" I asked.

She nodded, and Father hobbled away, leaving only her and me.

We regarded each other.

"Adam... I..." Pasiphae started, one hand clutched to her other arm.

I sat, patient.

"I am sorry," Pasiphae muttered, her ears drooped. "For everything."

I closed my eyes.

"What is done cannot be undone, Phae," I replied. "The only thing to do about it is move forward."

She flinched. "You didn't have to take my place."

"And I would have a burned wife, and my in-laws would be out in the cold," I replied. "I did it for them and for you."

"I really thought... I really thought it would help you," she muttered.

I said nothing.

"Are you... angry at me?" she asked tentatively.

"I am," I nodded. "You went off on this without telling me. You did not respect my wishes."

She flinched again, looking every bit like a beaten dog.

I closed my eyes. It tickled me wrong to talk like this to Pasiphae, but I could not overlook what she did.

"I am sorry," she whispered again.

"Again, we must look forward," I said as I stood up. "Don't do shit without consulting me, do you understand?"

She nodded in defeat.

"Good. Now help me, and let's get this place up and sorted."

It was not a long talk that I wanted. But it did answer some immediate concerns. We would have time to talk about it later but for now, organizing this place was much more important.

We could discuss our issues later.

+++

Nicolasburg sat on a plateau, a single road leading downward or a tram line that led out. Predictably, the tram operators sabotaged it, which meant the road was the only thing that led in or out. Not that we could use it when the snow and wind were battering around like crazy.

We had to go and catalogue everything that we had. Our needs were categorized: food, medical, weapons, and dust. With food, Nicolasburg was stocked well enough to last us through a couple of months before we needed to get resupplied. For medical, we had way more options now that we didn't have to rely on the Foreman's mercy. Families finally had the opportunity to get medicines for their sick. For equipment, we now had access to the guards' stock. And, of course, they had me.

While it was satisfying to be the security guarantee, I was under no illusions that I could solo an entire army. I had a long pool of aura, but even that would run out. I also was not trained to fight melee to melee. I only overcame Frick through sheer anger. If I met someone that actually had experience, I would be overwhelmed.

As for dust, we didn't have to worry about that as we did sit on a mine.

Defenses were set up, guard posts and fighting positions established to defend Nicolasburg. It was only a matter of time until the SDC or Atlas itself would respond. In a straight-up fight, I was pretty sure we would be slaughtered, but I banked on the fact that Nicolasburg was a fairly important mine that provided the SDC with that sweet, delicious Dust.

I would know. I had the receipts now.

I had gone to the Foreman's office. Why? To get records. Records which would be used as bargaining chips. Accidents, deaths—everything about this place was going to be documented, then sent off into the wider world.

While I was no labor leader, I knew the power of propaganda and the media. Once the world knew of the squalor here, the SDC would have to answer for such poor conditions. When presented with a face, misery becomes harder to ignore.

I heard a knock on the door.

I turned.

"Enter."

In came Pasiphae, apron on and tray in hand. "I got some food and tea," she said. "The Foreman's kitchens are way better than ours."

Of course they would be.

I beckoned her to enter as I turned back to the papers on the table. It took some careful cataloguing—and me glaring at his secretary—to get the appropriate papers. I may have threatened her with a public beheading if she hid documents. Thankfully, she valued her head more than her loyalty to the SDC.

Pasiphae was careful to put the tray on a spot not filled with papers. She peeked over, curious.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Leverage," I said. "I'm getting them organized, then photocopied for distribution. The world will know of our misery and the cost of having Dust on their table. It is hard to ignore misery when there is a face to it."

Pasiphae stood there, fidgeting with the frayed edge of her apron, her eyes flickering between the scattered papers and my face. She opened her mouth once, hesitated, then tried again.

"Why all this?" she asked, voice low but firm. "Why not just... fight? Take what we need, hold the mine, and dare them to come for us?"

I finished stacking a few documents, tapping them into a neat pile with the side of my hand. The sharp thwack of paper on wood filled the quiet room.

"Because brute strength isn't enough," I said, not looking up yet. "We can win a few battles, sure. Maybe scare them for a while. But long-term? They'll just paint us as terrorists. Savages. They'll turn the world against us before we can even open our mouths."

She shifted her weight, chewing her lip in thought. "But if we hit hard enough, make it costly enough—"

"They'll just hit harder," I cut in, finally meeting her gaze. "They've got more guns, more men, more money. They'll starve us out. Grind us down until there's nothing left but corpses and excuses."

Pasiphae's ears twitched, uncertainty clouding her face. She didn't like the thought of it. Neither did I.

I leaned back in the chair, sighing.

"If we want to win," I continued, softer now, "we have to make it cost them in ways they can't ignore. Not just in blood. In reputation. In money. In power."

I tapped a sheet of paper with my finger—an accident report, detailing a collapsed tunnel and three dead miners buried alive.

"These aren't just numbers. They're stories. Faces. Families."

I grabbed another report—a log of unpaid overtime, hours wrung from exhausted bodies without compensation.

"They can explain away a fight. They can label us criminals and justify any slaughter."

I grabbed a third—a medical record of untreated injuries, infections turned septic because no one wanted to foot the bill.

"But they can't explain this away. Not when the world is watching."

Pasiphae approached the desk slowly, her hands brushing over the papers as if touching them might burn her.

"So you're saying..." she said slowly, "we make them answer to the world before they can bury us?"

I nodded. "Exactly. We take the narrative from them before they even know it's slipping away."

She was quiet for a long moment, absorbing it all.

"And if the world doesn't care?" she asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.

I looked at her—really looked at her—and for a second, I let her see it.

The calculation.

"Then we make them feel the bite of neglecting us," I replied simply. "Can they continue to ignore us when they run out of dust to light their homes? When they need dust to power their lights, fuel their armies?" 

I shook my head. "They will negotiate. Or they will have nothing." 

Another knock came at the door. It was Cletus. "Adam?" 

I looked over. 

"We got uh...."

He hesitated.

"We got guests" 

I raised an eyebrow. 

"Guests?" 

"They say they're the White Fang. And that they are here to help." 

Pasiphae glanced down.

​I stood up. 

+++

I climbed up the wall, boots scraping against battered stone, and peered out over the frozen wastes.

There, I saw them.

Trucks—heavy, armored, modified for the cold. Their engines rumbled through the blizzard like growling beasts. And flags—bright blue, snapping viciously in the wind. Stamped across the cloth was a snarling white wolf, teeth bared, eyes wild.

A Faunus stood at the front, perched on the lead truck's hood, waving the flag like a battle standard.

"My name is Blizzard!" he cried out, voice cutting through the shrieking wind. "And we are here to help!"

Behind me, Cletus Brown shifted, suspicion carved deep into every line of his face.

"Do we let 'em in?" he asked, his voice low, hand resting close to the hilt of his rifle.

We were already in open rebellion. Past the point of no return. Might as well.

"I'll go down and talk with their leader," I said. "The rest of you—cover me."

Pasiphae stepped forward, concern shadowing her face. "Adam?"

"I'll be fine," I assured her. "Just cover me, alright?"

She nodded, though hesitation lingered in her eyes.

The gate creaked open just enough for me to slip through.

Snow whipped against my face as I trudged forward, coat flapping hard against my legs. Every step forward was a battle against the storm—and against the weight of what I was about to gamble.

The man called Blizzard stood ahead, flag lowered, one hand raised in a clear show of peace.

He was tall, broad across the shoulders, with frost clinging to the shaggy mane of white hair spilling out from under his battered cap. His ears twitched once under the gusting wind, alert, but he made no threatening move.

When I got close enough, he grinned and offered a gloved hand.

"I am Blizzard," he introduced himself. "Here on behalf of the Atlesian White Fang. We're here to help."

My face stayed impassive.

"You're not the leader," I said simply. "I want the one in charge, not the mouthpiece."

He chuckled under his breath, but there was no heat in it. Only resignation.

"I fear she's not here," he said. "You'll have to make do with me."

My gaze flicked past him.

"Then who's that sitting in the lead truck, arms crossed, glaring daggers?"

Blizzard turned, following my line of sight.

There, in the driver's seat of the lead truck, she sat. Cloaked in furs, legs casually propped against the dashboard, expression hard and unblinking.

And then—without a word—she swung the door open and stepped down into the snow.

She was tanned, her skin kissed by a sun far from these frozen wastes, a body honed more for jungles than for the biting cold. Amber eyes glowed like banked fires, sharp and wary, and across her arms and collarbone, black tattoos wound in savage patterns—tiger stripes slashing across her skin.

She didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

In that one silent stride toward us, she made it clear who held the real authority.

The snow crunched beneath her boots with a rhythm that sounded deliberate, almost ritualistic, each step carrying weight heavier than the storm around us. She stopped a few paces away, close enough that I could see the subtle steam of her breath, the slight narrowing of her amber eyes as she measured me the same way a tiger might study wounded prey.

She said nothing at first.

Just watched.

Testing the silence between us like a weapon.

Blizzard shifted awkwardly beside me, flag dropping lower. He had bravado for the show, but even he knew—this woman wasn't someone you interrupted.

"Might I have your name?" she asked. 

"Adam Taurus," I replied. 

​"Adam Taurus," she tested. "Strong name." 

"And you are?" I asked 

"Sienna Khan," she introduced herself. 

"And what do you want?" I asked. 

​She smiled. "To screw over the SDC." 

+++

A/N: Plot