A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 9

+++

The Foreman stood at the edge of a storm.

His knuckles whitened as they gripped the edge of his desk, the wood groaning beneath the strain. Around him, the office had transformed into a war room—maps layered with hastily drawn lines, radios blaring with static and alarm, officers barking into headsets, their words fractured and frantic.

The symbol of the Schnee Dust Company's authority now flickered under the cold fluorescents, trembling with the tremors of rebellion outside.

"How the hell did they organize this fast?!"

"White Fang's involved—has to be!"

"We need boots—every available squad on the streets, now!"

The noise surged like a crashing tide.

"Shut up," the Foreman growled, low.

No one heard him.

"I said—shut up!"

Silence fell, sharp and immediate. Even the radios seemed to quiet.

All eyes turned to him.

His voice was cold when it came.

"Where is Frick?"

"On the streets, sir," someone replied. "With the riot team."

"Call him."

A beat passed.

A crackle of static, then: "Foreman."

"Frick."

"We've got a riot on our hands," the Foreman said, evenly. No panic. No emotion. Just fact.

"Your methods have failed."

Frick's voice came back through the speaker, unbothered. "That is so."

"What's their position?"

"They've pulled back. A block west of the Hall. Barricading. Looks like they're settling in for a siege."

The Foreman exhaled once, long and slow, as if weighing a cost he'd already decided to pay.

"Then restore order," he said. "At all costs."

"With respect, Foreman. Nicolasburg has 2,563 people living in it. We have a hundred guys to keep watch."

"Make do," he replied.

A pause on the other end.

"Rules of engagement?"

The Foreman looked up—his eyes like ice, unmoved by the heat beyond the walls.

"They've chosen not to be civil," he said. "Treat them as you would any wild animal."

The radio clicked off.

And in that quiet, the storm moved closer.

In the ground, Frick clicked off his communicator with a snap, the final words from the Foreman still ringing in his ears like a verdict.

He turned to face his men—ranked in tight formations, clad in white armor that gleamed cold beneath the floodlights. Their faces were hidden behind tinted visors, reflections of the riot burning in each. The snowflake sigil of the Schnee Dust Company shone from their riot shields, turned now not against chaos, but against the people.

He opened a secure line to the other squads. Voices crackled in, waiting.

"We have our orders," Frick said, voice low but carrying. "Restore order—at any cost."

No one moved. But they listened. Every breath held.

"Beat them. Stomp them. No mercy. Drive them into the dirt until they remember who owns this place."

He paced slowly before them, scanning every face behind those masks, watching for hesitation—finding none.

"Am I understood?"

"YES, SIR!" they thundered in unison, boots snapping together.

Frick gave a curt nod.

"Team leaders—fan out. Surround the block. No gaps, no escape. We box them in and we break them."

"Copy?" he barked.

"YES, SIR!"

Frick's jaw clenched as he turned toward the smoke-choked horizon. Somewhere beyond the barricades, they were digging in. Thinking they had a chance.

He would remind them otherwise.

+++

It started with a sound.

A low, rhythmic clank-clank-clank.

Like drums before a charge.

Tork stood just behind the barricade—a mess of overturned carts, splintered wood, and a line of furious, frostbitten miners gripping pipes, crowbars, and hope. The wind howled through the narrow streets of Nicolasburg, kicking up snow and ash, but that clanking cut through it like a blade.

Then they came.

White-armored riot teams. Dozens. Shields up, moving in tight, practiced formations, truncheons beating rhythm against their shields.

Step. Clank. Step. Clank.

SDC.

Tork felt the rock in his hand tremble. Not from fear. Rage. Pure, coiled rage.

"They're coming!" someone screamed.

Another shouted, "Stand your ground!"

Then the air was filled with motion. Rocks, bricks, scrap metal—whatever they could grab. Projectiles flew, clattering off shields or bouncing off helmets. One guard staggered as a chunk of masonry hit him square in the chest. Another dropped back, visor cracked from a thrown wrench.

For a moment, it felt like maybe—just maybe—they could hold.

Pfft-THUMP.

Something hissed through the air. A canister clattered into the center of the street.

Then another. And another.

Thick plumes erupted—white clouds that choked the alleyways and stung the eyes.

"Gas!" someone shrieked.

Tork turned, coughing violently, eyes burning as the air turned to poison. He reached for his scarf, yanking it over his mouth as others scattered or dropped, hacking on the ground.

Through the fog of gas, the riot line moved faster.

No more formation. No more rhythm.

Just boots pounding snow and metal clubs swinging.

The first scream cut through the fog like a razor. A miner collapsed, blood splashing across ice-stained cobblestones as a baton found his shoulder, then his ribs, then his face.

Tork raised his pipe just in time to block a blow—CRACK!—the impact ringing through his bones. Another blow caught his leg, sending him sprawling.

Around him, the world broke into chaos. Faunus men and women running, falling, dragging one another away. Screams and steel and snow and blood mixed into one awful harmony.

He crawled toward the barricade, coughing, his ears ringing.

A white-helmeted figure loomed above him, eyes cold as ice.

The baton came down.

+++

They were breaking—Frick saw it in the panicked shouts, the retreating feet, the way the miners clutched at each other with wide, frantic eyes.

This wasn't some orchestrated rebellion, no carefully-laid plan. It was spontaneous. Emotional. Messy. Leaderless.

And without a leader, they would crumble like wet stone.

Frick adjusted his helmet, voice cold and clipped through the comms.

"Teams. Advance."

The order moved like a shockwave.

From the alleys, from behind collapsed market stalls and derelict buildings, white-armored officers surged forward. Four squads. Precision-timed. Shields raised, truncheons clutched tight, boots slamming in rhythmic thuds that echoed like war drums down the cobbled streets.

Thud-thud-thud. Clank. Thud-thud-thud. Clank.

Each squad moved to cut off an exit—north, east, west—corridors the miners might use to escape were sealed one by one. The boxed-in crowd surged left, then right, only to find another wall of shields meeting them with cold silence.

Gas hissed again, thick and white, rolling low like fog. The crowd coughed, stumbled, clawed at their faces as the sting hit eyes and lungs.

"Back! Back, damn you!" a miner screamed, his voice swallowed by the chaos. But there was no 'back' left. Only walls of white.

Frick watched from the high ground, standing atop an abandoned shipping crate. Below him, the herd panicked. The trap had closed.

"Push them," he muttered into the comms. "Make them feel it."

The line advanced—slow, methodical, unstoppable. Shields slammed forward. Truncheons cracked down.

The miners—men and women who had braved the mines of Solitas for years—found themselves crushed between steel and smoke, with no sky left to look to.

+++

I was somewhere dark.

Fog clung to the air like memory—thick, wet, and familiar. A world dreamt in grayscale.

Colonial-style buildings loomed in the distance, silhouettes etched against a sky the color of bruised glass. A cathedral rose at the heart of it all—its walls were made of smooth, pearlescent shells, impossibly fused. A place that shouldn't exist, yet felt like it always had.

I sat in one of the pews, wood cracked beneath me. A figure wandered the aisle, glancing up at the vaulted ceiling as though trying to remember what it once meant.

"Your world is curious," the figure said. His voice was low, contemplative. "No Grimm. No semblances. Only humans. And still... your world finds ways to be terrible."

I leaned back, fingers steepled. "Humans suck. I know. But they can also be kind. Joyful. Empathetic."

He tilted his head. "Then why not simply be kind?"

I gave a hollow laugh. "Because people are complicated."

In Remnant, the soul is real—measurable, quantifiable, even weaponized. In this borrowed body, it wasn't just mine anymore.

It was ours.

Mine... and his.

Adam Taurus.

When the branding happened, when the searing iron kissed the flesh of my face, I broke—retreated into myself, a psychic splinter sheltering from the pain. It was there, in this constructed dreamscape of memory and trauma, that I met him.

The original owner.

He could read me. I could read him.

"I am not pleased with how my story ended," he said quietly, as he stepped closer. "A freedom fighter reduced to a bitter shell. Hunted a girl nearly half my age like some obsessed dog on a leash."

I shrugged. "Don't blame me. I didn't write your character arc."

"But you write, don't you?"

"Yeah. Not well. Middling at best."

"You have an audience. Middling writers don't get that."

I smirked. "Fair."

Silence fell like dust from the rafters.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Now you must take up my mantle. You're in my body, wearing my face. That comes with responsibility."

"I'll do it."

He paused, clearly caught off guard. "That was fast."

I stood. "A man can't control the events that happen to him. Only how he reacts. And I choose to accept it."

He considered that. "That sounds wise."

"I stole it from someone smarter."

The world trembled.

We looked skyward, past the stained-glass void above.

"What is that?" I asked.

"A call. Pasiphae. She's waking you."

"She's our wife, you know."

"She's a stranger to me. You grew up with her. Not I."

"Still our wife."

He grunted. "Regardless, you're needed."

"I have no aura. No combat skill. I'm not him."

"And yet I am," Adam replied. "I'll awaken your aura. It's time our souls truly merged."

The tremor became a quake.

"You suppose?" I asked, brow raised.

He clicked his tongue, annoyed. "I was not raised normally, human."

"That's a poetic way of saying you never had a formal education."

I paused, a terrible realization dawning. "Wait—so Yang and Blake beat up an uneducated, half-starved, emotionally fractured Adam?"

His jaw tightened. "Don't remind me."

He stepped down the aisle, the light around him growing brighter with each step. I rose as he approached. His hand clasped my shoulder, firm as steel.

"For it is in rising against tyranny that we carve our place in legend," he said, voice deeper now, resonating from somewhere far beyond this place.

He began to glow.

"We rise together... or not at all."

His light surged, radiant and searing.

"I release your soul," he said, his voice now twin-layered—his and mine.

"And together," he finished, "we rise."

Everything turned white.

And then—black.

+++

"ADAM!"

Pasiphae's scream tore through the house like shrapnel.

"Adam!"

They had run the moment the riot began. SDC patrols were closing in from every direction.

They told her to flee.

And she did.

To run. To survive.

She had made it home. Caestus realized what she'd done too late—he had sprinted back into the chaos, desperate to retrieve his wife.

That left her alone.

Now, she knelt by Adam's side, trembling hands pressed to his shoulders, shaking him like she could will him back into the world.

"Please—come back," she whispered. "Don't leave me here."

Then—something strange.

A red glow pulsed from beneath his skin, faint at first, then blooming like fire behind glass. She stumbled back, eyes wide as his wounds began to mend—not vanish, but seal. The scar remained, angry and raw, but the bleeding stopped.

His chest rose.

His eyes opened.

That familiar shade of blue—only now, they glowed.

With focus.

With...motivation.

He didn't speak. Not at first. Just sat up, slow and steady, like a man waking from a hundred-year dream.

Pasiphae took a cautious step back.

His gaze swept the room once, then landed on her.

"Where's your father? Your mother?" he asked, calm and clear.

"They... they're at Central," she stammered. "Dad went out to get Mom. He said the streets weren't safe."

Adam nodded once. "They'll be brutalized."

Her breath hitched. She looked away.

He swung his legs off the bed, feet landing with a soft thud. He stood, slow but sure, reaching for his coat hanging by the door.

"W-what are you doing?" she asked.

"Getting dressed," Adam said simply, pulling the coat over his shoulders. "I don't want to freeze."

She stepped toward him, voice breaking. "To do what?"

He paused only long enough to look her in the eye.

"To get our family back."

She moved toward him, heart aching. "Let me help yo—"

"Don't," he said, quiet but firm.

She froze. His tone wasn't angry, but something in it cut sharper than a scream.

"Why not?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He turned, slowly, his face unreadable. "This wouldn't have happened if you'd just listened to me, Phae."

Pasiphae looked away, shame pressing down like snowfall. Her fingers clenched around the hem of her sleeve.

His voice softened—barely. "You're brave. But there's a difference between bravery and recklessness."

"I just—" She swallowed. "I just..."

Adam looked at her for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, reached up, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered just a second longer than they needed to.

"We'll talk about this. After."

Her eyes met his. "Promise?"

He nodded. "But not now."

"Lock the doors. Don't come out unless it's us."

+++

The wind howled down the skeletal alleys of Nicolasburg, stirring loose sheets of protest fliers like dead leaves. Lieutenant Tanner stalked through the ruins of the riot, truncheon in one hand, shield in the other. His boots crunched over broken glass and scattered brick. The air still stank of tear gas and smoke.

Around him, the rest of his squad moved like wolves—tight formations, eyes sharp, eager for blood. Their orders were clear: clean up the stragglers. Break whoever was left.

Tanner held up a fist. They stopped.

A figure moved at the far end of the street.

Alone.

A man—or at least, something like one—walking calm and slow beneath the flickering streetlamps. A long coat rippled behind him like a cape. He moved with purpose, not fear. His head tilted slightly, revealing a shock of red hair and two sharp horns that caught the moonlight.

A faunus.

Tanner's lip curled.

Then the figure bent, slowly, deliberately, and picked up a fallen crowbar from the gutter.

"You!" Tanner barked. The squad turned as one. "Drop the weapon! Now!"

The man didn't run.

Didn't flinch.

He lifted his head—and they saw his eyes. Blue. Burning.

Not just with light. With fury.

The kind that doesn't shout.

The kind that judges.

"Last warning!" Tanner shouted.

The man raised the crowbar to his shoulder like a sword, one-handed, effortless.

Then he started walking.

Straight toward them.

Tanner's breath caught.

He wasn't running. He wasn't shouting.

He was just walking—with that crowbar resting on his shoulder like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there.

"Form up!" Tanner barked. "Shields up!"

The squad clanked together, shields locking with practiced ease. A white wall of steel and reinforced glass, emblazoned with the SDC snowflake.

"Step forward. One pace!"

They moved in unison. Truncheons ready. Shields steady.

Still, the man kept coming.

Tanner opened his mouth to issue another warning.

He didn't get the chance.

The man surged forward with a speed that didn't make sense—his coat snapping behind him like a banner in a storm. The crowbar swept low, then up—

—and shattered the first shield like it was made of glass.

The front guard was flung back with a strangled cry, helmet spinning off into the gutter. His body crashed through a storefront window in a bloom of shattering glass.

"FU—!" Tanner barely had time to brace before the man was in the formation.

Crowbar to ribs. Truncheon arm shattered.

Crowbar to knee. Screams.

Crowbar to visor. Silence.

He moved like a hurricane—one man, one piece of scrap metal, and the wrath of every injustice ever stamped into dirt by a boot.

Tanner swung his truncheon, wild and desperate.

The man caught it, with his crowbar.

With his bare hand.

Their eyes met.

Tanner felt it—not just strength, but will. Unbreakable. Ancient. Agonized.

He tried to scream.

The crowbar drove into his gut like a piston. Then again. And again. He crumpled, breath gone, body folding like paper.

The red-haired faunus stood in the center of six broken men.

Panting.

He turned towards Central.

He walked.

+++

The crowd shivered under the weight of dread.

The air was thick with the acrid sting of smoke, sweat, and fear as the SDC surrounded them, encircling the civilians like wolves closing in on wounded prey. Riot shields gleamed under the pale streetlamps, their snowflake emblems cold and sharp as judgment.

Ercole's breath came in shuddering gasps, Atlanta and Caestus clinging close to him. He watched helplessly as Frick stalked through the mass like a butcher surveying his cattle.

Truncheon in hand, Frick moved slowly—deliberately. He struck whoever he pleased, no reason or warning, just blood, bones, and boots.

A young man—maybe nineteen—screamed as Frick's truncheon came down again and again. By the time the rhythm ceased, he was a red stain on the ice.

Then Frick looked up.

He locked eyes with Ercole.

And started walking toward him.

Ercole couldn't move; his limbs felt like concrete.

Then—

A scream. But not one of terror. This one cut through the fear.

SDC soldiers flew back like ragdolls, crashing into walls and scattering over the icy ground like bowling pins.

A figure burst from the alley.

Blazing red hair, a coat flaring with every movement—he was a blur, a storm of motion and rage.

He didn't slow. Didn't hesitate.

A riot shield shattered under his strike.

Another guard went airborne, limbs flailing.

When the dust settled, Adam stood, gasping for breath. His eyes turned towards Frick, his face a mask of silent fury. He lifted his crowbar at Frick.

Frick smiled.

He walked forward, boots clacking over broken glass and frozen blood. He spun the truncheon casually, like a conductor preparing a symphony of pain.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that," he said, his voice calm, almost amused. "But guts won't save you. Nor will your aura."

Despite his words, he remained cautious. Adam's aura blazed like a roaring flame.

He would have to be careful.

"Let's fight," Adam said simply.

Frick agreed.

He struck first.

A feint to the right, a jab to the gut—clean, practiced. Adam barely twisted in time. The truncheon scraped his ribs, drawing a hiss of breath. Frick spun, sweeping at Adam's legs.

Adam jumped, barely clearing the arc.

He swung.

Wild.

The crowbar sliced through air—Frick ducked with ease. Another blow. Missed. Another—too high. Frick sidestepped it all, dancing through chaos, that faint smirk of a man who knew the rhythm of combat like a song.

Adam lunged again.

Frick met him with a baton to the sternum, cracking into bone. Adam reeled, falling to one knee.

But he didn't stop.

He charged.

Bar up.

Elbows in.

Swinging like a man possessed.

The crowbar collided with Frick's shield—metal on polyglass—echoing across the narrow street like a gunshot. Sparks burst. Adam struck again. Again. Again.

Frick held firm, blocking each blow with precision. He waited. Watched. When Adam's grip faltered, he retaliated.

The baton struck Adam's side. Then his thigh. Then an upward crack under the chin. Adam staggered, blood trailing from his mouth.

But his eyes—his eyes glowed.

He dropped the crowbar.

Closed the distance with fists.

No form. No stance.

Just rage.

He threw a punch—Frick parried. Another—Frick dodged. But Adam was relentless, a storm of flailing fury. One hit landed. Then another. Then another.

Frick lost his balance, his shoulder catching the edge of a wall. Adam was on him in seconds.

Fists met flesh.

A hook to the temple.

A hammerblow to the jaw.

Frick shoved back with his shield—but Adam tore it away, flinging it aside.

Then tackled.

They crashed into the slush, rolling.

Frick got on top. Elbowed down. Adam barely blocked. His knuckles split against armor. Blood on snow.

Frick punched. Twice. Hard. Adam's head snapped back—vision blurring.

Then Adam bit Frick's arm.

A howl.

A knee to Frick's chest.

Then fists again.

Endless.

Brutal.

Raw.

Frick was trained. Experienced. Dangerous.

But Adam was fury made flesh.

And fury didn't need technique.

Fury just needed to hurt.

Their fight became less a duel and more a reckoning. Blood soaked the earth beneath them—Frick's nose broken, Adam's eye swelling shut. Still, they struck each other, like neither could stop.

Frick gritted his teeth, his training kicking in despite the chaos. He shifted his weight, exploiting Adam's momentary exhaustion. The young man's flurry of fists was fierce, but even fury had its limits.

Frick ducked under another wild swing, his instincts guiding him. He countered with a sharp jab to Adam's midsection, feeling the air rush from his lungs. Adam staggered but didn't fall, determination etched in every feature.

"Is that all you've got?" Frick taunted, his voice low and mocking. He moved in closer, using his body to absorb Adam's next reckless punch, then retaliating with a swift uppercut that caught Adam off guard.

Adam's head snapped back, and for a fleeting moment, the fire in his eyes flickered. Frick pressed the advantage, striking with calculated precision. A knee to Adam's gut followed by a brutal elbow to the temple sent him reeling.

"Get up!" Frick growled, his voice a harsh whisper. He wasn't finished yet. He had to break Adam's will.

But Adam was relentless, pushing himself back to his feet. He charged again, fists swinging wildly, but the strikes were losing their power, becoming more desperate. Frick sidestepped, landing a sharp kick to Adam's knee, sending him crashing to the ground.

Frick towered over him, breathing heavily, but with a cold focus. "You think you can win this?"

"With enough motivation...I will," Adam promised.

Frick almost laughed. "You're getting beat senseless, that is what is happening. How will you win?"

Adam smiled, a wild glint in his eyes. "With this."

He rushed forward, his blows suddenly more powerful, fueled by an unexpected surge of adrenaline. Frick's confidence faltered for a moment as he felt the shift in the air.

Frick's aura began to flicker, the energy around him feeling less certain. He blocked an incoming swing, but the force behind it rattled him.

"Is this all you have?" Frick taunted, but there was a tremor in his voice now. He dodged another punch, but Adam was relentless, each strike landing with increasing ferocity.

Frick realized with dawning horror that the damage he had dealt was only fueling Adam's resolve. Every bruise, every cut, every moment of pain had become a catalyst for something greater.

And he had inflicted the greatest pain of all.

Fuck.

"You think you can take me down?" Frick shouted, desperation creeping into his words as he stumbled back. He could feel the tide turning, the crowd's murmurs growing louder, their hope igniting the fire in Adam's spirit.

Adam surged forward again, his movements a blur, almost inhuman. Frick barely managed to block a series of powerful strikes, each one pushing him closer to the edge. The young man was a whirlwind of fury, and Frick was losing his footing.

Adam seized his chance.

Frick scrambled for his pistol.

He never got the chance.

A whisper of motion—impossible to track—his aura flared white-hot, an inferno screaming through his veins. The world around him seemed to slow, every heartbeat stretching into eternity. He saw the tremble in Frick's wrist, the widening of his eyes. Fear. Real fear.

Too late.

Adam vanished.

One blink—he was gone.

The next—

SLAM.

A sonic boom cracked through the air as Adam reappeared behind Frick in mid-spin, low to the ground, one leg extended—a sweeping roundhouse that shattered the earth beneath them, fragments of ice and asphalt exploding outward like shrapnel. Frick's body twisted mid-air, a ragdoll hurled by forces he couldn't comprehend. His pistol clattered away, spinning across the frostbitten ground.

Adam didn't let him fall.

He was there, catching Frick by the collar mid-flight, yanking him back with one hand—then kneeing him square in the back with a force that would have crippled most men. Bones cracked like breaking branches.

Frick choked, blood flecking his lips.

Adam hurled him skyward.

Not just tossed—launched. Like a spear through the heavens, Frick arced into the air, limbs flailing, breath caught in his throat.

The civilians below gasped. The SDC froze, weapons half-raised, unsure whether to interfere or flee. Their predator had become prey.

Above them all, Frick reached the peak of his flight—

—and Adam was there waiting.

Another boom as he launched skyward like a comet, trailing streaks of crimson and white aura. He caught up in an instant. Met Frick in the air.

And spoke—

Low. Final.

"You don't get to hurt us anymore."

Then he drew.

From inside his coat—a flash of steel.

The crowbar, scorched black, warped from impact—but still solid.

He spun it once, reversed grip—

And struck.

WHAM.

A single, perfect arc.

Not wild.

Not furious.

Precise.

The crowbar cut a line through the air, through Frick's aura, through his ribcage—through his spine.

It didn't even look like it hit hard. But the result—

Frick froze mid-air. Body stiff. Arms wide. Eyes unblinking.

Then everything collapsed inward.

His aura ruptured in a bloom of blue-white energy, sparking like a dying star. His limbs went slack. Blood sprayed like a burst pipe from his mouth, ears, nostrils. His body fell, crumpling against gravity in slow motion.

Adam didn't descend with him.

He stood above. Floating.

Cloaked in rippling aura, coat fluttering like wings of war, eyes blazing.

When Frick's body hit the ground, it didn't bounce. It cracked the pavement—CRUNCH—a crater forming beneath the impact. He didn't move.

Adam landed gently beside him. The crowbar slipped from his fingers, embedding into the street with a metallic thud.

He glanced towards the remaining SDC.

He took a step forward.

They tossed their shields, their truncheons down.

Their arms raised.

+++

A/N: MOTIVATION MOTIVATION MOTIVATION MOTIVATION