A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 7

+++

I stared at him.

Then I sat down.

He nodded.

"Good."

Silence settled like ash.

"Do you know why I am here?" Frick asked calmly.

I shook my head.

He stared at me like he was x-raying my thoughts. Then he nodded again, apparently satisfied. "I'll show you, then."

He reached into his coat pocket, drew out his scroll, and tapped it. The screen lit up cold blue as he laid it on the table. My father and I leaned in—and our blood ran cold.

A clear image blinked to life: a young blonde faunus girl crouched in an alleyway, ears raised, eyes wide. Behind her, unmistakable—two fugitives. White Fang.

My heart sank into my stomach.

Frick's voice cut through the stillness. "We intercepted them as they tried to exit the forest. No one escapes me. But…"

He reached back into his coat. Something clinked. He placed it on the table—three dog tags, dulled from wear, their chains tangled.

"Three of my men perished," he said simply. "And they stole a vehicle."

Each word hit like a nail through my chest.

"Ordinarily, I'd advocate restraint. No one wants to shake the walls too hard—not now, with tensions so delicate," Frick went on. "But three dead men demand something. They had families. Children. And we lost a company asset."

He paused. Footsteps creaked from the hallway.

Pasiphae stepped into the room, yawning—then froze as her eyes landed on him.

Frick smiled, easy and cordial. "So. I'm here to offer a deal."

He raised one finger. "First option: she is punished publicly. She takes the blame, gets branded where all can see. Her name spoken loud. Then, she and her family are evicted, everything they own seized and redirected to the families of the dead. You two weren't involved—you stay. You keep working."

He raised a second finger.

"Second option: no branding. No eviction. She stays. But the cost is shared. Every worker in your sector loses pay, loses benefits. That lien goes straight to restitution. And I make sure they all know who caused it. I say her name."

He lowered his hand.

"Make your choice," he said quietly.

And then he waited.

Frick didn't need to pace. He didn't need to fidget or raise his voice or tap the desk with a pen like some anxious bureaucrat stalling for dominance. No—he sat still. The kind of still that filled a room like smoke. The kind of still that watched people unravel.

He'd already made the call. Long before he stepped into that broken little house. Long before the girl ever slipped those keys into the cell lock. The moment he saw her on the camera feed—smiling, apron neat, tray in hand—he knew what kind of person she was.

Desperate. Clever. Dangerous.

Frick admired that.

But admiration never meant mercy.

The teams he sent made contact. A firefight happened. But of course, the bloody bastards had aura. He should have been there but no, the Foreman did not want him to be away. He could have sent a squad to drag her into the dirt. Could have made a scene in the middle of the mess hall. Could have watched her scream under the prod and feel nothing. But that would have been too loud. Too blunt. The kind of thing that made martyrs. Heroes.

And heroes were contagious.

So he chose infection control instead.

A hammer is well and good. But if one solved everything with hammers, everything else would look like a nail. A scalpel here was needed to make sure the body remained healthy.

So: the offer.

Two paths. Both poison. One slow, one scalding. But either way, the lesson would carve itself deep into the bone of the workforce.

Option one: She becomes the warning sign. A branded scapegoat, paraded and discarded. The workers would flinch every time they passed her. They'd see her thrown out into the frost, and they'd thank the company it wasn't them. The brand wouldn't kill her—but it would kill her place. Her dignity. Her future. And no one would rally behind her. She confessed. She surrendered.

Option two: Let her stay. Let her slink through the halls under cold stares, let her walk through the factory like a ghost wrapped in silence and resentment. Because the others—they'd know. They'd feel the price. Their stomachs would ache, their children would shiver, and they'd look at her and see the reason why.

The workers would police her better than any warden ever could.

And in time, she'd beg for exile.

Either way, the rebellion choked on its own roots.

His competence did not come from bathing in blood unlike most SDC enforcers. Blood washed off. What he wanted was weight. The kind that pressed down on a throat until even thinking of resistance felt like a sin.

And so he waited. Sat in that broken chair, boot tapping softly beneath the table, watching the seconds stretch like pulled wire. No urgency. No anger. Just inevitability.

They would break themselves.

That was always cleaner.

+++

Pasiphae didn't scream.

She didn't plead or beg or collapse against the wall like some weeping heroine in a serialized drama. No, she just stood there—half-lit by the kitchen's dying bulb, her hair still tangled from sleep, the hem of her shirt twisted in her hand—and looked at Frick like the world had finally taken off its mask.

And it was his face beneath.

The air in the room had gone still, thick, like soup gone cold. No one breathed. Just her, and that breathing pile of poison in a coat and tie.

Her eyes dropped to the tags.

Three of them.

Clinked together like loose teeth.

Her stomach turned. Not from guilt. Not from shock. From the sheer predictability of it all. She had known it would come back. She'd felt it, pressing on the back of her neck even as she'd pushed the dumpster through the snow, even as she'd lied to the guards, even as she'd whispered "go" into the cold air and let them vanish.

She had made a choice. She wasn't stupid.

But she thought… maybe… just maybe they wouldn't notice.

Now Frick was sitting in her kitchen. Drinking her coffee. Offering her the privilege of choosing her own execution.

She didn't move for a long time. Her hand tightened on her shirt.

And when she spoke, her voice didn't tremble.

"You already decided, didn't you?" she said. Not to Adam. Not to her father-in-law. To Frick. "Before you even came in here."

His smile didn't flicker. "Of course."

Of course.

Her throat burned. Her body wanted to move—sprint, scream, throw something, anything—but she didn't give him that. She gave him nothing. Just her stare.

"You want me to kneel in the square," she said slowly, "so everyone else keeps their mouths shut."

"I want a story," Frick replied. "One that teaches. And you, Pasiphae, will be a very compelling lesson."

She almost laughed. It came out wrong. More like a cough—sharp, broken.

She turned to Adam.

He looked hollow. Like something inside him had shut off. Not shock. Not fear. Something worse. Resignation.

And the old man—he hadn't moved. Not once. Not even when Frick pulled out the tags. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he was pretending. Maybe he just couldn't bear to look at his son and daughter-in-law deciding which version of hell to accept.

Her hands dropped to her sides.

And then she stepped forward.

Not fast. Not defiant. Just final.

"If I do it," she said, voice level, "you leave them alone. The house. The rations. The shifts. You don't touch them again."

Frick tilted his head. "I promised that already."

"Promise it again."

He met her eyes. The smile thinned. Not cruel. Not warm. Just… mechanical.

"I promise."

She nodded. Once.

Then walked to the table. Pulled out the empty chair across from him. Sat down. Her bones felt heavy. Her heart, heavier. But she kept her spine straight.

Her eyes didn't water. Her jaw didn't shake.

"I'll do it," she said. "You want your story? Fine."

And for the first time since she stepped out of that hallway, Frick looked almost… pleased.

But not surprised.

Never surprised.

He reached into his coat again, not for dog tags, not for scrolls. Just a small paper envelope. He slid it across the table like a dinner bill.

She didn't touch it.

"What's that?" Adam asked quietly.

Frick stood. Buttoned his coat.

"Your speech," he said. "I'd like it rehearsed by morning."

Then, with the faintest trace of amusement, he tipped his head toward the window.

"Be sure to look up when the iron touches. The camera's on the roof. We want a good angle. Make your choice, I will be outside."

And then he left. 

Pasiphae didn't move. Not right away.

Just sat there, staring at the envelope.

The tags still lay on the table.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

+++

"You should have just let me die," father coughed.

The sound was raw, like gravel dragged through rusted pipes. He didn't look at us. Just pushed himself up, spine crooked from years hunched under ceilings too low and burdens too high.

Then he turned.

No more words. Just the slow shuffle of socks on cracked tile.

The bedroom door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

Like the end of a book he was too tired to keep reading. 

I turned to Pasiphae.

"Why?"

It came out quieter than I meant. My throat still burned from the silence.

She didn't flinch. Didn't look away.

"Because I didn't want you to be the same as your father," she said simply.

A flat sentence. Bare. Like a blade without a handle.

And something in me snapped.

"THAT WAS MY CHOICE!" I screamed.

I stood so fast the chair clattered back and hit the wall.

"I TOLD YOU TO LET IT HAPPEN!"

My fists clenched. Breath ragged. The scream echoed in the kitchen, bounced off metal and dust and the dying heater hum. "A FEW YEARS OF WORK WOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH! WHY! PASIPHAE, WHY?" 

Pasiphae stood her ground.

"AND LET YOU GET POISONED? LET YOU SUFFER?" she shouted back, voice shaking now, brittle and hot, as if something inside her had finally cracked wide open. "LET YOU ROT FROM THE INSIDE OUT, ONE DAY AT A TIME, UNTIL I HAD TO CARRY YOU DOWN THE STAIRS BECAUSE YOU COULDN'T BREATHE?"

Her hands were shaking.

"DO YOU THINK I WANT THAT? DO YOU THINK I CAN STAND SEEING YOU LIKE THAT?" she sobbed. 

"IT WAS MY CHOICE!" I roared, lifting my hand into a raised fist then slammed it into the table. The table cracked down the middle. One leg gave, splintering as the impact rang through the room like a hammer to bone. The scroll clattered to the floor, the dog tags jumped—clink clink clink—spun in a tight circle before collapsing on themselves in a tangled clump.

Pasiphae stepped back fast, yelping, her breath catching in her throat. 

My breaths were harsh and ragged, regret rushing up my veins as I glanced at my fist. 

She didn't move.

Just stared at me. Wet lashes. Wide eyes.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. The words wouldn't come.

Her voice was paper thin. Crumpled at the edges. Still trembling from the blast of my anger but trying—trying—to stand upright in the smoke of it.

"I thought they could help," she whispered again, like repeating it might make it true. "I just wanted to… protect you."

I stared at her.

At her arms, half-raised as if to shield herself, but not quite. At the way her weight shifted to one foot like she couldn't decide whether to run or stay.

Protect me.

The words echoed in the jagged silence.

Protect me—from Frick. From poison. From slow death under ground.

"I love you, Adam!" Pasiphae whispered.

Love—the fire that turns people into martyrs, monsters, or both.

 I turned towards her.

If she went through with this—if she stood in that square, let them burn her, shame her, cast her out—then she'd be gone. She and her family would be turned out into the frost, and I'd be without a wife.

I'd wake up every morning to silence. To empty rooms. To the faint imprint of her shape in the bed. To the smell of soap that would take months to fade.

She'd survive the iron. But not what came after.

I took in a breath. 

"You made a choice for me," I said slowly. 

Horror dawned on her eyes. "No...no!"

"I will make a choice for you now," I whispered. I turned. 

I walked. 

+++

"No! No!"

Pasiphae's voice cracked through the snow-drenched air, ragged and raw, soaked in salt and breaking on every breath.

Frick stood calmly beside the idling car, coat buttoned against the cold, arms folded like he'd been expecting this exact scene. He hadn't moved. Neither had the two guards at his flanks—rifles lowered now at his command, still and silent as statues.

Adam came down, boots thudding hard and fast against the frozen dirt. Each step carved a line into the earth. Pasiphae trailed behind, stumbling, sobbing, and halfway down she collapsed to her knees. The sound she made wasn't human—it was animal, raw grief.

Adam didn't look at her. Couldn't. If he did, he'd fall apart.

He stopped two feet from Frick, chest rising with the kind of breath you only take before a plunge.

The bull faunus was taller, shoulders broad with the weight of years, but it wasn't muscle or horns that made him imposing—it was the look in his eyes. The quiet, steady burn behind them. No fear. Just resolve.

Frick raised a brow. 

The guards shifted, one twitching a finger on the trigger—until Frick flicked two fingers and they stilled again.

Adam didn't flinch.

"I'm here to make a deal," he said.

Frick's silence was permission.

Adam stepped closer. His breath steamed between them.

"Let me take her place."

Behind him, Pasiphae let out a sound like something torn in half.

"I'll accept the brand. I'll read your speech. You can dock my pay, take everything I earn until those three names are repaid in full."

He took another step. Close enough now that their eyes met without obstruction.

"Just don't kick her out. Don't evict her family. They did nothing." 

He dipped his head. "Please." 

Frick's mind ticked through it like sliding pieces on a board.

Frick's mind ticked through it like chess—one move ahead, always calculating.

Option one: Reject the offer. Stick to the plan. Punish the original offender. Stage the public lesson. Show that even a kitchen girl can bring hell down with a smile. The crowd sees shame where it belongs. Easy.

Option two: Accept the substitution. It still delivers. Let Adam kneel, thinking he's buying mercy. Let the people watch strength crumble for love.

It might be better.

Because the husband's humiliation carried more weight. More spectacle. More message.

Tall, broad shouldered Adam Taurus, a bull faunus, branded. 

People feared strength when it broke.

No one would riot for a woman. But a man—a faunus, a bull, built like a Mistrali statue, brought to heel? That left a mark deeper than heat. That sent a message into bones.

And when people whispered in their bunks at night, it wouldn't be about some girl with soup. It would be about Adam Taurus getting on his knees.

Frick could use that.

He gestured into the car. 

Adam's fists curled. 

He walked. 

Pasiphae screamed. 

+++

"All workers, assemble at the central square. All workers, assemble at the central square."

The intercom rasped across the compound in clipped, mechanical tones—twice, then silence. No inflection. No urgency. Just inevitability.

Footsteps began almost immediately. A shuffle of boots on concrete, steel soles on gravel. Machinery quieted. Tools dropped.

The whole of Nicolasburg seemed to tilt toward the square.

At the square, they came in slow waves.

The town was still waking up. Miners just about to head in, grease still under their nails. Cooks with flour dusting their sleeves, tying aprons behind their backs. Many were still blinking away sleep, muttering. Some brought their children.

They all gathered. Hushed. Uncertain.

Like the earth itself knew something was about to bleed.

They would arrive to find a raised platform in the center. Behind it, the towering statue of Nicolas Schnee reaching forward, fingers cast in immortal ambition. Behind him, the smaller bronze figure of Jacques Schnee, younger, sterner, colder.

A makeshift platform had been erected beneath their gaze. Fast. Efficient. Steel-plated. It looked like a scaffold without a noose.

And beside it, waiting—

Frick.

Still.

Hands gloved behind his back. Long coat immaculate. Eyes scanning the crowd with all the warmth of a ledger sheet.

The foreman arrived shortly after, inside his own car, the engine still idling. He didn't exit. Just stared through the tinted window with a face carved out of stone.

The guards flanked the base. Rifle grips tight. Faces blank.

And then—

Adam Taurus.

They marched him forward in silence.

No chains.

But the weight on him was heavier than steel.

The crowd shifted. Murmured. Faces turned. Recognition flared like sparks.

That's Taurus.

What's he done?

Why him?

Why now?

He walked alone.

Every step deliberate.

Every step toward the platform like it weighed stones.

He climbed it.

Didn't look at Frick. Didn't look at the guards.

He looked at the people.

Frick stepped forward.

"Last night, the White Fang operatives who were captured escaped," he announced. His voice carried with effortless authority. "Three men died. A company vehicle was stolen."

He paused.

"This man," he continued, gesturing to Adam without turning to him, "has confessed. He has agreed to restitution."

"I was the one that broke them out," Adam said softly. "I am a traitor, and a collaborator."

A murmur rolled through the workers. Soft. Uneasy.

Pasiphae appeared at the edge of the square, shoving through bodies.

Too late.

Adam turned. Met her eyes.

Held them.

Didn't blink.

A final smile—broken, but real.

Then the guard stepped up with the iron.

The crowd saw it.

They felt it.

The brand sizzled in the cold air, red-hot, steam already rising from its edge. The mark was simple: a corporate sigil, sharp and inhuman.

Two guards approached him.

Adam did not resist, even as they tore the shirt from his back.

They pushed him to his knees.

He knelt without protest.

The iron came down.

Steam erupted.

Pasiphae screamed.

The crowd recoiled as one.

Adam bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He didn't want to cry out.

But he did.

Not loud. Not long. But it escaped him. A guttural, human sound, the kind of noise that breaks the spine of pride.

Flesh sizzled.

And something shifted.

Frick caught it—in Adam's eyes.

Not pain. Not surrender.

Something burning through the agony, buried in the light.

And for the first time in years—perhaps ever—Frick felt it stir under his ribs.

Doubt.

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A/N: I AM THE STORM THAT IS APPROACHINGGGGGG, PROVOKINGGGG, BLACK CLOUDS IN ISOLATIONNNNNN