A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 4

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The machines kept their rhythm. Beep. Beep. Hiss of oxygen. A faint flutter of digits on a screen that looked like a countdown. I stood there—arms crossed, chest tight, face set like concrete. Crying wouldn't help. Screaming wouldn't fix it. Dad wouldn't want either. He was always about control, about keeping it together. But now he sat like something deflated, hunched over, the color gone from his face, hands limp in his lap.

Pasiphae was already there beside me, her ears drawn back, breath short, golden hair brushing her shoulders. She gripped the edge of her seat like it could keep her from collapsing.

"Is he okay?" she asked, urgent. Her eyes never left Dad.

"Pasiphae, sit," I said, barely above a whisper. She hesitated, then slid into the chair beside me.

"I'm sorry I was late," she murmured. "Dinner service ran long."

The doctor didn't respond. Stethoscope still around his neck, he turned, picked up a mask from the table. The kind that always looked too clean, like it didn't belong in the same room as a dying man.

"Mister Taurus," he said, stepping closer. "I need you to breathe into this. Slowly."

Dad nodded—barely. He leaned forward, and then the coughing hit. First a crackle in his throat, then a full-body hack that made his shoulders jerk and his chest seize. The mask trembled in the doctor's hand before he lowered it. He stepped back slightly—not in fear, just instinct.

His eyes flicked. That was the only tell. Worry, buried under layers of practiced calm. He set the mask down and pulled a clipboard from the counter.

"When you breathe," the doctor said, voice even, "does it hurt?"

Dad nodded once. "A lot."

"Like pressure?"

"Yeah."

"Any other symptoms?"

"Nauseous," he muttered, quieter now.

The doctor scribbled quickly. Then he looked at Dad's hands. "Take off your gloves, please."

I frowned. "Why?"

"Please," the doctor said again, same calm tone. Dad didn't argue. He peeled them off.

We saw them. Fingers swollen at the tips, round and thickened like they'd been that way for years. Clubbing. Something you only ever saw in textbooks—until now.

"What does that mean?" Pasiphae asked, her voice tight.

The doctor didn't answer right away. "I'd like to get an X-ray," he said. "But we don't have the setup here. This is a rural clinic. He needs to be transferred—to a municipal hospital. Atlas, if you want the best care."

Dad coughed into his hand again. "That'll cost," he muttered.

"Yes," the doctor said plainly. "It will."

I stepped forward. "What does he have?"

The doctor looked up from his clipboard. "I believe it's Dust Pneumoconiosis."

My heart stopped.

Pasiphae's ears flicked. "The hell is that?"

I answered before the doctor could. "A disease common in miners. It happens when the lungs fill with dust—tiny particles that can't be cleared out. They settle deep. They stay. Over time, they scar the lungs. Make it harder to breathe. Make it hurt."

The doctor nodded grimly. "Raw dust like that? It's toxic. Slow poison. He's been breathing it for years. Eventually, it can cause cancer. Or worse."

Dad didn't speak. Just sat there, staring down at his knees.

Pasiphae clenched her fists. "What can we do?"

The doctor didn't flinch. "It could have been prevented—with better protective gear. But now…" He exhaled. "Bronchodilators can help open the airways. Physical therapy might improve function. If it gets worse, a lung transplant could be the only option."

Dad's shoulders sank even further, like something inside him had given out.

The doctor stood and set the clipboard aside. "I'll give you some time."

He stepped out. The door swung slowly behind him but didn't close.

Pasiphae and I turned to Dad. His eyes met ours.

Her ears drooped. She repeated the question softly. "What do we do?"

I looked down. "There's medicine. But it costs too much." Especially for a Faunus miner. Especially when the bastards selling it knew you had no choice. "Or a transplant, if it gets bad enough."

The three of us sat in silence.

"Dad…" I started, voice rough. "You know I've been saving. I can—"

"No," he cut in. Sharp. Final.

Pasiphae blinked. I just stared.

"What?"

"Look at where we are," he said, voice raspy. "We dig holes in the ground. We breathe dirt. We sleep under tin roofs and pray the rain doesn't come through. You think this life is meant to go on forever?"

He looked at her. "You're his wife. You're going to give him children one day."

Then back to me. "You have a future, boy. Don't throw it into a hole just to keep an old bull walking for one more year."

My throat burned. My eyes blurred.

"You're my father," I said, choking on the words. "What kind of son would I be if I let you die?"

He smiled. Small. Real. He lifted one hand and reached for my face. I moved without thinking. Pasiphae followed, kneeling beside me.

His hand was warm. Shaky.

"Adam," he said softly. "I've had forty years. I've fucked up, sure. But I've made things I'm proud of, too."

His thumb brushed my cheek.

"You… you're the best thing I ever made. You're smart. You're strong. You fight for others. That's who you are. That's who I raised."

He looked between us.

"Don't sacrifice your future. I've lived my life. Now live yours, son."

And just like that, I couldn't hold it anymore. The tears came—hot, silent, heavy. Pasiphae was crying too, gripping my hand like it was the last piece of solid ground under her.

Dad watched us, calm. Gentle.

"It's okay to cry," he said. "It means you've got a soul."

Then he looked to her again.

"Take care of him, alright?"

"I will," she said, her voice cracking. "I will."

He leaned back. His breath rattled, long and tired.

"Alright," he said. "Enough of this. Let's go home."

We walked home in silence, his weight heavy on me, every step slow and uneven. He didn't speak. Just leaned into me like he was made of stone, like holding himself up had finally become too much.

When we got in, he bathed without a word. The water ran. The floor creaked. Then he was in bed, facing the wall, already asleep or pretending to be.

I sat at the edge of mine, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight. My eyes stayed locked on the floor like it had something to tell me.

Pasiphae sat beside me. Her head leaned gently against my shoulder, warm and still.

"What do we do?" she whispered.

"His insurance should cover it," I said.

She didn't respond right away. Just shifted a little closer.

"You don't sound sure," she murmured.

"I'm not," I admitted. "Insurance doesn't like paying out. Especially when profits are tight."

Pasiphae didn't answer right away. Then, she straightened up and looked at me. "But you can still try. We can still try."

I let out a dry breath. "You think the foreman's going to spend money on an old bull?"

Pasiphae didn't flinch. "Your father is one of the senior miners in this town," she said firmly. "He's given so much to that mine. He's given years of his life for it. We have this house because of that, don't we? That has to mean something. You can at least ask."

I sat there a moment. Silent.

Then I stood.

"Let's go."

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The foreman stood still, hands on the edge of his desk, eyes fixed on the window. Outside, night was falling fast. Streetlamps flickered to life across the valley. Chimney smoke drifted into the dark like ghosts slipping from rooftops.

He didn't speak. Just watched the town breathe.

He'd been in this business for years. Long enough to remember when Old Nicholas ran things. Back then, he was the new guy—fresh out of school, broke, hungry, and desperate for a steady job in the middle of a crumbling economy. The Great War had stripped everything bare. Mining was one of the few things left that paid.

He'd fought hard for this seat. Others had more experience, more connections. Didn't matter. He outworked them. Did the jobs no one else wanted. Got his hands dirty. Grit was enough back then.

And yeah—back in his childhood, the Faunus were still in chains. He remembered that too.

Nick had tried to change things. He built something different. On the frontier, fairness wasn't an idea—it was survival. You pulled your weight, or you got left behind.

All for one. One for all.

Then Nick died. Jacques Schnee took over. Everything shifted.

He tried to hold the line at first. Tried to keep Nick's ideals alive. But ideals don't feed children. Not in Atlas. Not when your rent's bleeding you dry and your kids need medicine and school and heat in winter.

The desk creaked under his weight as he leaned forward.

"If only Nick had held on a little longer," he muttered.

A knock broke the silence.

He turned. "Come in."

The door opened. Frick stepped through, dust on his coat, gloves in one hand.

"Frick," the foreman nodded.

"We've got the White Fang operatives in the transport," Frick said, walking in. "But the forecast is not good, Foreman. If I send them out now, the snowstorm is going to clip them."

The foreman cursed under his breath. Of course.

"When the snowstorm fucks off, then. I want them gone before they start stirring up more shit."

Frick nodded. He turned to the side. "You got booze?"

"There's whiskey in the cupboard," the foreman muttered.

Frick moved for it, casual, like he'd done it before. Poured two fingers without asking. The glass caught the room's light like amber.

The foreman watched. "Why are you in this job, Frick?"

Frick raised the glass halfway to his lips. Paused. "Why?"

"Yeah," the foreman said. "We all came from somewhere. No kid dreams of being an enforcer."

Frick gave a short breath through his nose—almost a laugh. He leaned against the cabinet, the glass resting in his hand.

"Employment," he said simply. "You remember the end of the Great War?"

The foreman snorted. "Who wouldn't?"

Frick nodded. "Well. I wasn't supposed to be here. Graduated with a management degree. Thought I'd be sitting behind a desk. Making plans. Hiring teams. Building something."

"But you didn't."

"Nope."

He took a drink, eyes not on the foreman, but somewhere past the wall.

"Jobs were gone. Markets collapsed. Debt ate everyone's future. I saw a recruiter on the corner offering high-risk security work. Good pay. Immediate start. No questions asked." He looked at the glass. "So I took it."

He took a long drink, the whiskey burning all the way down. He didn't flinch—just exhaled, slow and heavy, like that heat in his throat was the only thing keeping him awake.

"I don't regret taking this job," Frick said. "Not when my family needs the money. Kids are in Atlas Academy. Wife's in retail. If she doesn't keep up with the latest fashion, the other women in her office tear her apart like vultures."

The foreman looked over. "You ever take things too far?" he asked, voice low.

Frick didn't answer right away.

His eyes said enough.

The foreman muttered, "Shit."

"Shit indeed," Frick laughed, bitter and tired. "But what can you do? I can quit. Walk out. Keep my conscience clean. But then what? My family starves? I get to feel righteous while watching them freeze?"

The foreman didn't reply. He just lifted his glass and drank deep.

For a while, there was silence. No words. Just the two of them and the whiskey, the clink of glass, the wind tapping at the windows.

Then it was gone.

A shout echoed from down the hall.

Both men snapped to attention.

More shouting. Boots on the floor. Urgency in every sound.

"What the hell's going on?" the foreman barked, already halfway up.

The door burst open.

His secretary—short, flustered—was struggling to hold back a broad-shouldered miner still in his work clothes. A Faunus girl trailed behind him, her eyes wide, her ears pinned back. The man's face was all desperation.

"Foreman!" he gasped, storming into the office. "Please, Foreman—"

"Brothers above," the foreman muttered, rising fully now. "Alicia, what is this?"

"He insisted on seeing you, sir," she said quickly. "I tried to stop hi—"

"He's already here," the foreman cut her off, waving her down. "Thank you, Alicia. That'll do."

Frick leaned back in his chair, watching with interest as the miner stepped forward, breathing hard. The girl stayed close at his side.

"Sir, my name is A—"

"Adam Taurus," the foreman said before he could finish. "I know who you are, son. What is it?"

Frick raised a brow. So the foreman really did know his workers by name. The boy blinked, visibly caught off guard.

"Then you must know my father. Ercole Taurus," Adam said.

"Of course I do," the foreman nodded. "One of our longest-serving men. Tough old bastard. How's he doing?"

Adam looked him dead in the eye.

"He's sick," he said. "And he needs your help."

The Faunus girl stepped in—Pasiphae, he remembered. "He's got Dust Lung, sir."

The room went still.

The foreman's face darkened. "Dust Lung," he repeated slowly.

Adam nodded. "We can't afford the treatment. We are insured, per our contract. We need your help, sir."

The foreman felt his world come apart.

Frick silently took another drink.

The two Faunus looked at him expectantly.

"I'm afraid... I cannot, son."

"What?" Pasiphae blinked.

He took a breath.

He was not going to lie to his workers.

"You know that the company is seeking to increase profits," he said simply. "If I push this forward, and the expense is flagged, that profit margin will take a hit."

"But you must. It's in our contract!" Adam argued.

"I must, yes," the foreman agreed. "But I will not risk my job for this. Corporate will tan my hide."

"This is a hard time. You're not the only Faunus feeling it, son. What happens when I approve your request… and the others come in asking why their families are still starving? Why their requests were denied? What do I say to them?"

He looked back up, dead on.

"I can't make you an exception. Not now."

Silence.

Even the wind outside seemed to pause.

He shook his head slowly. "I want to help. I'd be happy to help. But not now. After Q3—when the quarterly review's done, when corporate stops breathing down my neck—I'll see what I can do."

He sighed. "I'm sorry."

Pasiphae stepped forward like something broke inside her.

"No," she snapped, voice shaking. "No, you're not."

The foreman looked up, startled—but she wasn't done.

"You're not sorry. You're just afraid. Afraid of losing your nice desk. Afraid of someone higher up seeing you make a human decision instead of a profitable one." Her hands were clenched, ears pinned back. "You knew his name. You said it like it meant something. Like he mattered. And now you're just going to let him die?"

"Girl—" Frick started, rising halfway out of his chair.

"Don't," she snapped, spinning toward him. "Don't you dare."

Frick eyes narrowed. Pasiphae did not care.

The foreman leaned forward, calm but wary. "Pasiphae—"

"No," she cut him off. "Don't soften my name like I'm being unreasonable. He can't breathe. Every breath sounds like he's drowning in gravel, and you're sitting here drinking whiskey while his lungs rot!"

Her voice cracked—but she didn't stop.

"You said our names like we mattered to you. But the second it becomes real—when one of them actually needs you—you hide behind profit margins and quarterly reviews."

Adam placed a hand on her shoulder. She didn't shrug it off—but her eyes didn't leave the foreman.

"I watched Ercole and others like him descend into the earth! I watched them give everything to this mine. And this is what he gets?"

The room was dead silent.

Even the wind outside had nothing left to say.

Pasiphae's voice dropped, low and bitter. "You're a fucking coward."

She turned, pulling Adam with her.

But before they reached the door, she stopped.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. "When he dies…I want you to remember this moment. I want you to remember exactly how much your seat cost."

The door clicked shut behind them. The sound lingered longer than it should have.

"And just like that," Frick said, pouring the last of the whiskey into his glass, "we've made ourselves an enemy."

The foreman didn't respond at first. Just sat there, breathing slow, jaw tight.

"Keep an eye on them," he said eventually. "If anyone's going to do something reckless, it'll be those two."

"No shit, Foreman," Frick muttered, taking a drink. He glanced sideways. "How are you holding up?"

The foreman looked at him, expression flat. "Do you really have to ask?"

Frick shrugged. "Figured I'd pretend to care."

He ignored that. "The girl can yell all she wants. I'm not risking my seat. I won't pick someone else's life over my own family's."

He leaned back, the chair creaking under him. "Let them hate me. I'll sleep just fine knowing my kids aren't starving."

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"Can you believe that?" Pasiphae snapped, her voice slicing through the cold night like glass. "Talking like he was with us. Like he gave a damn. Whose side is he even on?"

No answer. Just the crunch of their boots over gravel and frost. Streetlamps flickered overhead, humming low like tired machines. The air felt thick, bitter—like even the wind had given up speaking.

Adam said nothing.

Pasiphae glanced at him. His eyes were forward, but unfocused. A walking shadow.

Then, flatly, like a verdict: "I'm going to take double shifts."

She stopped. "Adam?"

He kept walking.

"Whatever it takes," he muttered. "He's going to get his medicine. I'll cover his hours. I'll cover everything."

"No."

He slowed. Finally turned. "No?"

She stepped in front of him, hand on his arm. Her voice trembled, but her eyes didn't. "And what then? Let you grind yourself into the same grave? You think I'm going to stand there and watch while you cough yourself dead?"

He stared at her. His face was empty, calm—but it was the kind of calm that comes after something breaks.

"They'll fill his shifts either way," he said. "Might as well be me. Double the work. Double the pay."

Pasiphae's hand dropped from his sleeve. She wanted to scream. To pull him back. To make the world stop spinning for one goddamn second. But there was nothing left to say. Nothing the foreman hadn't already said with his silence.

"Let's go home," she whispered.

Adam turned without a word and walked ahead.

Only the wind answered.

She followed.

Their house felt like a tomb. Too quiet. Too clean. The kind of silence that hung heavy in the walls, like the whole place was waiting for something to fall apart.

Adam didn't eat. Didn't speak. Just changed, laid down, and shut his eyes like he was already halfway gone. She stood in the hall and listened to his breathing from the next room.

Then he was asleep.

And she was alone.

Pasiphae sat on the floor in the dark. She bit her lip until it bled, fists tight against her chest. Then she looked up. Her knees hit the floor.

In the faith of Remnant, there were the Brother Gods. The God of Light—the radiant, the judge, the champion of order.

And the other.

The one they were told to fear.

But Pasiphae remembered the old words. Not the sermons, not the sanitized common Doctrine—but the truth whispered by the forgotten, passed down in scared rooms and back alleys.

The God of Darkness. He who does not look away from the desperate. He who hears when Light turns blind.

"I don't know if you can hear me," she whispered. "Or if you are even there."

She bowed her head, her voice cracking.

"God of Darkness," she choked, "help us."

Her fingers dug into her palms, knuckles white.

"The Light turns its face away from the broken. The weak. The ones who dig the holes that hold this world together."

Her voice became a growl.

"The Light doesn't listen when you scream for justice. When you ask why good men have to beg for breath."

She raised her tear-streaked face to the ceiling.

"God of Darkness…save us."

The wind outside howled like something alive, thrashing against the walls.

She froze.

Another gust—sharper this time—slammed against the window. Something struck the glass with a dull slap.

She jumped. Heart pounding. Stood slowly, barefoot on the cold floor, and approached.

A slip of paper clung to the pane, fluttering weakly in the wind.

Pasiphae opened the window just enough to pull it free.

It was worn. Weather-beaten. Creased from the journey.

She unfolded it with trembling fingers.

A single symbol stared back at her.

A white wolf's head.

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A/N: It begins, again.

Any history fans in here will see where this is going.