A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 2

+++

"So, you are married."

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with expectation.

Pasiphae sat rigid beside me, her fingers tangled with mine, her knuckles white. Under the scrutinizing gazes of her parents, she had the decency to look bashful. I, on the other hand, stayed still, my grip firm. I had no regrets. I wouldn't let her carry this moment alone.

Her father, Caestus Sol, cut the perfect image of disapproval—broad-shouldered, his Doberman ears stiff, his dark eyes set in a scowl that could bend steel. Beside him, however, Atlanta Sol was practically glowing, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, her retriever tail wagging despite her best efforts to appear composed.

My own father had fetched them first thing in the morning, dropped the news like a bomb, and now here we were.

I exhaled. Might as well own it.

"No ring yet," I admitted, leveling my gaze at Caestus. "But one day. We love each other, sir. Might as well make it official."

Atlanta stifled a giggle, nudging her husband. "Oh, come on, Caestus. Wipe that look off your face—it's not fooling anyone."

"Atlanta," he groaned, rubbing his temples. "This is our daughter we're talking about!" His glare flicked back to me. "What kind of future does she have with you? You live in a work camp, boy. A mine."

"For now," I answered, steady. "She'll have better room and board if she moves in with us. And for the future? I'm saving up. We're leaving. We'll be in Mistral soon enough."

Caestus's ears twitched. "Mistral?" His disbelief carried weight. "We left Mistral for a reason. The countryside is crawling with bandits. The cities? Controlled by cutthroats and criminals. I will not see my daughter thrown into that—"

"His aunt lives in the South," my father finally spoke, voice even. He had been quiet until now, letting me hold my own, but his words came with an undeniable certainty. "Not perfect. But she owns land. A farm. A proper house."

Caestus fell silent.

Atlanta's tail wagged even harder.

Caestus grunted, crossing his arms, his tail giving a sharp flick. He was listening now.

"She owns land? Now that's even better!" Atlanta beamed, her ears perking up, tail wagging faster.

"How much land are we talking about?" Caestus asked, his tone less biting, more measured.

"Big," my father, Ercole, answered. "Enough for four fields, a barn, and a home."

Caestus blinked. That caught him off guard.

"She got all this herself?"

"No," Ercole replied plainly. "It was her husband's. Then he died and bequeathed it to her. No children."

The weight of that settled over the room. Caestus nodded slowly, considering. He wasn't an unreasonable man, just a father who wanted to know his daughter wasn't leaping into a pit. And I couldn't blame him for that.

"So she's running it alone?" he finally asked.

"She has a few farmhands," Ercole shrugged. "Could use more."

Caestus exhaled, drumming his fingers against the wooden table between us. His disapproval hadn't entirely disappeared, but I could see it shifting, warping into something else. Consideration.

"You're really set on this?" he asked, looking not at me, but at Pasiphae.

She straightened, squeezing my hand even tighter. "Yes, Father. I love him."

Her voice was steady, unwavering.

Atlanta sighed dreamily. "Oh, young love!"

Caestus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Woman, you're not helping."

"I'm just saying!" she giggled, tail still wagging. "They're clearly serious. And Adam is a hard worker. We know that. The boy's built like a damn plow ox."

I arched a brow. "That a compliment?"

"Oh, definitely," Atlanta winked.

Caestus let out a long breath through his nose, glancing between me and Pasiphae. A long pause stretched between us before he finally grumbled, "You'll write us. Often."

Pasiphae practically lit up, her grip on my hand like a vice. Ow. "Of course!"

"And if anything goes wrong—anything at all—you come back."

"I will," she promised.

He turned his gaze on me, hard as iron. "And you?"

I met his stare without flinching. "I'll keep her safe."

Another silence. Then—

"Hrrmph," Caestus grumbled, standing. "Guess that's that, then."

Atlanta clapped her hands together, her tail a golden blur. "Oh, we should have a feast! A proper celebration!"

"Atlanta—"

"Oh, hush, we are celebrating, and that's final!" she beamed. "Oh, how about that ham at the general store? We could use something like that, eh?"

Caestus sighed heavily, rubbing his face. "Brothers help me."

I leaned back, exhaling slow. The tension in my chest eased, just a little.

Pasiphae beamed at me, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

The negotiation had been quick—mostly because our shifts loomed, and time wasn't on our side. Still, if we were going to celebrate, it had to be with something special. Something worth sharing at break.

Celebrations and all that.

With money pooled together—from the Sols and my father—we made our way to the general store, the promise of real meat lighting a fire in our steps.

But as we rounded the corner, the store door creaked open. A man stepped out, clutching a brown paper-wrapped parcel tight against his side. The unmistakable shape of a ham. The man was was tall, middle-aged, and with a thin moustache. He wore a white thick overcoat with gold buttons, the Schnee snowflake armband around his arm. 

Behind him, Barto, the shopkeeper, stood beaming. "Please, do enjoy the ham. Straight import from the city! Finest cut you'll find in town."

The man grunted, giving a slight nod as he walked off.

Barto's smile lingered—until his eyes landed on us. His expression tightened, the way a man's does when he knows trouble is about to walk in and make itself at home. 

"May I help you?" His voice was careful. Too careful.

Atlanta's golden brows furrowed, her tail slowing behind her. "The ham…"

Barto sighed. "Full purchase. The customer bought it outright."

Silence. Heavy, uncomfortable silence.

"It's okay. I'm sure we'll think of something," Pasipae said quickly, gripping my arm. Her eyes lit up. "What about meatloaf?"

I glanced at the shop window. There were still other cuts of meat inside. Not great, but with some good cooking, they'd do.

"Meatloaf!" Atlanta's face brightened, her tail wagging again. "And pies! Cakes! We could make a proper spread. Good thinking, Pasipae!"

"Ahem," Barto cleared his throat, his smile tight. "I assume you have the lien for the items you want?"

My eye twitched. "Yes. Yes, we do," I said, my tone sharper than I intended.

Barto raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just making sure. Prices here aren't for show, after all."

He retreated back into his shop, Pasipae and her family trailing after him. My father, however, couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the man who'd bought the ham, his outline shrinking as he disappeared into the distance.

"What are you staring at?" I asked, curious.

"You don't know who that was?" he muttered, his tone unusually low.

I shook my head.

"That was Blair Frick," he said, almost under his breath.

I raised an eyebrow. "And?"

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if weighing his words. Then he shook his head. "Never mind. Doesn't matter. Today's a special day. Focus on that, you lucky man, you."

Before I could press him further, the shop doors swung open. Pasiphae emerged, her arms laden with thick brown bags. She beamed, her smile as radiant as the sun.

Father elbowed me slightly.

+++

"Look at them," the foreman muttered.

His office was a stark contrast to the poverty outside. Ornate. Polished wood furniture, a chandelier that sparkled even in the dim light, and thick rugs that muffled every step. It was a room of opulence, almost mocking the workers below.

Frick barely took two steps inside before the foreman began talking, his back to the room, gazing out of the wide window. Frick said nothing, placing the brown paper-wrapped ham gently on the desk. The foreman turned, his eyes catching on the package. Approval flickered across his face.

It was always best to start a relationship on the right note.

"As I was saying," the foreman rumbled, gesturing toward the window. "Look at them, Frick. Look at those... animals."

"Your employees," Frick corrected, taking a seat across from the foreman's desk.

"Employees? Is that what you call them?" The foreman raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with disdain. "I am good to them. Kind, even. And do they thank me? No. Why, just yesterday, I gave them an inspiring speech—a great speech—and they didn't even clap!"

Frick clicked his tongue, leaning back in the chair. "You called me here because your workers didn't cheer for you?"

The foreman's expression tightened. "No, it's more than that," he said, his voice lowering. "They're here, Frick. Among the miners. Spreading discontent."

Frick's gaze didn't waver. He already knew who the foreman meant.

The White Fang.

Troublemakers. Agitators. Rabble-rousers.

"Do you have proof?" Frick asked, his tone measured.

The foreman strode to a filing cabinet, yanked open a drawer, and slammed something onto the desk. Frick leaned forward, his sharp eyes settling on the brightly colored flyer bearing a wolf's head.

"These," the foreman growled, "were found in the trash. Seditious material."

Frick hummed, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the desk. "Found in the trash, you said?"

The foreman nodded eagerly.

"Crumpled?" Frick asked.

Another nod.

"Then doesn't that tell you something?" Frick leaned back, folding his arms. "If they're tossing White Fang flyers into the trash, it sounds like your workers aren't as interested in rebellion as you think. My job is to act if there's real trouble brewing, not to stir up a hornet's nest for no reason."

The foreman's face darkened, his tone dropping to a near-growl. "Frick, should I remind you that Q3 is coming? I want this month to be good. No, not good—great. I can't have those animals disrupting my mine, not now."

Frick's expression didn't change. "Then don't give them a reason to."

The foreman stared at him, but Frick didn't flinch. Silence stretched between them, heavy and tense.

"Look," the foreman sighed, running a hand down his face. "You don't understand, Frick. Every man upstairs got the same memo: Q3 has to blow Q2 out of the water. And we barely scraped by last quarter." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Now, tell me—what do you think happens if we fail this time?"

Frick could imagine. The foreman replaced. Maybe worse.

The foreman didn't wait for an answer. He gestured sharply toward the window, where the workers outside moved like shadows across the dusty yard. "I can't afford to take chances. I can't just trust that my workers will carry on with their lives without a care. Look at them! Look at how they live!" His voice cracked slightly—whether from desperation or frustration, Frick couldn't tell.

"They're barely getting by," the foreman continued, pacing now. "And you think the White Fang doesn't know that? You think they don't know exactly what corporate expects of me? They see everything, Frick. They know the pressure I'm under, and they'll exploit it."

"And what exactly do you want me to do?" Frick asked, his voice calm, measured.

The foreman rolled his eyes, throwing up his hands. "Your job, Frick! What else? Find the White Fang operatives in this mine and root them out. Crush them, expose them—I don't care how you do it. Just protect my workers from their poison."

Frick took in a slow, steady breath, his gaze never leaving the foreman. "Protect your workers," he repeated, as if testing the words. "That's an interesting choice of phrase, considering how you talk about them."

The foreman's face hardened. "Don't twist my words, Frick. I'm trying to keep this mine running. These people don't understand what's at stake—I do. If this mine shuts down, the whole town collapses. I'm the one holding it all together, not them." He jabbed a finger toward the window. "And certainly not the White Fang."

He sneered like a man too used to the sound of his own voice. "They act like the SDC's some blood-sucking monster. But we're the biggest employer of Faunus in all of Remnant. What corporation do they have, eh? None. Just rabble with picket signs and no clue how the world works."

Frick didn't flinch. He didn't rise to it. Just sighed, a slow drag through his nose as he stared past the foreman's office window and into the haze-covered hills where dust hung thick in the air like poison. To think he left Vale for this.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll see what I can do."

"Do whatever," the foreman said with a lazy shrug, slumping into his chair like gravity hated him. "What do you need?"

Frick's hands settled on his hips, eyes sharp behind tinted lenses. "Finding a spy isn't the hard part. Rats leave trails, even when they try not to. The question is: how tight's your ship?"

The foreman squinted. "Tight enough."

Frick didn't bother hiding his smirk. "Do you have evacuation protocols? Grimm attack drills? Muster points? Any way to get the whole damn workforce in one place fast?"

The man frowned, leaning back until his chair creaked. "Shelters, yeah. Scattered around the mining zone. They're used to it. Happens every few months. Grimm sniffing the edge of the camp."

Frick nodded. "Good. You've got a database of your workers?"

"Yeah."

"Then you've got your answer. Call an exercise. Standard drill. Evacuation to the shelters. Once everyone's gathered, I'll be able to spot who doesn't belong. Who's too nervous. Who's dressed wrong. Who looks for an exit before you say anything."

The foreman scratched his jaw. "Won't they catch on?"

"If they're that sharp, they've already figured out we're coming," Frick said flatly. "This isn't for them. This is for everyone else. A panic shows you the cracks. We look into whoever doesn't act right. Whoever doesn't match the logs. Names, faces. I'll do the rest."

A long pause followed.

Then the foreman grunted, pushing himself to his feet. "Alright. Let me get the radios fired up."

Frick nodded. But he didn't move.

He was already thinking ahead. The list. The layout. The terrain. How spies moved. What they looked like when they tried not to look like anything at all.

Rats always leave droppings. Always.

Time to flush one out.

+++

The shift ended, and it ended well.

No collapses. No crushed ribs under faulty supports. No one screaming for a medic who wouldn't come. Just the usual bone-deep exhaustion and a fine coat of dust in every pore. But spirits were high—we'd struck a good vein, and no one died. That was cause enough.

The tunnels spat us out into the twilight, the air cool and dry, our boots dragging through the gravel as camp lights flickered on one by one. And then—something different. Not the choking haze of burned oil or the acrid reek of explosives.

A smell.

Rich. Savory. Warm.

A bell rang out through the barracks—sharp and clean.

"Meatloaf, everyone!" Pasiphae's voice rang through the air like a spark. "Meatloaf, mac and cheese, and garlic bread!"

Every head turned. Jaws dropped. A few miners exchanged looks as if they'd heard a ghost.

"Bullshit," one muttered.

"Swear on my horns," another replied.

We moved like a tide, picking up speed, shuffling toward the mess with renewed life in our bones. The long table outside had been dressed with mismatched plates and dented tin cups, but it might as well have been a noble's banquet.

Pasiphae stood over a steel tray like some goddess of hunger and hope, serving ladle in one hand, her apron smeared with red sauce. Her golden hair was tied back, her retriever ears twitching in delight. She was glowing.

"Whoa," someone muttered.

"Everyone!" Atlanta Sol announced, drawing attention her way. "It is with great pleasure that I announce my daughter, Pasiphae, and Ercole's boy, Adam, are now officially married! No ring yet, but—what can you do?"

Laughter rippled through the crowd. And cheers. 

"Please, enjoy the food we've prepared. It ain't much, but it's delicious!" Atlanta cackled, urging me to come first.

Pasiphae giggled as I approached

"I love you," I muttered, holding out my my plate. 

"You better," she grinned, scooping a heavy slab of food onto my plate.

Wife material. I swear on everything holy.

Shit, she is my wife.

The mac and cheese was gooey and rich. The bread crisped at the edges. The meatloaf bled gravy into every bite.

Someone brought out a radio. It was old, beaten, but it still worked. 

"Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears

While we all sup sorrow with the poor
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh, hard times come again no more!" 

As the music swelled and settled, people began to dance. Nothing wild or extravagant—just a gentle, folksy rhythm, the kind that drew smiles and swaying bodies. It wasn't about showing off; it was about enjoying the moment, together. I let out a long, contented sigh, satisfaction coursing through me like a warm tide.

A presence stirred beside me. Before I could turn, soft lips brushed against my cheek, igniting a flush that bloomed across my face.

I burned red.

"Full?" Pasiphae's voice was light, teasing, her giggle like the chime of silver bells.

"Mhm," I managed, nodding, my face still hot.

She laughed again, a sound that seemed to weave itself into the music, and turned her attention to her plate, digging into her food with easy delight. We laughed together, watching as more people joined in—dancing, laughing, smiling. The air felt light, alive, like nothing in the world could touch this moment.

Then the alarm came.

A sharp, wailing cry cut through the music, slicing the warmth like a blade. The dancers froze mid-step, smiles faltering, faces turning toward the sound. For a heartbeat, there was only silence, save for the piercing wail of the alarm.

"Grimm," someone muttered under their breath, and the word rippled through the crowd like a cold wind.

The miners moved quickly and calmly, shifting from celebration to action as though they'd done it a hundred times before. To panic would only agitate the Grimm some more, attracted as they were to negative emotions. Parents gathered their children, workers helped each other to their feet, and the crowd began to disperse, heading for the shelters. There was no panic, no screaming—just hurried, purposeful movement.

Pasiphae stood, her plate forgotten, her expression tightening. "Come on," she said, her voice steady but low.

I nodded, the warmth of moments ago now replaced with a cold weight in my chest. I held out to clasp my hands with my wife and together, we fell in with the others, the music fading into nothing as the alarm continued to echo through the camp.

+++

Frick stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the miners as they slowly filtered into the shelters. The alarm still wailed, its shrill cry blending with the hurried shuffle of boots and the occasional murmur of voices.

He and the men now under his command moved purposefully, their gazes sweeping the clusters of people. They weren't just guarding against the Grimm—they were watching for strange faces. Faces that didn't belong. Faces that weren't on the lists.

Frick's boots crunched against the floor as he waded through the shivering groups. The cold fear in their eyes was palpable, their movements quick and uncertain as they pressed closer together. Most avoided his gaze, but he caught the occasional glance—furtive, darting, and filled with unease.

Then he saw them.

A pair of figures huddled near the back of one group. Their postures were too stiff, too deliberate, as if trying too hard to blend in.

He glanced over to one of the guards who looked down into his scroll. The guard shook his head. 

Frick advanced, his boots echoing loudly now, each step drawing the eyes of the room toward him. The two figures stiffened, their attempts to remain inconspicuous crumbling under his approach. They flinched as his shadow loomed over them.

"You," Frick barked, his voice cutting through the low hum of the crowd like a blade. "Step forward. Now."

The taller of the two hesitated, glancing at the other. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but Frick caught it. A silent exchange. A decision.

"I said move!" Frick's voice boomed, and the crowd recoiled around them, creating a circle of empty space. He could feel the weight of every eye in the room on him—and on them.

The taller figure finally stepped forward, pulling their hood down just enough to reveal a pale, thin face. "We're just miners," they said, their voice trembling. Too much. It was too deliberate, too rehearsed.

Frick's eyes bore into theirs, unrelenting. "Funny," he said coldly, his voice dropping into a low growl, "because you're not on the list."

The shorter figure shifted behind the taller one, their hands fidgeting nervously. Frick's hand moved to the weapon at his hip, the threat clear.

"Don't make this harder for them," Frick said, his voice calm but heavy with authority. He gestured toward the terrified miners, their eyes darting between him and the two figures. "Look at them. They're scared enough already. Think. Don't add to their suffering by doing something stupid."

The taller figure winced at the pressure on their wrist but didn't fight back. Their partner, the shorter one, glanced at the crowd, then at Frick, and finally at their companion. Slowly, they raised their hands above their head, their fingers splayed, palms outward.

"We surrender," the shorter one said, their voice shaky but loud enough to carry through the room. They stepped forward cautiously, their movements deliberate, as if afraid Frick's men would pounce at the slightest provocation. "Just… don't hurt anyone else."

The guards moved quickly, weapons raised as they surrounded the operatives. The taller figure didn't resist, their shoulders slumped in defeat. The shorter one, however, straightened as they were hauled to their feet, their eyes blazing with defiance.

"You think you've won," the shorter figure said, their voice ringing out clear and strong, cutting through the uneasy silence. They looked directly at Frick, ignoring the guards gripping their arms. "You think dragging us away solves anything? It doesn't. You can't stop what's coming!"

Frick raised an eyebrow. 

The shorter faunus turned to her fellow faunus. "Look at you! You're shivering in the cold! In the dark! Is this what you really want for yourselves!?" 

The crowd shifted uneasily, some looking away, others staring at the operatives with a mixture of fear and something else—something harder to define. Frick's jaw tightened, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were locked on the shorter figure.

"That's enough," he said finally, his voice cutting through the tension with the weight of a hammer. He nodded to the guards. "Get them out of here."

The shorter figure didn't resist as they were dragged toward the exit, but they didn't stop either. They craned their neck to look back at the crowd one last time, their voice echoing through the room as they shouted:

"Remember this! Remember where you are! You deserve better! You were not born for this!"

The alarm's wail filled the silence that followed, the operatives disappearing through the doors as the guards led them away. Frick stood motionless, his thoughts a storm behind his cold, steady gaze. Around him, the miners whispered uneasily, their fear now mingled with uncertainty.

It was time to put their fears to rest.

Frick stepped forward, his voice steady and commanding as he addressed the uneasy crowd. "Thank you for your cooperation during this exercise," he began, brushing a bit of dust from his overcoat with practiced nonchalance. His sharp gaze swept over the miners, lingering just long enough to remind them who was in charge.

"We had reason to believe White Fang operatives had infiltrated the ranks," he continued, his tone firm yet measured. "These are people who bring nothing but pain and chaos wherever they go. Their goals, their methods—none of it serves you or your families. All they offer is destruction."

He paused for effect, letting his words sink in as the crowd shifted uneasily, their earlier fear now mingling with relief.

"Fortunately, the situation has been resolved." Frick straightened, his voice taking on a reassuring edge. "You're safe. Return to your shifts, to your celebrations. On the foreman's word, there will be no repeat of this."

His eyes lingered on the crowd for a moment longer, as if daring anyone to voice dissent. When no one did, he gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel, his boots echoing against the floor as he walked away.

+++

"I can't believe this!"

Pasiphae's voice cut through the room, sharp and full of heat. She paced in tight circles, tail flicking, ears low, hands flexing like she wanted to break something but couldn't decide what.

I sat on the edge of the bed, still in my boots, hands braced against my knees. I let her burn. Sometimes, she just needed to get it out.

"They didn't even wait for the plates to be empty," she seethed. "Didn't even let us finish before they started rounding people up. Do you have any idea how hard I worked on that meatloaf? The mac and cheese? We paid for that, Adam! Out of our pockets! I even got real butter for the bread—real butter! Do you know how hard that is to find out here?"

I exhaled, rubbing a hand over my face. "At least it's done now," I muttered. "The White Fang's out. That's what they wanted, right?"

She let out a sharp breath, half scoff, half bitter laugh. Then she dropped onto the bed beside me, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. "Shit."

Silence settled between us, thick and heavy. Just the sound of our breathing, the low murmur of voices outside, the distant clang of metal.

Then—softer now—"I'm sorry, Adam. We were having a good time. It felt normal. And then they stormed in, tore it all up, and now we come back to cold food and..." She sighed, shaking her head. "Urgh."

I reached out, brushed my fingers against hers. Just barely. She didn't pull away. I turned my hand over, palm up, waiting.

She laced her fingers through mine.

"I hate it here," she murmured.

"Me too," I admitted. "Me too. Spent eighteen years in this damn place."

She tilted her head up at me, eyes searching. "How haven't you gone insane?"

I smirked, tapping a finger to her nose. "Because you walked into my life."

She blinked, then let out a soft, breathy laugh. "You're such a dork."

"Yeah, but I'm your dork."

She sighed dramatically, leaning into me, her head resting against my shoulder. "Unfortunately."

I chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. She still smelled like the kitchen, like spices and something warm. Home.

"I love you," she whispered.

I tightened my grip on her hand. "I love you too."

She hesitated, voice quieter now. "Can we... get out soon?"

I glanced toward the hidden corner of the room. "I've got enough to get us out. Passage south. Just need to settle some dues first. Send a letter to my aunt."

She squeezed my hand. "Hopefully it reaches her in time," she whispered. "I can't wait for tomorrow."

I turned to face her fully, free hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Tomorrow," I promised.

She looked at me, then smiled—small, but real. Then she shifted, pushing me down onto the mattress, climbing over me until she could rest her head against my chest.

Her arms wrapped around my torso.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, my own arms coming around her. Warm. Safe. Ours.

​And just like that, the pain of today faded away.

+++

The foreman let out a long, weary sigh, dragging a hand through his thinning hair. The corners of his mouth twitched into a tired smile. "What a day," he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. He straightened his posture, brushing the dust from his jacket, and forced a more confident tone. "Well, it's over now," he said with a faint, beaming grin.

The thought brought a flicker of satisfaction. No more White Fang to threaten his operation. The miners had been reminded—loud and clear—what happens when you step out of line. Order was restored. Work would continue tomorrow, uninterrupted. Profits intact.

A rare moment of triumph, he thought. He was going to celebrate it properly tonight. Sitting in his office, a glass of wine in hand—Château de Vale, a Valean classic, aged to perfection. He could almost taste it already, its rich flavor washing away the stress of the day.

He'd just begun to savor the idea when his scroll buzzed. He groaned, pulling the scroll from his pocket with the reluctant annoyance of a man who had earned, but been denied, his rest.

"Probably some numbers to sign off on," he mumbled, his thumb swiping lazily across the screen.

The color drained from his face, his hand trembling ever so slightly as his eyes locked onto the screen. The smile he'd worn seconds ago faded completely, replaced by a growing look of dread. His breath hitched, and the scroll felt heavier in his grip, as if the weight of its message were dragging him down.

"No," he whispered, so faint it was almost inaudible. Then again, louder this time, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. "No...no...no!" 

+++

CC: To All Foremen of the Schnee Dust Company

Dear Esteemed Foremen,

The Schnee Dust Company is committed to ensuring the long-term stability and profitability of our operations. With this in mind, we are writing to inform you of a strategic adjustment being implemented across our workforce.

Effective immediately, the company will be instituting a temporary reduction in baseline labor wages. This decision has been made after an extensive review of our financial performance for the second quarter, which unfortunately fell short of our projected targets. We emphasize that this measure was taken only after careful consideration of all available options and is designed to mitigate costs while avoiding large-scale layoffs.

We understand that this adjustment may cause concern among our workforce, but we are confident in your ability as foremen to communicate the necessity of this decision in a clear and constructive manner. Please remind employees that this is a temporary measure and one that reflects our commitment to preserving as many jobs as possible during this challenging period.

We trust you will handle this announcement with professionalism and ensure that employees remain focused on their duties, as operational continuity remains a top priority.

Thank you for your cooperation and understanding as we navigate these circumstances together.

Sincerely,

Schnee Dust Company Headquarters.

+++

"We're fucked. We're so fucked," the foreman muttered, pacing the office like a rat in a box. His boots thumped a jittery rhythm against the floor.

Frick sat there calm, sprawled out in the armchair like a man watching fireworks from a bunker. Smoke curled from the end of his cigar, lazy and thick, as he tracked the foreman's frantic circuits with half-lidded eyes. The man was going fast enough to carve a groove into the tile.

Frick had only come by to say goodbye, maybe shake a few hands. But the secretary caught him at the door and told him to wait. Now he knew why.

So no, the panic didn't surprise him. The timing, maybe.

"They're gonna hate it," the foreman whispered, like it was some deep revelation. "I hate it."

"I just heard you call them animals not two days ago," Frick said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "Why so concerned now?"

The foreman turned on him, eyes wide like he couldn't believe the stupidity.

"Because, Frick—" his voice cracked like a whip, "there's only so much you can beat a dog before it bites back!"

He flinched as soon as he raised his voice. Frick didn't move. Just stared. The cigar drooped between his fingers as he stood—slowly. Measured. Each step toward the foreman echoed like a countdown. The air felt tight, like something was about to snap.

Frick leaned in close, patting the man's cheek with something that wasn't quite affection. "You worry too much," he murmured, fingers brushing the foreman's collar, straightening his tie like he was prepping a corpse for a wake. Then he turned, sauntered back to his seat.

"O-of course I worry," the foreman stammered. "We cut into their break yesterday. That celebration they threw? We bulldozed it. What the hell do you think they'll do when we announce this?"

Frick didn't blink. "So don't. Wait a few days. Let it cool."

"That's like asking if I want the bullet now or after lunch." The foreman exhaled hard. "It has to be now."

Frick scoffed, tapping ash into the tray. "Funny. Just yesterday we caught those two White Fang operatives. This will just recruit more people."

"Get them out," the foreman snapped. "Both of them. Before some dumbass miner thinks a bleeding heart can get them out of this mess."

Frick stood, stretched his shoulders like he was dusting off a burden. "I'll handle it. But tell me something, before I go—how solid's your security?"

The foreman blinked. "Trained. Well enough to take down a Grimm or two. Why?"

Frick looked back at him. Voice flat. Cold.

"Because after today... it won't be Grimm knocking on your door."

+++

A/N: Nice.