Save the world? Fuck that, I want to make money! (RWBY SI) ch 82

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The room was dim, with only slivers of light spilling through the gaps in the blinds, casting thin shadows across the floor. The distant hum of bullheads joined the noise of the city—searching, active, hovering just out of sight. Like worker bees, they were ready to respond at the first sign of trouble. Uniformed men prowled the streets, some on patrol, others in police cars, all easily recognizable by their dark-green uniforms, belts, peaked caps, and Clarion rifles slung over their shoulders or resting within reach of their patrol vehicles. They were not alone, however. At least one automaton—silver, one-eyed, and scanning—accompanied each patrol. Sentinels, born of the National Foundry.

Roman had never fought them before, and he had no desire to. As far as he was concerned, he was going to lay low until the heat died down and then continue his spree of chaos.

The thief had escaped the port battle through a sewer drain. The iron angel had been distracted while trying to destroy the stolen Imperial arms, and Roman wasn't about to complain about the chance to slip away. His clothes and suit were ruined, he'd lost his hat and had to replace it, but he was free, alive, and still got paid. He retreated into one of his boltholes to rest and recover.

This wasn't a musty, disgusting frat house that his men favored, nor a bare, Spartan cell to punish himself. Laying low meant staying clean for an indefinite time, so the place was stocked with everything a living creature could want or need. Velvet curtains, fine Vacuan rugs, and sleek, silver Solitan appliances—stolen, of course—were scattered around. He lounged bare-chested on an oversized couch, a cold drink within reach. But Roman felt cold in more ways than one. He glanced down at his side, where someone else should have been. His mind wandered briefly, but he shook it off. They had jobs to do. He would have to grin and bear it until it was over.

But as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, Roman was still human. He had dreams, desires, and—more importantly—boxes of uneaten ice cream in his fridge. Thinking about it, Roman finally caved. He sighed, stood up, and ignored the television blaring about a new police chief in town.

His feet found the kitchen, then the fridge, bearing the Imperial eagle, talons flexed and wings outstretched. Roman snorted. Even at the most basic level, the Royal and Imperial presence was everywhere. Shaking his head, he opened the fridge and pulled out a small box of ice cream. Setting it down on the counter, he opened it to reveal white, black, and pink swirls.

It wasn't the Neapolitan he was used to, but it would have to do. He found a spoon, slowly dug into the ice cream, and brought it to his lips. Sweetness spread across his tongue as he savored it, then stared at the scroll in his pocket. He pulled it out and set it on the counter, eating quietly, silently, as he resisted the urge to message her.

It was the latest piece of scroll technology, a gift she had given him. "A fair exchange for what I owe you," she had claimed.

Roman smiled then frowned as the scroll buzzed. An unpleasant name appeared on the screen. He set aside the ice cream, found a shirt to cover himself, took a deep breath, and clicked on the scroll.

"Hello, Cinder!" Roman greeted her with as much cheer as he could muster. The forced brightness of his tone might have seemed insincere, but it was genuine enough. "How might this humble thief help you today?"

Her voice dripped with sensuality and fire, but the hiss that followed soured it. "Do not use my name as if we're friends, Roman. We are colleagues, nothing more."

"Of course, I'm so sorry. I was just so happy to see my client again," Roman lied smoothly, as easy as breathing. "So, what do you need from me?"

"The plan has changed. You are no longer required to move arms in the city," Cinder informed him.

Roman couldn't help but smile. "Oh, that's brilliant. I am—"

"You are now tasked with moving arms outside of the city. Prepare your bags, Roman. You're going on an adventure," Cinder said sweetly, as if he were being praised for a promotion.

Roman's smile faltered, but Cinder wasn't done.

"Now, Roman, where did you put the art you stole?"

"It's in a safe house, with my men. They think we're about to make a sale on it," Roman replied. His unease deepened as Cinder laughed darkly.

"Excellent. Be a dear, Roman, and make a call to the police. Pose as an anonymous tipper and tell them the location."

Roman blinked, his voice filled with disbelief. "You want me to what?"

He had been willing to betray Junior's men during the dust heist weeks ago because they weren't his, but the men Cinder was asking him to surrender—those were his crew, born from years of loyalty.

"Do I hear refusal in your voice, Roman?" Cinder's tone darkened dangerously.

"With all due respect... they're my crew, my guys. I can't just—" Roman stammered, but Cinder cut him off.

"Roman... my dear, sweet Roman," Cinder drawled, her voice slow and threatening. "When you took this job, you became mine. Your men became mine. Your skills became mine. Your life... became mine. Or should I remind you what happens when you refuse me?"

Roman froze. He sighed deeply.

"Promise me they'll be treated well by the police," he muttered, a final attempt at keeping some semblance of control.

"They will have what they deserve," Cinder said smoothly, as if delivering a simple fact.

That was as good as he could get was what she left unsaid.

"Don't worry, Roman. By the end of this, you will have more to your name that you wouldn't even have to worry about being a thief anymore," Cinder added, reminding him of what lay ahead. "I give you my word."

And with that, Cinder cut off the connection. Roman stared at his scroll. His hand curled into a fist.

He exhaled.

Then, his fingers moved to dial the police's number. They shook as he typed.

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Cinder lowered the scroll and set it on her desk. Her room, as expected, was luxurious. She deserved no less. The hotel they were staying at was the finest establishment Valean hospitality had to offer. After the theft of her precious treasures, the Valean government bent over backward trying to accommodate her, and Cinder made sure to extract as much as she could from the fools. This was a matter of national honor, after all. They had allowed a public theft to occur in the literal heart of their city—a humiliation severe enough to see important people lose their positions.

It was brilliant, she praised herself. Such meticulous planning had brought them great success. And now, it was time to move forward with the next stage of the plan—or at least, some version of it.

The lumbering fool, Hazel, had the audacity to inform her that they were to halt their public disruptions. It took all of Cinder's will not to show her disdain for the man. He was nothing more than an upjumped brute, basking in the undeserved privilege of being the only one in their circle to enjoy Salem's full attention while the others were out on missions. The Tower remained largely empty, and Hazel, no doubt, relished the opportunity to play at being important.

It galled her further that she had to share the same city with Watts, of all people. Thankfully, the insufferable man was kept far away, toiling in the so-called National Foundry for the benefit of his inferiors. At least that was some consolation. Tyrian, meanwhile, had the misfortune of roughing it with peasants and animals in Mistral. But Cinder? She drank the finest wines, ate the most exquisite meals, enjoyed a study rich with ancient knowledge, and commanded an army of servants ready to fulfill her every whim.

It was perfect—a glimpse of the life that awaited her once their plans came to fruition.

And more, a voice whispered in her mind. Cinder couldn't help but chuckle darkly, savoring the thought of the prize languishing in Salem's dungeons.

"Mother?" a voice spoke, soft and tentative.

Cinder snapped out of her musings, turning toward the doorway. A girl stood there, blinking, small and delicate.

Father? A frail voice echoed in her mind, cold and lonely, from a humbler, lesser house than this one.

"Yes, Isabella?" Cinder replied sweetly, forcing warmth into her tone. The girl's red sleeping gown bore their kingdom's coat of arms, a far cry from the fanciful dress she had worn earlier at the art gallery.

"May I approach?" Isabella asked, her wide eyes pleading.

"Of course, my sweet. Come," Cinder said with a smile, savoring the respect her little darling showed her—respect that was her due. Slowly, Isabella approached, her nervousness evident.

"You called for me, Mother. I'm here," Isabella said softly. "Did... did I do something wrong?"

A flicker of discomfort passed through Cinder. Memories stirred, unbidden, but she forced them down. "No, of course not. What made you think that, you silly girl?" she snapped, sharper than intended. Isabella flinched, shrinking into herself, and Cinder sighed, chastising herself for her tone. "No... I called you because I wanted to ask if you'd like to join me in the city—for shopping."

Isabella's face brightened instantly, her eyes glittering with excitement. "Shopping?"

Cinder's smile softened, becoming genuine. "Yes. We've been cooped up in this hotel for far too long, and your siblings would be upset if we didn't bring them anything. What do you say?"

"Yes!" Isabella exclaimed, too eagerly. She quickly cleared her throat, trying to compose herself. "I-I mean—thank you, Mother."

Cinder chuckled. "Of course, my sweet. You were so brave when the bad men broke in. This is my reward to you," she said, reminding the girl of the museum incident.

"You were braver, Mother!" Isabella insisted, her voice filled with admiration. "You talked down that... that... grr!" The girl growled in frustration. "I hate them! How dare they steal from us!"

Now this was more like it. Passion, not brooding, was what Cinder wanted to see in her bloodline. "They will be punished, I promise you."

"I want them to be hurt," Isabella muttered. But her trembling voice betrayed her hesitation. It wasn't quite the fiery resolve Cinder would have preferred, but it was a start.

"Punishments aside, do get ready, dear. While we'll be shopping for your siblings, you and I will also be looking for dresses." Cinder said, shifting the conversation.

"Dresses? For what?" Isabella tilted her head, curious.

"A dance party," Cinder replied, her smile widening.

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A/N: Poor girl.