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A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 40
🕑 Added 2025-07-19 08:27:03 +0000 UTC+++
The cold bit at his skin despite the thick suit he wore. It was a phantom chill, one that crept under the layers and settled in his bones. He felt suffocated, as if an invisible rope tightened around his throat, while his eyes scanned the data cascading across his computer screen. It had all started innocuously enough: a single attack on one of their depots. At first, it was written off as the work of a bandit gang, opportunists taking advantage of the chaos. But then another depot was hit. And another. And another.
Once was a fluke. Twice, a coincidence. Three times? That was deliberate.
SDC-Mistral Regional Manager Stiltz Dalrymple shifted his gaze to another monitor. Corporate had warned him, along with other regional managers, to expect trouble. The unrest in Atlas, they said, might embolden radicals to target Schnee Dust Company facilities. Dalrymple had dismissed the warnings as alarmist nonsense. No one dared attack SDC sites. Such actions were unthinkable as they invited the wrath of Atlas, and Atlas's wrath was swift and merciless. But this time was different. The scandal embroiling the Atlesian military had left them preoccupied, their authority weakened. Interventions on the SDC's behalf would be delayed, if they came at all. The radicals knew it. They were exploiting it.
And what did Dalrymple know about these attackers?
Nothing.
They knew absolutely nothing.
The frontier was not a place Dalrymple had ever concerned himself with. It was a backwater, a wasteland populated by hicks and hacks, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. It had nothing to offer a man of his stature in this modern, advancing age. But knowledge was power, and ignorance was a stain on his pride. He would not remain in the dark, not for long.
He switched his screen to another one. Live footage from a helmet camera appeared, flanked by a list of names, faces, and their corresponding heartbeats. Further footage showed a bullhead descending onto a dusty clearing surrounded by ramshackle buildings. The town was a typical frontier settlement: weathered, tired, and clinging to survival on the edges of the civilized world. The bullhead's engines roared as it lowered itself to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt and debris that sent a few curious onlookers ducking behind cover. As the craft's ramp extended, a squad of SDC security personnel emerged in gray-and-blue uniforms, their weapons slung across their bodies. At their head was some officer Dalrymple didn’t bother to know, only that he was a typical creature of the Company and that was enough.
"Find the headman," the officer barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
The squad spread out, their boots crunching against the dry earth. Villagers peeked out from doorways and windows, their expressions a mix of curiosity and wariness. A few children lingered near the edge of the clearing, only to be shooed away by anxious parents. It wasn't long before the headman appeared. He was an older man, his face weathered like the buildings around him, his back slightly hunched. He wore a simple coat, patched and faded, and carried himself with an air of quiet resignation. As he approached, the officer stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sidearm.
"Is this the village headman?" the officer asked, glancing over his shoulder at a subordinate.
"Yes, sir," the subordinate replied.
The officer turned his attention back to the headman. "We represent the Schnee Dust Company. You are aware of the recent attacks on our facilities?"
The headman nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. "We've heard," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Word travels fast out here."
The officer's tone shifted, growing louder and more authoritative. "The Schnee Dust Company does not tolerate criminal activity. We are here to offer a substantial reward for any information that leads to the capture or elimination of those responsible for these attacks. Cooperation will be rewarded handsomely."
A murmur rippled through the gathered villagers. The mention of a reward had caught their attention. But the headman's expression remained unchanged. He studied the officer carefully, his silence weighing heavily on the moment.
"How much?" someone in the crowd finally asked.
The officer didn't hesitate. "Enough to change your lives. Enough to ensure you never worry about food, supplies, or safety again."
Dalrymple leaned back in his chair, watching the scene unfold. He could see the villagers whispering among themselves. He noted that down.
The headman finally spoke, his voice steady but cautious. "We'll see what we can find. But it's dangerous to ask too many questions out here."
The officer's lips curled into a tight smile. "Danger is our business, headman. Remember, the Schnee Dust Company rewards its friends. Make sure you're on the right side of this."
The footage cut to static for a moment as the camera shifted back to the bullhead's interior, the soldiers preparing to move to their next destination.
These were simple people, he thought. He wasn't going to hold out hope that such people even grasped things like the basics of economics. Keeping it within their bounds would be sufficient. The SDC needed people to be found and had money for it. Give them what they needed, and all would be well. A fair transaction all in all.
The footage from the next village played out much the same as the first. The bullhead landed, kicking up dirt and scattering livestock. The officer and his team disembarked, their boots hitting the ground with mechanical precision. The villagers emerged cautiously, as they always did, their faces painted with a mix of fear and distrust. Every village was the same: dusty, impoverished, and wary of outsiders. The responses varied only slightly. Some villagers offered vague promises to "keep an ear out." Others claimed ignorance outright, their voices trembling as they spoke. A few flat-out refused to cooperate, their defiance earning a cold stare from the officer and a subtle tightening of the squad's formation.
The more Dalrymple watched, the more frustration built in his stomach. Goodness gracious, was it really so hard? They had a substantial reward for information and these people were just-
A knock echoed against the door.
"What?" Dalrymple snapped, his irritation clear.
"Sir, its headquarters," came the trembling voice of his secretary.
Dalrymple's lips thinned into a hard line. "Direct the call here."
The girl nodded quickly and retreated. Dalrymple straightened his posture, adjusting his suit as the screen before him flickered. A stern, cold face materialized on the display.
"Dalrymple," Jacques Schnee greeted, his tone devoid of warmth or pleasantries.
"Sir," Dalrymple replied, his voice steady despite the tension.
Jacques wasted no time. "Our assets are being attacked," he said bluntly, his words sharp and cutting. "In this time of national peril, being targeted by radicals is unacceptable. We are already dealing with enough problems at home. What is your solution, Dalrymple?"
"I have deployed teams into the troubled regions, sir. They are actively scouring for the culprits. To incentivize cooperation, I've offered a substantial reward to anyone willing to provide actionable information," he replied smoothly. Jacques demanded results, not excuses. And Dalrymple would deliver.
Jacques's eyes narrowed. "You are not coordinating with the Mistrali authorities?"
"No, sir," Dalrymple replied, his tone clipped. "The Mistralis have their own issues to deal with. The Regency Government is a farce, more interested in peacocking and political theater than actual governance. They won't lift a finger to help us unless we offer significant rewards to the Regents themselves. And frankly, I'm not inclined to divert SDC-Mistral's profits to appease a group of preening, smiling eunuchs."
For a brief moment, Jacques's expression didn't change, but Dalrymple could see the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes.
"Good," Jacques finally said, his voice as cold as ever. "The Schnee Dust Company does not exist to fund incompetence. Continue your operations, Dalrymple. I expect results soon."
"Yes, sir," Dalrymple replied, his tone firm and resolute.
The screen went dark, leaving Dalrymple alone in his office once more. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. Jacques Schnee was not a man to tolerate failure, and Dalrymple knew that his position and prospects of rising depended on meeting the man's expectations. He sneered at Derringer, the old fossil had been so arrogant, so cocksure about his position that he thought he would not fail. Now, he was in a Atlesian prison, languishing under the weight of his own loss. And that creature, Geyer...
His sneer turned into a frown. Geyer just had to complicate things. Everything was going so damn well. They had a good system going on. He and upper management got profits, the ones at the bottom had employment, their citizens get cheap dust, and Atlas was mightier for it. But now, she had to ruin it, with her pride, and her arrogance. All to show off her 'principles'.
Now look at where they were, rushing to put out fires. Good riddance the government had her locked up.
His computer then pinged, earning a raised eyebrow.
Then, it pinged again.
Dalrymple straightened in his chair, his earlier irritation replaced with curiosity. The pings came from multiple feeds, cascading across his monitors like an alarm. He tapped a key, pulling up the live footage.
"What is the up-"
"Contact! Contact!" a panicked voice shouted over the comms. Dalrymple tried to switch to the live feed but then it flickered and the pulse was lost.
"Wh-"
He switched to another feed. "Officer, what is going on?"
"Sir, we've been ambushed!" the officer on the ground shouted. His helmet feed showed him crouched behind a broken wall, bullets ricocheting off the stone. "Unknown hostiles, at least a dozen of them, heavily armed! They came out of nowhere!"
Dalrymple's jaw tightened as he watched the chaos unfold. His team was pinned down, their formation disrupted. One of the feeds went dark, the screen flashing red before disappearing entirely.
"Casualty!" someone yelled.
Dalrymple slammed a fist onto his desk, his frustration mounting. "Pull yourself together!" he barked into the microphone. "Return fire and secure the area! I want eyes on the enemy now!"
The officer's breathing was heavy, his helmet cam jerking as he peeked over his cover. Muzzle flashes lit up the tree line, the attackers firing in disciplined bursts.
"Sir, we need reinforcements, we nee-"
"You're not getting reinforcements," Dalrymple snapped, his tone icy. "You have everything you need to handle this. Use it."
The feeds flickered again as another helmet camera hit the ground, the angle now showing only dirt and blood. Dalrymple clenched his fists, his frustration morphing into a cold, simmering rage.
"Who are they?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
"We don't know!" the officer replied, his voice strained.
Dalrymple leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the screen. He switched to the Bullhead's feed, the overhead view giving him a clearer picture of the battlefield. The attackers moved with precision, their positions constantly shifting. They were forcing his team into a defensive posture, cutting off any chance of retreat.
"Pilot, assist!" Dalrymple ordered.
"Assisting!"
The bullhead swerved, its mounted guns swiveled, firing into the tree line. His ears shook as the BRRRT echoed. For a moment, the tide seemed to turn. The attackers fell back, their silhouettes disappearing into the forest.
"Well?" Dalrymple demanded, his voice sharp as he leaned closer to the monitor.
The officer's feed came through, his breathing heavy but steady. "They've retreated, sir. We're holding the clearing."
Dalrymple exhaled slowly, his jaw still tight. "Good. Maintain your position and secure the area. They could be regrouping."
"Understood," the officer responded.
The helmet cameras showed the squad moving cautiously, their rifles aimed at the treeline. The bullhead hovered above, its guns trained on potential hiding spots. The clearing fell into tense silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the comms and the occasional shuffle of boots on dirt.
Dalrymple's eyes scanned the feeds, searching for any sign of movement. The attackers had pulled back too easily, and something about it didn't sit right with him.
"Sir, no sign of hostiles," one of the soldiers reported.
"Keep your guard up," Dalrymple said curtly. "I don't want any surprises."
The squad began to relax, their weapons lowering slightly as the tension in the air began to dissipate. One of the soldiers muttered something about needing a drink, earning a nervous chuckle from another. Then, one of the helmet cams flickered, followed by a sudden, sharp gasp.
"What was that?" Dalrymple barked.
The feed snapped back, showing a shadow moving through the trees, fast and deliberate.
"Contact!" a soldier shouted, his voice panicked.
Before Dalrymple could process what was happening, one of the helmet feeds went dark, the screen flashing red. Another followed seconds later.
"What's going on?" Dalrymple demanded, his voice rising.
His question was quickly answered as singular figure appeared at the feeds. Quickly, Dalrymple saw that he was a faunus: horns atop fiery red hair, tall, and ice-cold eyes looking upon them with freezing hatred. Then, he moved, a blur in the camera. A blade flashed, cutting through weapons, armor, and bodies as if they were paper. One soldier barely had time to scream before collapsing into the dirt.
"Fall back! Fall back!" the officer shouted, his voice trembling.
The squad scrambled for cover, but it was futile. The Faunus moved like a ghost, darting between them with practiced lethality. One by one, their helmet feeds went dark, the screens turning red as their heartbeats flatlined.
The bullhead pilot, still hovering above, swiveled the mounted minigun toward the Faunus. "I've got him in my sights!" he yelled.
The minigun roared to life, unleashing a storm of bullets that tore through the clearing. The camera feed showed the Faunus standing still for a moment, his blade held at an angle. Then, he moved. With a single, fluid motion, he swung his sword in an arc, unleashing a crescent-shaped wave of energy. The slice arced towards the bullhead. The feed from the bullhead's camera shook violently as the energy wave struck. Metal screeched and groaned before the screen went black.
Dalrymple's jaw clenched as he switched to another feed. The bullhead, now in two pieces, crashed to the ground in a fiery explosion.
The officer's camera feed showed him crawling through the dirt, his weapon discarded. His breathing was ragged as he tried to pull himself to safety. The Faunus loomed over him, his blade glowing faintly in the dim light.
"Please," the officer gasped, his voice breaking. "I…I'm unarmed."
The Faunus paused, his gaze cold and unyielding. For a moment, it seemed as though he would deliver the final blow. But then, a low, guttural howl echoed through the trees, sending a chill down Dalrymple's spine.
The Faunus turned his head, his expression unreadable. More howls followed, closer this time.
Grimm.
The Faunus looked down at the officer, his eyes narrowing. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his options. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.
The officer's helmet feed remained focused on the tree line, his breathing frantic. "Wait!" he screamed. "Don't leave me! Please!"
The howls grew louder, and the camera began to shake as the officer scrambled backward. The first Grimm emerged from the forest: a Beowolf, its eyes glowing with malice.
The officer screamed, his voice raw with terror. Dalrymple watched in silence, his face pale, as the camera feed turned to static.
For a moment, the room was quiet. The hum of the monitors was the only sound, a faint backdrop to Dalrymple's trembling hands. He realized, with a jolt, that he was shaking. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his mind racing to process what he had just witnessed. Dalrymple exhaled shakily, trying to steady himself. At least now, they had a lead.
He tapped furiously at his console, pulling up the footage. The chaos, the ambush, the bullhead splitting in two: it was all there, recorded from multiple angles. He packaged the files into a secure transmission and sent them directly to headquarters.
A message box appeared on his screen: "Footage sent to HQ. Awaiting response."
Dalrymple leaned back, his body tense as he stared at the blinking cursor. Seconds stretched into minutes. He rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath.
...
...
...
He jolted as his scroll rang.
+++
"Sir?"
Jacques responded immediately.
"Dalrymple. Listen carefully," Jacques ordered. "All information regarding this Faunus is classified. No one must know about him. Do you understand?"
The sight of that bull Faunus from Nicholasburg, alive and well, was an unexpected development. But he was nothing but flexible.
"Yes, sir. How should we proceed?" Dalrymple asked, cutting straight to the point.
"We'll use the recent attacks as a pretext to bolster security. I'll ensure the Board approves reinforcing you with a battalion of Atlesian Knights," Jacques said. "We'll also contract third-party Huntsmen for handling the bull."
"We're not involving the military?" Dalrymple asked.
Jacques scowled, his irritation evident. "You already know the answer to that, Dalrymple."
"The question needed to be asked, sir," Dalrymple replied evenly.
Calling in the military now, when the SDC was already accused of using them as their personal enforcers, would only fan the flames of an already volatile situation. The Atlesian Navy wasn't an option not until things cooled down.
"We handle this internally," Jacques growled. "I appointed you for a reason, Dalrymple. Don't make me regret it."
"I won't, sir. A thousand Knights against a gang of animals will be a quick task," Dalrymple declared.
"Good," Jacques replied.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Go ahead."
"Does corporate know anything about this Faunus?"
Jacques paused, his expression hardening.
"No. He's no one."
He ended the call with a click.
A thousand Knights felt excessive on paper. But the deployment could easily be justified. Anima was vast, a chaotic continent dominated by warlords. No one would question the need for such measures, not in a place like that. And they would need it. He turned back to the footage, replaying the scene. The bull Faunus moved with terrifying precision, unleashing an attack that cleaved a Bullhead cleanly in two. He was no huntsman but even he saw that the bull grew stronger the more he was attacked. Each blow seemed to fuel his strength, as if pain itself was a weapon in his arsenal. Then there was the other footage. The supposed rabble weren't the disorganized gang he had assumed. They fought with precision, discipline, and strategy.
But that would amount to nothing for no force can withstand in the face of superior firepower.
The only thing left to do now was bring his force to bear.
He stood up and made for his window. Even from his office, he could see the crowds below, yelling and hollering at him. Ungrateful curs, he thought, as his hands tightened into fists. Did these idiots not know that it was the SDC that they were living so comfortably? Did they forget that it was his policies that ensured their dust was cheap and their homes had power, their cars fuel, and their soldiers fielding the most advanced technology in the world.
He should have had Geyer strangled.
He took a breath. Such thoughts were unnecessary now. That woman was in prison and in prison she would remain. Such was the fate of idealistic fools whose hands may be clean but their conscience dirty. He had calls to make.
+++
The prison loomed over the frozen wasteland, a monolith of despair. Tegel Prison, the so-called "Iron Grave" of Atlas, stood as a grim testament to the kingdom's dark past. Its jagged walls, forged from dust-infused steel, pierced the snow-laden sky like rusted daggers. Automated turrets rotated methodically, their cold red optics sweeping the perimeter, while columns of Atlesian Knights marched in perfect synchronization along electrified barriers.
Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the weight of confinement. Dim, flickering lights lined the narrow, labyrinthine corridors, casting shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly. The cells were sterile boxes of oppression, their walls embedded with aura-dampening technology that stripped inmates of even the faintest hope of rebellion. Guards in pristine white uniforms, the Atlas crest emblazoned on their shoulders, moved with mechanical precision, their faces as emotionless as the drones they commanded.
The prisoners rarely spoke. Voices were swallowed by the silence, an oppressive void that hung over Tegel like a shroud. Whispers among the inmates told of secret wings buried far beneath the prison, remnants of the Eisfalk era. The truth was far less sinister; those sections were simply abandoned, slated for demolition. Yet the rumors persisted, as they always did.
Among the many cells, Florianne Geyer sat.
Her Doppelsöldner jacket was long gone, replaced by the standard orange jumpsuit that clung snugly to her frame, fending off the icy chill of Tegel. But her cell stood apart from the rest. Thanks to her loyal supporters on the outside, her space had been transformed into something closer to a cabin retreat than a prison cell. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries and framed photographs, relics of solidarity from those who still believed in her. A thick, handmade rug covered the cold metal floor, its vibrant colors stark against the drab gray of the cell. Her cot had been replaced with a proper bed, its wooden frame sturdy and draped with patchwork quilts that smelled faintly of lavender. A small bookshelf stood against one wall, filled with novels, letters, and journals. Even a potted plant sat on her desk, its green leaves a rare and soothing sight in a place otherwise devoid of life. The faint glow of a dust-powered lantern cast a warm, golden hue over the room, banishing the harsh flicker of the prison lights.
Such privileges were unheard of in Tegel, but the staff had the foresight not to deny them. Stripping Geyer of these comforts risked igniting an already volatile situation among her supporters.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing louder with each step. Geyer’s attention shifted from the novel in her hands as she glanced toward the iron bars of her cell door. A figure emerged into the light. A man in a crisp white uniform with sharp, onyx eyes.
"You have thirty minutes, sir," the guard informed him.
"This won’t take long," Ironwood replied curtly. The guard saluted and turned away, leaving the two alone.
Geyer closed her book with deliberate care and set it aside. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with a composed, almost regal air, despite the orange jumpsuit.
"General Ironwood," she greeted, her voice calm, almost amused.
"Councillor," he replied, his tone clipped.
"If I recall, I resigned," Geyer said, tilting her head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"Your title’s stuck, Geyer," Ironwood shot back as he stepped into the cell. His sharp eyes scanned the room, lingering on the tapestries, the books, the warm glow of the lantern. "Are they treating you well?"
Geyer gestured lazily around her cabin-like cell. "Quite well. Though I am often alone," she remarked. "But I don’t mind. Being sent to Tegel Prison is, in certain circles, a mark of distinction."
Silence descended, Ironwood looking upon her with an unreadable expression. Blinking, Geyer filled it "Why are you here, James? Don’t you have an academy to run?"
Ironwood hesitated. "To check on you. Your supporters need to know you’re fine. Coming from me, it’ll set them at ease."
Geyer arched a brow, a dry smirk curling her lips. "How noble. The great General Ironwood, personally ensuring his old colleague isn’t wasting away in some forgotten cell."
"There’s more to it than that," he admitted, his voice steady.
"Of course there is," she said, her tone sharp. "You didn’t come here just to check in. What is it? Did the council send you to make sure I’m not plotting my next rebellion?"
She was being charged with Treason. She would have found it hilarious if it wasn’t so insulting.
Ironwood’s jaw tightened. He hesitated briefly before speaking. "I’m being considered for a promotion."
Geyer blinked, then snorted, a bitter laugh escaping her. "A promotion. Of course. Let me guess, they want to give you more power to clean up their messes."
She stood up, walking over before the glass of her cell. her sharp gaze locked onto his. "I wonder, James, how does it feel to know you're not being promoted because they trust you but because they expect you to be a janitor and clean up their mess?"
There was nothing else to this than that, she knew and was sure Ironwood knew too. Among all the officers in the Atlesian Military, there was no one else left that didn’t have any connection to the SDC other than him.
Ironwood said nothing for a long moment. His face was unreadable, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm composure. Finally, he straightened, his posture rigid.
"I didn’t come here to argue with you," he said, his words clipped and deliberate. "I came to check on you. To make sure you were-"
"Fine?" Geyer interrupted, her voice slicing through his like a blade. "I’m fine, General. Warm, fed, and surrounded by tapestries, remember? But let’s not pretend that’s why you’re here." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. "You’re looking for something. Maybe reassurance. Maybe forgiveness. Or maybe you just want me to tell you you’re doing the right thi-"
The sharp crack of Ironwood’s fist slamming into the stone wall silenced her. Then, with a measured breath, he raised a hand and said firmly, "Geyer. Enough." His tone was cold, commanding, and for a moment, it felt as though the air in the room itself had frozen.
He straightened, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that dimmed the warm glow of the lantern.
"We are still allies, Geyer," he said, his voice steady and heavy with meaning. "Whether you want to admit it or not."
Geyer snorted, crossing her arms. "Allies? Is that what you’re calling this? Tell me, James, if we’re such great allies, why aren’t you sitting in this cell with me right now?"
She did not mean to sound painfully bitter, like a spurned lover. But it was there.
Ironwood stepped closer, his voice lowering but losing none of its edge.
"Because, Florianne," he said, his tone sharp, "you made your move, and now you’re in no position to change anything. This is what I was warning you about, what I was asking us to have time. We lacked power. We lacked strength.”
She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. "Power? Is that what you tell yourself? Spare me, James. You’re deluding yourself if you think they’ll ever let you fix Atlas from the inside.”
"They don’t have to let me," Ironwood interrupted, his voice firm and unyielding. "That’s the difference between us, Florianne. You wanted to tear everything down with no plan for what came after. I’m going to take the power they’re so desperate to hold onto, and I’m going to use it to rebuild Atlas into something better."
She stared at him for a moment, her smirk fading into something colder, more calculating.
"And you think that’s going to work? That they’ll just hand you the tools to dismantle their own empire?"
Ironwood took a step back, his arms crossing over his chest.
"They will," he said, his voice steady, "because they have no choice. Your little stunt shook the kingdom to its core, and now they need someone to clean it up. They think I’m their janitor, their loyal soldier who’ll sweep everything under the rug. But when I’m done, Florianne, they won’t even recognize Atlas. Not the way I’m going to reshape it."
Geyer let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking her head.
"You sound so sure of yourself," she said, her voice laced with bitter amusement. "Like you’ve already won. But tell me, James, what happens when you realize you’re just another cog in their machine? What happens when they decide you’ve outlived your usefulness?"
Ironwood’s gaze didn’t waver.
"That’s the risk I’m willing to take," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Because someone has to stay in the fight. Someone has to be on the inside, where the real changes happen. And that’s something you’ll never understand, sitting in this cell."
She regarded him in silence for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a faint shrug, she leaned back against the desk, her arms still crossed, her eyes set somewhere else, refusing to look at him.
She just couldn’t.
"Well, good luck with that, General," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "I’m sure your shiny new promotion will give you all the power you need to save the kingdom."
Ironwood didn’t respond immediately. He turned toward the door, his shoulders stiff, his steps deliberate. Just before stepping out, he glanced back over his shoulder, his voice quieter but no less resolute.
"I don’t need luck, Geyer. I just need tim-"
Before he could finish, the sound of something filled the air. It was a low, droning whistle that grew louder with every passing second. Geyer tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "What the hell is that?" she asked, her voice sharp, her hands instinctively gripping the bars of her cell.
Ironwood’s stern expression darkened as the sound reached a crescendo.
"Rocket!" he barked. "Get down!"
The wall shattered into a thousand pieces, rocks and debris flying as the rocket struck the ancient stone. The force of the impact sent both of them sprawling to the ground, chunks of stone and steel raining down around them. Geyer groaned, coughing as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her aura flickered faintly around her, shielding her from the worst of the debris.
Across the corridor, Ironwood was already on his feet, his aura shimmering as he steadied himself, pistol drawn. Both blinked and shivered as the icy wind of the frozen Solitas rushed into the prison through the gaping hole that had once been the back wall of Geyer’s cell. Beyond it, war. Automated turrets swiveled wildly, their red optics scanning the battlefield as they unleashed streams of gunfire. Atlesian Knights marched forward in tight formations, their mechanical limbs hissing as they engaged shadowy figures darting through the snow. Explosions lit up the sky, and the sharp cracks of Dust-powered weapons echoed across the frozen expanse.
Geyer slowly got to her feet, her orange jumpsuit rippling in the icy wind. She turned to look at the massive hole in her cell wall, the harsh light of the battlefield beyond illuminating her face. Her breath caught as she realized she could escape.
Ironwood’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "Geyer!" he barked, his tone sharp and commanding. His eyes burned with urgency as he stepped closer to the bars separating them.
"Don’t," he warned her.
"And why not?” Geyer retorted. “There is nothing left for me here, James. Atlas is rotten. I just hate that I realized that far too late.”
Ironwood could not retort to that. How could he? Was he going to extol to her to stay and fight for a kingdom she already lost her faith in? He could take her in. He could destroy this cell that separated the both of them together, and arrest her. She had no weapon and he had all the cards. But what would it accomplish?
As onyx eyes met light purple, or perhaps a pale yellow, Ironwood sighed.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
Surprise arose from her face, not expecting him to ask such a question. Geyer paused. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Somewhere out of Solitas, I suppose. I cannot stay here with my people. I will not endanger them to Atlesian wrath.”
An explosion rocked the outer part of the prison, orange-yellow light sparkling from a generator combusting. The lights in the prison flickered painfully before finally dying out, setting them in darkness. Shouts came from the other cells, prisoners rushing out and meeting the guards in melee.
“You have a riot to control, General,” Geyer remarked.
“I cannot just let you go,” Ironwood growled, lifting his pistol. Geyer scoffed.
“If you seriously believe that, you would have shot me already,” she pointed out. Ironwood’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. He aimed his pistol straight at her and…
Nothing. Nothing but the chaos outside.
“Get out of here, before I change my mind,” Ironwood grated.
Her eyes widened as she stared at him, her chest rising and falling as the icy wind whipped around her.
"For what it’s worth," she said softly, "I did enjoy my time with you, James."
“And I as well, Florianne” Ironwood returned.
“Funny, how after all this time, it takes the ends for you to finally use my first name,” she remarked with a faint, bitter smile. Ironwood watched as she took a step back, her arms spread wide like an eagle.
"Goodbye, James."
Then she leaned back and dropped, her boots vanishing past the edge.
+++
A/N: Stilitz Dalrymple is Rumpelstiltskin by the way because of fucking course Jacques would hire that thing. And yes, Atlas is now facing a frontier rebellion. Geyer isn't going to stay on Solitas though. She is not going to let her people suffer Atlas's wrath.
And yes, the Atlesian Military establishment is promoting Ironwood because they are cleaning house.
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Tom Tat
Sure Ironwood. You will totally fix Atlas. Like every general who tried to fix Pentagon en corruption there. Totally works
