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A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 34
🕑 Added 2025-06-19 05:51:59 +0000 UTC+++
Geyer collapsed into her seat, exhausted.
Another day at the Council. Another day of Jacques Schnee wringing the system dry, twisting it into knots, and making a mockery of the entire process. She pinched the bridge of her nose, a dull ache building behind her eyes. The investigation into Nicolasburg had barely begun, yet it felt as though she had been fighting this battle for years. Leaning back in her chair, she let her gaze drift to the ceiling, her thoughts spiraling into the void.
Of course, the SDC would not make it easy.
The first blow had come almost immediately after the Tribunal was formed. Jacques had promised transparency. That smug, polished grin as he stood before the Council, pledging full cooperation, offering access to SDC records, and insisting he had "nothing to hide." And yes, they gave her team access: piles upon piles of meaningless drivel. Thousands of pages of irrelevant contracts, outdated memos, and innocuous shipping manifests. A calculated avalanche of nothing.
When she pressed for the records they actually needed—internal communications, financial reports, security logs—Jacques' lawyers descended, claws out and teeth bared.
"Proprietary information," they argued.
"Classified under Atlesian trade law," they claimed.
"Releasing this data could jeopardize national security," they warned.
It did not matter that the Tribunal had full legal authority to access those records. Jacques had the finest legal minds in Atlas, and they exploited every loophole, every clause, and every technicality to stall her team's progress.
And then there were the witnesses, or rather, the lack thereof. The search-and-rescue efforts in Nicolasburg had netted no survivors. Not a single one. The soldiers and servicemen who ventured north might have had answers, but her efforts to interview them were stonewalled. Atlesian Military Law forbade them from speaking to anyone outside the chain of command. Not her. Not the media. No one.
Surely, she thought, there must be someone in the ranks willing to leak the truth. But no. Not a single soul came forward. It was clear the men were bound to silence. General Conrad's expulsion had satisfied the higher-ups, it seemed. The bare minimum had been done, and the door was firmly shut.
Her fists clenched at the thought. Her gaze drifted to the computer on her desk. Taking a steadying breath, she leaned forward and activated it. Her fingers moved mechanically, cycling through the files.
Horror crept in.
"THIS IS OUR TOWNHALL! NOT YOURS!"
"ADVANCE!"
Screams. Cries of pain. The clash of boots and batons. The white boot of the SDC crushing workers into submission.
She watched the scenes unfold on her screen again and again, sick to her stomach. The tapes were damning—a raw, unfiltered look at the atrocities committed by the SDC. At times, she had to pause, her hand trembling as she glanced out the window. The shining lights of Atlas flickered in the distance, its beauty and spires masking the suffering it was built upon. The suffering of the Faunus.
She had thought of releasing the tapes, of exposing the truth to the world. But she had not. Not yet.
Her lawyers had advised against it. Without a verifiable source, the tapes would be torn apart by the SDC. They would claim the footage was doctored, a fabrication. Panels of analysts would debate its authenticity. SDC-aligned outlets would paint it as a smear campaign. Think tanks, quietly funded by Jacques, would publish reports with titles like "On the Dangers of Disinformation During Times of Crisis."
And then there was the inevitable fallout. Geyer herself would face formal inquiries: Why didn't you follow proper Tribunal channels? Why wasn't evidence of this magnitude cleared for national security review first?
Her lip trembled as she bit down on it, hard. She had tried to find the custodian who had left her the tapes. But a review of the employee roster turned up no one of note. Security footage had been no help either. The custodian had avoided the cameras entirely, keeping his face hidden. Whoever he was, he had been smart. He had made it clear she could not rely on the SDC or the system. They would give her nothing. If she wanted answers, she would have to look elsewhere.
Her approach had to change.
She would need to dig deeper, far outside the walls of bureaucracy. Old records. Former workers. The mine's past. She would need to uncover who it had belonged to before the SDC took over and how it had been acquired. She would follow the paper trail: the shipment manifests, the requisition orders, and the truth behind why the SDC had imported riot gear to a civilian site.
There was a truth buried beneath the weight of Jacques' lies. Geyer was determined to unearth it, no matter how deep she had to dig.
She stood.
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[SPOILER="The Spy"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:EsHt9Ta8lT0"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EsHt9Ta8lT0[/URL][/SPOILER]
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The car stopped before an unassuming building, the only sign that it held any official capacity was the Atlesian flag flying on a pole. Around her, the cold Solitan air bit into her skin despite her thick coat. But Geyer paid it no mind. She had endured far worse winters. First things first, there had to be a world before Jacques Schnee. And she was going to find that world in the Royal Archives, the one place where all official paperwork was kept from political, military, and economical.
She walked into the building, the heavy glass doors groaning as Geyer pushed them open, a reluctant gateway into the past. Inside, the temperature dropped even further, the cold stone walls trapping the chill and amplifying it. The foyer was stark and unwelcoming, its pale marble floors polished to a soulless shine. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow that seemed to drain the warmth and color from everything it touched.
A single receptionist desk stood at the center of the room, manned by an older woman who barely looked up from her terminal. Behind her, an imposing steel security gate loomed, barring entry to the deeper recesses of the archives. Cameras in every corner tracked Geyer's movements, their lenses glinting like watchful eyes. The air smelled faintly of paper, dust, and the faint antiseptic tang of industrial cleaners.
Geyer adjusted her scarf, her breath visible in the frigid air as she approached the desk. The receptionist's eyes flicked up at her for a moment, cold and indifferent, before returning to her screen.
"Name?" the woman asked, her voice flat and mechanical, as though she had said the same word a thousand times that day.
"Councilor Geyer," she replied firmly, setting her identification on the desk. "I have clearance to access the Royal Archives."
She had called in a favor to get this appointment. It was admittedly a heavy sacrifice, but she was out of options now.
The woman's fingers danced across her keyboard, her expression betraying nothing. After a few moments, she nodded and gestured toward the gate. "Your clearance checks out. Security will escort you from here."
Geyer turned as a uniformed guard stepped forward from the shadows, his boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face stoic beneath the brim of his cap. Without a word, he motioned for her to follow, swiping a keycard to unlock the gate. It slid open with a low hiss, revealing a dimly lit corridor that stretched far into the distance, its walls lined with reinforced steel.
The sound of the gate closing behind her was sharp, final. Geyer felt a shiver run down her spine as she stepped into the corridor, the guard's footsteps echoing behind her. The further they walked, the heavier the air seemed to grow, as if the weight of centuries of secrets pressed down on the space.
They reached an elevator at the end of the corridor, its doors smooth and unmarked. The guard swiped his keycard again, and the doors slid open to reveal a small, windowless compartment bathed in dim light. Geyer stepped inside, and the guard followed, pressing a button labeled "Sublevel 3." The elevator began its descent with a soft hum, the faint vibrations barely noticeable beneath her feet.
When the doors opened again, Geyer was met with a vastly different scene. The Royal Archives stretched before her like a labyrinth, endless rows of tall shelves packed with books, scrolls, and meticulously labeled file boxes. The air here was warmer, but it carried the heavy, musty scent of old paper and ink. Dim, golden lights hung suspended from the ceiling, casting long shadows that danced across the aisles.
"Sublevel 3," the guard announced. "You'll find what you need here. Call for assistance if required." Without waiting for a response, he turned and disappeared back into the elevator, leaving her alone.
Geyer took a deep breath, the enormity of the task ahead settling on her shoulders. Somewhere in this vast sea of forgotten histories and bureaucratic records was the truth she needed. The truth about what the SDC had buried, about the world before Jacques Schnee's empire.
She pulled out her notebook, her pen poised to begin. It was time to dig. And dig she did.
Before there was a Nicholasburg, it had once been known with a different name, Courrières, and operated by the creatively named Courrières Mining Company.
She leaned in, her eyes taking it all in. "Courrières was one of the larger producers of Dust until it was closed due to-" she narrated, more for her benefit. She paused, noting something interesting.
"Closed due to health and safety hazards," she noted.
So the mine was going to have an accident anyway even if the faunus revolt wasn't going to happen.
"The mine was further acquired by the Schnee Dust Company," she continued. Her interest heightened when she brought up a newspaper article of Nicholas Schnee dilly-dallying with purchasing it.
Why would Nicholas be hesitant in purchasing the mine? The answer became clear to Geyer as she realized that the old Schnee would have known the place was dangerous. Further newspaper clips had been rather public about it. Then she found another clip, of the SDC finalizing its purchase, championed by a then young Jacques Schnee, promising to renew and refurbish the mine to make it safer.
Very interesting.
"So Jacques got his Father-in-Law to purchase a risky but profitable mine," Geyer muttered. She snorted. "Maybe that should have been a sign of where his priorities lied."
She leaned back against her chair, her finger noisily tapping against the table. Now it was clear that Nicholasburg was a danger and if it was kept as it was, it was going to keel over at some point. And that was a crime, frankly speaking. To knowingly operate a dangerous mine went against Atlas's very own Health and Safety Laws. Sure, the SDC would have paperwork showing them refurbishing it and even following Atlas's Operational Health and Safety Regulations but did it really?
She also had another angle to look at it as well, not just OHSR laws, but labour too. This was a pure labour riot, plain and simple. But what sort of angel could she attack this from? If there was one place to find more, it would be in the Trade Inspectorate Office. They were the ones in charge to handle labour issues after all. The workers surely would have made legal noise to protect their rights.
She left the Archives with a stack of copied reports under her arm, though her mind was already elsewhere. Outside, the car idled, its exhaust fog drifting like ghosts over the cobblestones. She climbed in without a word, slamming the door against the wind.
"Trade Inspectorate Office," she said.
The driver nodded silently and pulled away.
The TIO occupied a drab concrete building wedged between taller, equally forgettable structures. Its narrow, reinforced windows offered no invitation, and its signage was discreet to the point of invisibility. No marble columns, no banners of state—just a rusting plaque and a metal detector in the lobby. The air reeked of stale ink, cheap coffee, and the slow rot of bureaucracy.
Inside, she passed through security with her Tribunal credentials and headed for the counter. A man in a frayed uniform glanced up from behind half-moon spectacles.
"Name?"
"Councilor Geyer," she said. "Tribunal authorization. I need access to labor complaint records for Nicolasburg"
She paused. "Before, it would be called Courrières."
The man blinked, then nodded. "Second floor. Office 204. Ask for Becker."
She bypassed the creaking elevator, taking the stairs instead. Office 204 turned out to be a cramped room stuffed with filing cabinets, yellowed folders, and a single terminal glowing faintly on the desk. A pale, thin-haired man in his fifties sat hunched over it, his collar undone. He looked up as she entered.
"Councilor," he said, his voice flat. "You're here about the mine."
"I'm here about the workers," she corrected. "I want to know if anyone from Courrières—Nicolasburg—filed formal labor complaints. Conditions, wages, retaliation. I don't care how minor. I want everything."
Becker nodded slowly and turned to the terminal. His fingers moved across the keyboard, and the system groaned to life, old machinery straining against its age. Geyer leaned over the desk, her eyes locked on the screen. Minutes passed before the first results appeared.
Three complaints. Only three complaints were filed ever since the mine's acquisition. Geyer cross checked the dates and sure enough, they all happened coindicentally when Jacques ascended as CEO of the Schnee Dust Company. It was either the SDC was true to its word about keeping the facility in tip-top shape or the more plausible thing, knowing the SDC, was that any complaints were internally suppressed before they could come out.
She cross-checked the dates again, and they all were within close proximity.
The three complaints themselves were damning. One about his insurance being denied. The other two were about pay. But she needed more.
"Do you keep physical records?" she asked, her voice sharper than intended.
"Only sealed investigations or disputed cases," Becker replied, glancing at her uneasily.
She straightened, shoving the copies into her bag. "Then I need to see the sealed files."
Becker hesitated. "I'll need clearance—"
"You have it." She slid her Tribunal writ across the desk, the official seal catching the light.
An hour later, she sat elbow-deep in boxes of closed cases, the stale scent of paper and dust clinging to her. Two more entries surfaced. One was a health complaint dismissed as hearsay. The other was a report of Faunus workers being assigned to unstable tunnels—marked as a "rotation error." She photographed every page, her jaw tightening with each click of the camera.
Her stomach churned. The implications churned in her mind. If this was all she could find, how much more had been erased? How many more voices had been silenced before they could even reach a filing cabinet? She rubbed her temple, the flickering terminal casting faint shadows against the walls.
The room was too quiet.
She froze as a sudden, loud clang echoed down the hall—a metallic crash that reverberated like a gunshot. Geyer shot to her feet instinctively, her aura flickering to life in a faint, golden shimmer around her skin. Her heart pounded as she scanned the room, her eyes darting to the door left slightly ajar.
"Becker?" she called, her voice firm but edged with unease.
No response.
She stepped forward cautiously, the faint hum of her aura breaking the silence. Her boots scuffed against the floor, each step dragging the tension tighter. She reached the door and peered into the hallway beyond.
Empty.
Her pulse quickened. "Becker!" she called again, louder this time, the echo stretching down the corridor. Still nothing.
Her mind raced. Where had he gone?
She caught herself glancing over her shoulder, a chill creeping up her spine. The shadows in the corners seemed deeper now, more oppressive. The air felt heavier, like the weight of too many unseen eyes pressing down on her.
Someone didn't want her here.
Another sound—this time faint, like a door creaking open somewhere down the hall. She spun toward it, her aura flaring brighter for an instant before dimming again.
"Becker?" she called once more, her voice shaking slightly despite her efforts to steady it.
No answer.
Her throat tightened. The corridors of the TIO suddenly felt like a labyrinth, and the fluorescent lights above seemed to buzz louder than before. Every sound was amplified: the shuffle of her boots, the faint hum of the terminal behind her, the distant groan of pipes in the walls.
She had to leave.
Now.
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Sweat clung to her body as the car sped away from the Trade Inspectorate Office. The bag of files dug into her side, its weight a grim reminder of what she'd barely escaped.
"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.
Geyer exhaled sharply, pulling a cloth from her pocket to dab at her damp forehead. "The Civil Registrar," she said, her voice still shaky. "Hurry."
The driver nodded, the vehicle accelerating smoothly down the dimly lit streets. She leaned back against the seat, her fingers gripping the strap of her bag like a lifeline. Her pulse was still racing. What in the world had just happened back there? Shadows that moved like they were alive, noises that didn't make sense, and Becker… Where the hell was Becker?
She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. There was no time to dwell on it. She had what she needed for now—at least part of it. The Civil Registrar was the next step. If workers in the mine had been suffering from respiratory symptoms as she suspected, there should be death records to corroborate it. Untreated symptoms didn't just go away. People died from them. And death left a paper trail.
She glanced out the window, the city's lights blurring past. The streets were quieter now, the hour growing late. Too quiet, maybe. The hum of the car's engine filled her ears, but her unease lingered.
She hadn't been threatened, not directly at least.
Investigations for the Tribunal were always met with resistance, sure. Bureaucratic delays, missing files, maybe even the occasional veiled threat. But this? Shadows chasing her down hallways, unexplainable sounds, and the suffocating sense of being hunted? This was something else. Her fingers brushed against the edge of her bag. She had to believe the truth was in here, somewhere. The SDC had buried it deep, but every system had its cracks. The car slowed, pulling onto a side street lined with squat, utilitarian buildings. Geyer sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing as the driver took a sharp turn. The Civil Registrar's building came into view ahead, a nondescript structure of gray stone and glass. Its lights were still on, and the faint glow of the lobby spilled onto the pavement outside.
But something wasn't right.
She spotted them almost immediately—two unmarked cars idling on opposite sides of the street, their engines barely audible. The vehicles were dark, their windows tinted, and they sat too still, too purposeful.
Her stomach tightened.
"Stop here," she said sharply, her hand gripping the driver's seat.
The driver glanced back at her, confused. "Ma'am? The building's just ahead—"
"I said stop," she repeated, her voice firm.
He obeyed, pulling the car to the curb about half a block away. Geyer leaned forward, peering past the driver and narrowing her eyes at the unmarked cars. They weren't parked like visitors. They weren't parked like anyone who had business at the Civil Registrar. One was positioned near the corner, angled slightly toward the building's entrance. The other sat farther down the block, strategically placed as if to watch anyone coming or going.
She cursed under her breath, her mind racing.
They'd followed her. Or maybe they'd been waiting. Either way, this wasn't a coincidence.
"Ma'am, is everything all right?" the driver asked cautiously.
Geyer didn't answer immediately. Her eyes darted to the shadows near the Registrar's entrance. She couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Whoever was in those cars wasn't just watching the building—they were waiting for something.
Or someone.
She forced herself to breathe, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. "Take a right at the next turn," she said quietly.
The driver hesitated. "We're not stopping here?"
"Not yet," she said, her voice low. "Just do it."
He nodded reluctantly, easing the car away from the curb and taking the turn she'd indicated.
As soon as they were out of sight of the unmarked cars, Geyer leaned forward, her voice urgent. "Listen to me. I need you to circle the block, slowly. Don't stop unless I say so. Understand?"
The driver frowned but nodded. "Understood, ma'am."
The car cruised down the side street, the Registrar slipping out of sight behind them. Geyer clenched her jaw, her mind working furiously. If those cars were watching the building, she couldn't just walk in. Not without knowing who was inside—or what they were waiting for.
She reached into her bag, pulling out her scroll.
Her message was short and to the point: General Ironwood: Potential surveillance at Registrar. Requesting support. Advise next steps.
She sent it, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. The street behind them was empty for now, but she couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were still on her. The driver turned another corner, bringing them back around toward the Registrar. Geyer leaned toward the window, keeping her head low as they passed by the building again.
The unmarked cars were still there.
This time, she caught a glimpse of movement. A figure sat in the driver's seat of the car nearest the entrance, their outline barely visible through the tinted glass. A second figure stood on the sidewalk nearby, leaning casually against a lamppost but glancing toward the building every few seconds.
Her heart sank. This wasn't random. They were watching the Registrar for a reason. And if they were connected to the SDC, they'd know exactly who she was—and why she was here.
She sat back in her seat, her pulse quickening. The driver glanced at her in the mirror, waiting for instructions.
What the hell was she supposed to do now?
Her scroll pinged.
"Leave. Do not engage."
Her lips curled into a frown.
"I am close to uncovering something. I cannot just leave." she replied.
Then, she added. "Do you know who they are?"
Her scroll pinged.
"❄️
"
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A/N: A little snippet to what is happening over in Atlas.
Jacques is not making it easy, at all.
Comments
Pastah_Farian
C:
Tom Tat
How long it would take for Geyer to suffer "incident"?
