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Two Wrongs Make a Right Ch.42
🕑 Added 2026-01-18 01:38:40 +0000 UTC-Trifa, Ironvein-
Trifa moved through the streets, her expression carefully crafted into concern as she played her role—just another panicked SDC employee caught in the chaos. The blackout had plunged Ironvein into something resembling pandemonium. Drones lay grounded on the pavement like dead insects, security cameras sat blind and useless, Atlesian Knights had collapsed mid-patrol, and most importantly, the backup generators refused to come online no matter how frantically the technicians worked on them.
Not like they could even check or fix the issues since she knocked them out.
"Please, someone help!" she called out, her voice pitched with just the right amount of panic as she approached a group of guards struggling near one of the disabled watch towers.
The guards barely glanced at her, too focused on their own crisis to spare attention for a frightened worker. Three of them were attempting to lift a bulkier version of an Atlesian Knight, a model designed for riot suppression. The machine's weight made it nearly impossible to move manually, and they were struggling to clear it from the main pathway so the cars could drive through.
"Need an extra pair of hands?" Trifa offered, already moving closer with hurried steps.
"Just stay back, civilian personnel aren't authorized—" one guard started, but she was already beside them, removing her work gloves.
Her fingers flexed, spider silk already forming between them in thin, silvery threads that were nearly invisible.
“I SAID STAY-”
Trifa's hand flashed to the knife concealed at her hip. The blade drove into the first guard's back, sliding between his ribs with deadly precision. He gasped, more from shock than pain, as the steel found its home in his lung. The armor might protect one from frontal attacks, but at such close distance with zero attention paid to the "helpful" worker?
He would bleed out in a matter of minutes.
Before the others could process the events, she threw her silk like a lasso; the threads wrapping around the second guard's neck. One sharp pull brought him down hard, his head slamming against the pavement with a loud crack as fragments of his helmet scatter, enough force to knock him out cold. The third guard raised his weapon halfway but Trifa was already moving. Her boot connected with the side of his head in a roundhouse kick that cracked the reinforced helmet straight down the middle with an audible snap. He crumpled without a sound, joining the rest on the floor.
The entire attack had taken less than ten seconds. Three trained security personnel, taken out before anyone else even noticed the disturbance.
Trifa straightened, already scanning for her next move when—
"INSURGENT!"
It came from above, making Trifa look up to see another guard standing at a balcony of the building, pointing directly at her while frantically yelling into his radio.
"Security breach! Repeat, hostile in the compound! Building Seven sector!"
Good.
Now they would focus their attention on her instead of her brothers and sister closing in to breach the main entrance. Even though the specifics of her High Leader's plan hadn't been shared with her directly, she knew instinctively what was required as soon as the power went out.
A distraction.
A focal point for the security forces to converge on while the real assault began elsewhere.
And she would provide that distraction.
The guard above aimed his rifle at her, and Trifa saw the muzzle flash a split second before the first burst of gunfire erupted. Automatic weapons were dangerous even to trained Huntsmen, but with aura dodging them was manageable as long as she didn't stand out in the open like an idiot.
She darted left as bullets sparked against the pavement where she'd been standing, then broke into a full sprint toward the nearest building. Her agility let her weave through the scattered equipment and debris, making herself a hard target even as more guards emerged from around corners and between buildings, their shouts adding layers to the growing chaos.
More gunfire erupted from multiple directions now, the enemy coordinating their response with surprising speed despite the blackout. Bullets whipped past her. One round grazed her shoulder, deflected by her aura in a shimmer of energy, but the impact still stung.
Trifa hit the building's entrance at full speed, shouldering through the door hard enough to crack the frame. She immediately slammed it shut behind her and spun, her eyes quickly checking the interior.
It was one of the administrative offices, filled with filing cabinets, heavy desks, and other furniture.
Not wasting a single second, she grabbed the nearest heavy workbench and shoved it against the door with a grunt of effort. Then a filing cabinet, dragging it into position. Then whatever else she could find. Within seconds, she'd created a barricade that would take effort and time to break through.
It was fortunate that the building she'd chosen appeared to be empty. From her quick observations, this was one of the administrative offices used simply for paperwork and records —evacuated when the power failure hit and deemed non-essential during the crisis. Even better, the iron bars covering the windows prevented anyone from breaking through that route. The SDC's own security measures, designed to protect their precious documents from theft, had just become her tactical advantage.
The only entrance was the door she'd already barricaded. All she had to do now was hold position and draw as much attention as possible.
Right on schedule, she heard the shouting from outside, followed by the heavy banging on the door as security forces converged on her position.
"Open up! Come out with your hands up!"
"Breach team en route! ETA three minutes!"
"All units, hostile barricaded in Building Seven! Requesting backup!"
Trifa's lips curved into a smile as she went to work preparing her defenses. Her spider silk flowed from her fingers, forming near-invisible tripwires across the interior at ankle height, chest height, and throat height. Anyone who breached through her barricade would find themselves entangled immediately, giving her time to eliminate them.
She then began searching the building, overturning desks and forcing open locked drawers with brute strength. After checking three offices, she finally found what she was looking for—a metal storage box beneath one of the supervisor's desks. She broke through the simple lock with ease, revealing a standard-issue pistol with two spare magazines inside, just as she'd predicted. Not the best weapon by any stretch, but still a firearm, which was infinitely better than relying solely on her knife and silk.
She checked the magazine, confirmed it was fully loaded, and loaded it with a satisfying click.
The banging on the door intensified, now accompanied by the sound of something heavy being used as a battering ram. The barricade shuddered with each impact, dust falling from the ceiling, but it held firm.
"Breach in thirty seconds!"
"Clear the area! Tear gas ready!"
Trifa positioned herself behind one of the sturdier desks, keeping clear sightlines to both the door and the windows. Her spider silk tripwires gleamed faintly, but it was still invisible to anyone who wasn't specifically looking for them.
Let them focus on her. Let them waste their time, their ammunition, their manpower trying to dig out one spider from her carefully constructed web.
Meanwhile, her High Leader and the true White Fang assault force would hit the main gates with overwhelming force. By the time they realized this was a diversion, it would be far too late.
The sound of the battering ram grew more intense, the door frame beginning to splinter under the repeated impacts.
"Three! Two! One! BREACH!"
Trifa's smile widened as her finger rested against the trigger, her body coiled and ready. Everything was proceeding exactly as it should.
Soon this cursed town would burn, and she would walk out of these flames having served her High Leader perfectly.
Just as she always did.
------------------------------------------
-Adam Taurus-
I watch as many guards abandon their posts and converge on a single building, trying to force their way inside through multiple entry points at first but then all give up and focus on a single one and they are trying to ram their way in.
It doesn't take me long to realize that has to be Trifa's doing. She must have created a new crisis as soon as Pod cut the power, designed to draw SDC attention away to create another opening for us.
And it's proving remarkably effective. In their current state of complete panic and confusion, any apparent internal emergency would immediately capture their full attention as they scrambled to resolve it as quickly as possible, they probably didn’t train or rehearse what to do in emergency situations.
Meanwhile, my assault forces are steadily closing in on their compromised positions.
I observe as the few remaining guards stationed at the main gate suddenly collapse without warning, some even tumbling off the wall entirely. All thanks to precisely placed sniper shots from suppressed weapons, they are still noisy but with everyone too focused in the chaos those shots would go unnoticed.
Soon enough, I spot my advance teams spearheading the assault on the now completely unguarded and unpowered gates. They scale the walls fast. Normally they would have immediately engaged in suppressive fire to establish control but nobody inside the settlement has even noticed their presence yet.
I quickly identify Ilia among the assault team leaders. I can't hear her commands from this distance, but I can clearly see her shouting orders and directing the troops as they climb, positioning them strategically along the top of the defensive walls.
Shock troops—that's the proper military term for those who spearhead assaults and establish critical initial footholds. It takes less than one minute to fully secure the wall. My forces immediately begin manually operating the emergency pulley system and wheel mechanism, forcing the heavy gates to slowly grind open.
That's the precise moment when the remaining security forces finally notice the breach and scramble desperately away from whatever building Trifa had them focused on. Some attempt to establish hasty defensive positions, others cluster together in confused groups seeking guidance, while a few simply begin shooting wildly without proper targets.
They're caught completely off guard and incapable of mounting any effective defense, just as planned.
I don't need to descend and join the fight yet. Maintaining my high ground and command oversight is sufficient for now, especially that Pod is busy with everything shut down and jammed. And my forces clearly have the situation under complete control, and they cannot rely on me for everything. Even as the shooting intensifies throughout the settlement, the White Fang continues steadily and rapidly gaining ground, systematically pushing the scattered, disorganized SDC forces back toward the center of the town.
It's abundantly clear these defenders depended far too heavily on their automated defense systems and combat robots, leaving them critically and fatally vulnerable once those advantages were compromised.
I also don't fail to notice with satisfaction that there are apparently non-combatants caught in the crossfire. The power blackout apparently triggered emergency protocols that automatically sent everyone into their residential units and locked down civilian areas.
However, as my forces continue their advance toward the main building and the dozen or so remaining security SDC forces attempting to establish a defensive position, the situation changes dramatically.
The garage door suddenly explodes violently outward in a shower of twisted metal fragments and debris, revealing a fully operational Atlesian Paladin. The war machine immediately unleashes a devastating barrage of concentrated heavy weapons fire in a wide suppressive arc, forcing my advancing forces to seek cover and effectively pinning them down with overwhelming firepower as the SDC keeps the trigger to the point the barrel is becoming red.
All the momentum lost.
That makes me frown, but I had expected the SDC had a trick under their sleeve. That Paladin must be operating on independent battery power and wasn't connected to the main network, meaning Pod's cyber attack couldn't touch it.
As Paladin keeps everyone pinned down, it also starts advancing where it reveals an additional weapon that surprises me. It deploys what appears to be a heavy flamethrower.
What the fuck? Since when do standard Atlesian Paladins carry incendiary weapons?
And if that wasn't enough, it then shoots a barrage of small missiles which hit more buildings.
I narrow my eyes and quickly drop to one knee, summoning my anti-materiel rifle. The heavy weapon materializes smoothly in my hands, familiar weight settling comfortably against my shoulder.
I'm not taking any unnecessary chances whatsoever. That war machine possesses devastating close-range firepower and represents a serious threat. If I allow it to continue operating freely, it will cause casualties among my forces and cause a lot of collateral damage, possibly harming non-combatants sheltering inside.
I rapidly assume a firing position, carefully aim through the scope at the Paladin's cockpit, specifically the visor—the most vulnerable point—and smoothly squeeze the trigger.
The recoil slams into my shoulder as the armor-piercing round screams across the distance and strikes its target dead center. I immediately work the bolt action, ejecting the spent casing and chambering the next round in case a follow-up shot is required.
However, the Paladin immediately stops all movement, freezing mid-action. For a long moment it simply stands there motionless. Then slowly; almost theatrically, the mech begins tilting forward before crashing face-first into the ground with a thunderous impact that sends up clouds of dust.
That seems to be the final straw breaking the defenders' already shattered morale. The remaining SDC forces immediately throw down their weapons and raise their hands high in unconditional surrender.
And so the Battle for Ironveil concludes decisively in White Fang victory.
Time to go down.
--------------------------------------------
I'm overlooking the aftermath, reviewing the final casualty count that my forces just finished tallying. Forty-two enemy combatants total: twelve dead from the initial assault and subsequent engagements, eighteen wounded with varying degrees of injury, and twelve who emerged relatively unscathed; essentially didn't require immediate first aid, so they were zip-tied and assembled under armed guard at the town plaza.
The wounded are currently receiving medical treatment at the settlement's infirmary, which we soon discovered actually consists of two separate facilities: a well-equipped main clinic and what they euphemistically call a "Faunus health post."
Because naturally there would be segregated healthcare in this godforsaken world.
It's something that frustrates me on a visceral level. Some of this world's twisted logic makes a certain fucked-up sense when viewed through the lens of corporate greed and profit maximization, but other decisions are so cartoonishly, unnecessarily evil that they defy any rational explanation. Segregated medical facilities, segregated bathrooms, segregated canteens, segregation in a remote mining settlement where both populations work the same mines? Especially dedicating a different building which is a waste of space on an already tight place?
What purpose does that actually serve beyond senseless cruelty? And that isn’t counting that this will attract Grimm…
Can’t they even think about that detail that this is a death world filled with man-eating monsters who can develop to become walking natural disasters?!
Either way, we're providing medical care to all the wounded SDC security forces, because we suffered zero casualties from our assault forces. The worst injury on our side was someone getting dust in their eye and a few minor scratches and bruises from climbing the walls.
One would think that a liberation battle should be grueling, hard-fought, and filled with heroic sacrifice—all that romanticized nonsense about warfare that people love to imagine and idealize in their novels. But the best war, the truest and most complete victory, is one you win without firing a single bullet. Winning this decisively and this quickly is still a great success, regardless of how anticlimactic it might seem to those expecting dramatic heroics.
The town overseer had apparently barricaded himself in his office, which conveniently featured a panic room, but Pod is currently dealing with that. That man has a lot to answer.
For now, I'm working alongside the Albain brothers to manage the immediate aftermath and maintain civil order among thousands of people—both Faunus and humans, though predominantly Faunus miners, plus the administrative workers and technical staff.
That train of thought gives me pause. Before… before everything changed, I wouldn't even have considered any of them as anything other than enemies. I would have started with mass executions on the spot, swift ‘justice’ without mercy or hesitation. And that impulse would have been shared by my troops, who wouldn't have shown this restraint and would currently be brutalizing the prisoners in revenge for years of oppression and probably start mistreating the human population as well.
But we are keeping strict order and won’t let this devolve into a bloodbath.
I will have to discuss the fate of the SDC employees in Ironveil later once we've gathered enough information on individual actions and guilt.
However, the population is in poor physical condition. Not absolutely deplorable or on the immediate verge of starvation, but shows signs of malnourishment and exhaustion enough to be immediately noticeable even at a casual glance. It was disturbingly easy to establish basic order and begin distributing food from the settlement's stockpiles, largely because the people are so ground down and exhausted by their daily existence that they're simply going through the motions without resistance, questions, or even much visible hope for improvement.
To them we are just a change of management.
That's just deeply fucked up when I actually stop and think about it.
Would this have been my fate if Ghira hadn't rescued me all those years ago? Just another broken worker too tired and beaten down to even dream of something better than the next meal?
The logistics of evacuation are already presenting significant issues. Between the vehicles we brought and the ones the settlement possesses, moving everyone is going to be painfully, agonizingly slow. There simply aren't enough vehicles to move this many people safely, and the distance to the nearest Spider clan town or even the closest outlying village is days away.
If I want to evacuate everyone in a reasonable timeframe without leaving people exposed to potential retaliation or Grimm, I'll need to negotiate a new deal with the Spider clan quickly. The food supplies won't last indefinitely with this many mouths to feed, and keeping thousands of people concentrated here isn't sustainable, safe, or strategically sound.
Moments later, Trifa comes into view and offers me a respectful bow..
I'm wearing my full disguise, obviously. The public faces of this liberation operation are Fennec and Ilia; they're the ones the population will remember, celebrate, and associate with their newfound freedom thanks to the White Fang.
"High Leader, we've successfully breached the panic room and have the overseer restrained and ready for interrogation."
"Very well. Let's go."
It's a brief walk toward the main administrative building, our boots echoing on the now-empty streets as liberated workers watch from windows and doorways with mixed expressions.
We ascend the stairs where I find my troops standing guard outside the overseer's former office. They nod respectfully as we pass.
Inside the spacious office, restrained firmly in a chair with his hands secured behind his back with a rope, sits the overseer.
I had initially expected the man to fit the typical corporate villain archetype—an overweight, cowardly bureaucrat with soft hands and softer spine. Some sweating, pathetic figure already begging desperately for mercy and offering bribes or information to save his own skin.
Instead, the overseer appears to be a surprisingly fit middle-aged man with a full, well-maintained beard, long hair pulled back, and wire-frame glasses that give him an almost scholarly appearance. His posture is upright and composed despite being tied, and he's silent—showing no fear, no pleading, no desperate attempts to negotiate or bargain his way out.
He simply watches me with apparent calm.
Interesting. This man is either exceptionally brave, remarkably foolish, or believes he still holds some advantage in this situation.
The overseer raises a brow with mild curiosity rather than fear. "I assume you're the leader of this group that just committed a terrorist attack on SDC property?"
I don't reply immediately. Instead, I grab a nearby chair; the legs scraping against the floor and move it closer to his position. I take a seat in reverse, straddling it so my arms can rest comfortably on the backrest while I support my chin on top of them.
'Pod, start recording everything.'
'UNDERSTOOD, COMMANDER.'
Only then do I shift my attention fully to the older man, studying him carefully through my visor. No visible augmentations. "Terrorist attack is an interesting characterization. I prefer 'liberation,' personally."
The older man's expression doesn't change—no fear, no anger, no indignation, just that same strange calm. "Semantics and propaganda framing. You've seized SDC property through violence, killed and wounded our people performing their lawful duties, and disrupted legally sanctioned mining operations. By any established legal definition, that constitutes terrorism under Atlesian law and international conventions."
Smartass.
"Legal definitions written exclusively by the very corporations and kingdom we're fighting against," I counter evenly. "The same legal frameworks that somehow justify indentured servitude and labor exploitation. Convenient, isn't it?"
He doesn't take the bait, simply waiting with that same calm attitude.
So I will start with something simple. "Tell me about your operations here. How long have you been the overseer of Ironveil?"
"Four years, three months, and seventeen days," he answers without hesitation, his tone remaining neutral. "Before that, I managed a smaller facility in southern Mistral for two years, primarily focused on storage and maintenance. Decent posting, adequate resources."
So not a complete newcomer.
"And in those four years, you've maintained deliberately substandard housing for your workers, provided inadequate safety equipment, rationed food, enforced punishing work schedules, and perpetuated what amounts to indentured servitude through predatory debt systems," I state flatly.
Trifa's intelligence reports were thorough after all.
The older man adjusts his glasses with a slight shoulder movement, since his hands remain tied behind him. "The housing and equipment were adequate for operational upkeep and met minimum legal standards—barely, but legally sufficient. I would have strongly preferred to be assigned fully automated mining equipment and industrial robots instead of workers; machines don't require housing, medical care, food supplies, or recreational facilities, and they operate at completely consistent efficiency without complaint, injury, or the need for motivation." His tone carries no malice or defensiveness, just cold, clinical pragmatism. "Alas, my repeated requests for mechanization upgrades were consistently ignored by my superiors. These particular Dust veins aren't considered strategically important enough to justify the capital investment."
He pauses, seemingly considering his words. "Unfortunately, I wasn't lucky enough to receive that automated posting. I had to work with the resources I was allocated—which meant managing a primarily organic workforce with all the annoyance that entails."
The casual, matter-of-fact tone of that statement is so detached, strange in a way.
"So you created what amounts to a labor camp," I observe, keeping my voice even despite the anger building in me. My eyes narrow behind the visor at the implications of those two words.
"I optimized the mining procedure that maximized productivity metrics while minimizing operational costs and overhead," he corrects with the same matter-of-fact tone. "Everything you observed about this settlement's structure was designed using established principles to maintain workforce compliance and reduce disruptions. I'm well aware that workers naturally develop tendencies toward complaint, demands for improved conditions, and occasionally organized resistance. I preferred to prevent those situations from developing rather than dealing with them through execution or harsh disciplinary measures like many of my peers favor."
He shifts slightly in his restraints. "It's simply basic behavioral engineering and psychological conditioning—provide just enough to prevent complete despair while extracting maximum labor value from each unit. Create systems where workers police themselves through social pressure and shared hardship. Of course, when individuals died from overwork, workplace accidents, or health complications, it was... unfortunate and created administrative paperwork. Finding replacements always takes time and resources I'd rather spend elsewhere."
He's speaking about people. Human beings and Faunus. Living, breathing people with families and dreams. And he discusses them like outdated equipment. This isn’t about morals or ethics, it's just…
"You're remarkably forthcoming with this information," I note, curious about his apparent openness with us. Most people in his position would deny everything, making excuses, or begging for mercy.
"Why wouldn't I be forthcoming?" The man's expression shows puzzlement at the question, as if I've asked a dumb question. "I'm clearly going to be executed regardless of what I say or don't say. Your organization has a well-documented and publicized history of executing SDC personnel, especially those holding a position of authority, I’d rather be shot than be flayed alive."
Flayed alive? I don’t recall anybody doing that.
"Though I must admit, I'm surprised that the White Fang is still active. The consensus was that your group would collapse into infighting and self-destruct within six months after Atlas successfully eliminated your psychopathic leaders. That deserted island should have been filled with ruins and corpses by now."
Is he deliberately trying to get an emotional rise out of me by mentioning Ghira's and MY supposed death?
Besides, Menagerie is thriving and will be a beacon of progress and prosperity.
"The White Fang will endure as long as the idea still lives and breathes in the hearts of our people," I state firmly, refusing to take his bait. "You can kill individuals, destroy bases, and disrupt operations, but you can't kill what we represent—the combined dream of all Faunus seeking equality and justice."
"Ideological rhetoric and propaganda," he dismisses with a slight, almost dismissive shake of his head. "But I acknowledge that idealistic messaging is always highly effective for recruitment and maintaining morale among true believers, I suppose. Military movements throughout history have demonstrated that consistently."
He rolls his head. "Still, none of that philosophical discussion changes the empirical reality that you're all still alive. More than that; you've apparently grown more organized than a ragtag militia. This attack was executed with surprising tactical precision that your organization previously lacked. Someone with actual formal military training and strategic education is clearly directing your forces now, not just passionate amateurs driven by hot emotions."
His eyes study me with renewed interest. "Which raises the question—who could that be? Someone with Atlesian military academy training? A defector from one of the kingdom's armed forces? Or perhaps..." He trails off meaningfully, clearly fishing for information.
Which I will not give.
"You're analyzing your own defeat rather calmly," I observe, deliberately ignoring his probing question. "Almost enthusiastically, even. Most people in your position wouldn’t have this attitude."
"Professional curiosity," he responds with that same calm. "I spent years studying organizational efficiency, workforce management systems, and behavioral psychology. I can appreciate technical excellence even when it's disadvantageous to me personally."
I lean forward slightly. "You mentioned earlier that you expected to die. You've accepted that as inevitable. Yet you're cooperating fully and voluntarily with this interrogation without any coercion. Why? What's your angle?"
The overseer lets out a small, humorless laugh. "Because I value my life, obviously—it's my primary motivating factor. None of the operational or structural information I'm providing actually matters in any meaningful long-term sense. You'll evacuate these people and abandon this facility within days, and the SDC will inevitably recover and reoccupy this location within weeks or months, with a much stronger and better security and a fresh batch of new organic workers along with a new overseer."
He meets my gaze steadily, his eyes showing that same analytical detachment. "However, if there's even a small statistical chance that my full cooperation and valuable information extends my lifespan by days, hours, or even just minutes, then the logical choice based on cost-benefit analysis is to cooperate completely and thoroughly. Self-preservation is the most fundamental and powerful human motivation that overrides nearly all other considerations."
"Even for a psychopath like yourself?"
"Especially for someone with… particular profile," he corrects without any shame, denial, or defensiveness whatsoever. "I have no emotional attachment to the SDC beyond my employment contract and salary deposits, no loyalty to corporate ideology or nationalist sentiment, no personal investment. I'm simply a trained professional who optimized the systems I was given to oversee in order to maximize my performance metrics and earn my bonuses."
He pauses, seeming to consider the question again. "If you're asking whether I experience guilt, remorse, or moral discomfort about the living and working conditions I deliberately implemented here—" He tilts his head slightly. "No. I don't. I understand intellectually and theoretically that others would find my methods morally objectionable, especially regarding my human workers. But I fail to see how their subjective emotional reactions constitute my personal problem or responsibility. After all, every single person here voluntarily signed their employment contracts—I didn't force anyone at gunpoint. They made their choices based on available information, however limited."
Contracts your corporations coerced desperate people into through economic manipulation and exploitation of poverty, you asshole.
But the complete lack of pretense, justification, or self-deception is somehow unsettling compared to outright sadistic cruelty. At least cruel bastards are driven by something; hatred, fear, trauma, sadism, anger. This man simply... doesn't care on any emotional level. He engineered systematic suffering with the same clinical detachment and optimization mindset someone might use to streamline a production line.
"You're clearly an educated man," I observe, noting his sophisticated vocabulary.
"SDC Academy initially—dual degree in industrial engineering and resource management with honors," he responds readily, almost proudly. "Then I completed an advanced graduate degree in organizational psychology and behavioral systems at Atlas Private Institute, which is a specialized corporate university funded by multiple major companies. Top fifteen percent of my graduating class." He tilts his head slightly, that gaze never leaving me. "I assume you're attempting to create a profile? Or perhaps trying to understand how someone like me develops? Nature versus nurture debate?"
"Something like that," I acknowledge. "And I'm trying to understand exactly what kind of person I'm dealing with. So at least give me the short version of how you ran things here."
There is a short silence as he tilts his head to the side.
"Eighteen-hour shifts rotating every three days with mandatory six-hour rest periods," he responds readily, as if reciting a well-practiced presentation. "Safety protocols were deliberately minimized to mandatory legal basics—protective eyewear and basic respirators only for high-concentration Dust exposure zones. More comprehensive protective equipment would have significantly impacted the operational budget without generating proportional productivity gains. The cost-benefit analysis didn't support it."
He continues. "As for disciplinary measures to maintain order, I implemented a three-tier progressive system: verbal warnings and documentation for minor infractions, food ration reductions for repeated violations to create immediate negative reinforcement, and solitary confinement in the holding cells for serious disruptions or signs of organized resistance."
"Solitary confinement?" I ask.
"Seventy-two hours maximum duration in soundproofed cells with minimal lighting and no contact," he elaborates with the same tone. "Highly effective psychological conditioning for breaking early signs of resistance and dramatically reducing recidivism rates among potential troublemakers. The data supports its effectiveness conclusively." He pauses, almost thoughtfully. "The psychological impact was significantly more cost-effective and sustainable than physical punishment, which often created martyrs and increased collective resentment among the broader worker population. Better to break them mentally than create symbols of resistance."
"And you saw nothing wrong with this system?" I ask, wanting to understand his perspective.
"Wrong?" He seems genuinely confused by the question, his brow furrowing. "It was optimally designed for its intended purpose using established behavioral psychology principles. Worker compliance increased by thirty-seven percent after full implementation, and productivity metrics improved by twenty-two percent while reducing security incidents by forty-one percent. By any objective, measurable standard, it was demonstrably successful. The numbers don't lie."
"We're talking about people here." I let the statement hang in the air.
Both Faunus AND humans.
"People are simply biological units of production in this operational context," he counters with the same matter-of-fact tone, showing no other emotion. "I understand that description sounds callous to someone with your... ideological perspective and emotional investment. But from a pure management and economic standpoint, emotional considerations only complicate efficiency and introduce unnecessary variables that reduce optimal outcomes."
I lean back slightly, trying to study him more. "You mentioned earlier you preferred to avoid executions unlike your peers. But your system still killed people."
"Indirect casualties through acceptable attrition versus direct terminations—there's a meaningful distinction," he clarifies. "Executing workers creates immediate fear and compliance but also creates martyrdom narratives and potential uprising triggers that destabilize the workforce. Allowing controlled attrition through calculated acceptable loss rates maintains steady productivity while avoiding dramatic incidents that might attract unwanted attention from regulatory oversight or, apparently, well-organized militant liberation groups."
He pauses, almost reflectively. "Though clearly my risk assessment models were significantly flawed in that latter category. I didn't anticipate this level of coordinated military attack from your organization."
"How many died under your management?" I ask directly.
"Ninety-seven over the four-year operational period," he answers without hesitation, emotion, or any sign of remorse. "Sixty-three from mining accidents—mostly tunnel collapses in sectors where I strategically deferred structural reinforcement to reduce maintenance costs and stay under budget. Twenty-three from medical complications that could theoretically have been prevented with better healthcare access. Eight from various other causes including malnutrition-related organ failure and three confirmed suicide by hanging in the barracks."
He somehow manages to twitch his nose and adjust his glasses again. "That's actually a relatively low mortality rate compared to similar facilities across Mistral and Atlas territories—approximately 1.2 percent annually. Some of my colleagues in comparable positions operate at much higher attrition rates of fifteen to twenty-five percent. I was actually commended for my efficiency in that regard."
Fucking asshole. Bragging about having a "low" death rate as if that somehow makes it acceptable.
"And you documented all of this?" I ask.
"Extensively and meticulously," he confirms with something that actually resembles professional pride. "Comprehensive record-keeping is essential for proper management analysis, performance reviews, and demonstrating value to corporate oversight. Every incident, every disciplinary action, every efficiency metric, every cost-saving measure—all documented in exhaustive detail with supporting data." His tone becomes almost boastful. "I actually received multiple commendations from regional management specifically for my thorough documentation practices and data-driven approach. Some called it the gold standard for facility reporting."
I feel something cold and hard settle in my chest—a certainty forming.
"Where are these records kept?"
"In my desk—locked drawer, left side. The key is in my right jacket pocket." He nods toward where his expensive coat hangs on a nearby rack. "Though I should mention as a matter of full disclosure, some of those files contain information that most people with conventional morality would consider... reprehensible activity. Sexual assaults by security personnel that I thoroughly documented but didn't need any discipline because the victims returned to work afterward and productivity wasn't significantly impacted. Systematic theft of worker wages by payroll administrators that I was fully aware of but deliberately ignored because it created useful financial leverage for maintaining control. Several documented instances where I deliberately withheld medical treatment from injured workers as behavioral correction and to discourage future safety complaints."
My frown deepens behind my helmet, my jaw clenching. "You're freely admitting crimes."
"Crimes?" He seems genuinely puzzled by my words, his head tilting. "According to whose legal framework and jurisdiction? Under SDC corporate charter and Atlesian commercial law governing remote operations, I operated well within my granted authority as facility overseer. The workers all signed legally binding contracts that explicitly gave me broad discretionary powers over their working conditions, dispute resolution, and disciplinary measures. Everything was legal and contractually authorized, if perhaps morally questionable by conventional ethical standards of some privileged idealogist—which, as I've already established, don't particularly concern me personally."
I stand abruptly; the chair scraping harshly against the floor. I walk toward his desk, which I now notice is damaged and broken nearly in half.
I kneel down beside the damaged furniture and force open the locked left drawer, shattering the remaining wood with my strength.
Inside, I find a substantial stack of files, each one meticulously labeled and organized with almost obsessive precision. Incident reports. Disciplinary records. Medical documentation. Financial discrepancies and payroll irregularities. All in neat, color-coded folders with tabs and cross-references.
I pull out the first file and begin reading.
Then the second.
Then the third.
And by the end of the day the SDC overseer hangs from a hastily constructed gallows in the town plaza. His body swaying gently in the evening wind.
He's not alone on that gallows—twelve others join him, all from administrative and supervisory positions. Those who were part of security who were guilty of similar crimes were already dead, killed during the initial assault.
The population watches in silence. Some cry. Some cheer weakly. Most just stare with hollow eyes, too exhausted and broken to show much emotion at all.
I stand among them, still in my disguise, and watch as justice; crude and immediate as it is, gets served for the first time in this godforsaken land.
Because at the end of the day, the face of a monster is nothing more than a bureaucrat.
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I'm sitting on top of the wall, legs dangling over the edge, watching the night befall to this part of the world. Below me, people of Ironveil are resting.
Actually resting.
For the first time in years, they're sleeping in their homes without worrying about impossible quotas, arbitrary punishments, or whether they'll survive tomorrow's shift. They'll wake up to a new day and embrace reality—not a cruel dream that will be shattered by morning sirens.
From here, I can see lights flickering in the windows as families settle. Some are eating real food, not the nutritional minimum paste. Others are simply sitting together, talking quietly, processing their newfound freedom.
Hope.
I can actually see it returning to some of their eyes, that fragile spark of life that the SDC systematically tried to extinguish. And yes, that includes the human workers as well, not just the Faunus. Suffering doesn't discriminate, even if the bastards running this place did.
Obviously, I won't be bringing them to Menagerie. They'll be transported to Spider clan territory as originally planned. Some will probably settle there permanently. Others might try to disappear into Mistral's cities. Either way, they'll be free to choose.
For my goals, I cannot exclude them.
The reason I had Pod record the entire interrogation wasn't just for documentation or some sort of evidence. It was so Pod could study and perfectly mimic the overseer's voice and mannerisms. He has already supplanted the man in all official communications with SDC regional headquarters, and everyone at corporate remains completely fooled that Ironveil continues operating normally.
The power blackout? Just an unfortunate maintenance incident caused by an incompetent worker. A minor inconvenience, quickly resolved. Nothing to investigate.
That deception bought us time. Time we're using efficiently to catalogue and salvage everything of value from this settlement, especially the raw Dust they've been stockpiling.
All that's left now is for me to travel and negotiate the transportation deal with the Spider clan to move everyone out of this hellhole to safety.
"Adam?"
The familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn to my left to find Ilia standing a few feet away.
"Are you done for the day?" I ask. "After all, you were one of the public faces of this liberation. The people will want to see you, talk to you personally, thank you for what you've given them."
Ilia doesn't respond. Instead, she silently moves closer and settles beside me on the wall, her legs dangling next to mine. Then she wraps her arms around me in a hug, her head resting against my upper arm.
I frown slightly but I don't reject her. Instead, I wrap one arm around her shoulders and gently caress her back in soothing circles.
"I didn't think I would see you that angry again," she finally says quietly, her voice muffled against my jacket. "Not since... that time at Vale." She trails off, not needing to finish.
"Was it that obvious?"
"Even with you wearing that helmet the entire time, I could see it," Ilia responds, pulling back slightly to look at me directly since I’m not wearing that helmet now. "The way you held yourself, the tension in your shoulders, how your voice got quieter and more controlled. I know you, Adam.."
I have company defenses, so why do these strong emotions slip up?
"That man..." I start, then pause, choosing my words carefully as I stare out at the dark horizon. "That bureaucrat made me angrier than almost any enemy we've faced. More than the bastards who killed my Father, more than the slavers we've eliminated, more than her. And he did it without even trying, without hurling a single insult."
I feel my jaw clench involuntarily. "At least people driven by hatred or sadistic cruelty are motivated by something fundamentally human, as fucked up as that sounds. There's emotion there, twisted as it might be. But him? There was no malice. Just... cold, calculated efficiency. Optimizing suffering like it was a production line."
Ilia's grip tightens slightly, encouraging me to continue.
"I wanted to tear that man apart piece by piece," I admit with brutal honesty. "Make him truly suffer for days, make him understand what he'd done to all those people. Make him feel something, anything at all." I take a slow breath. "But I controlled myself because I know that kind of torture for its own sake is wrong, crosses a line I don't want to cross. I already failed Father's teachings once when I let rage control me and it almost cost me my life and everyone I care for. I won't let that happen again."
"I know you won't," Ilia says softly, her hand finding mine and squeezing reassuringly. "But you also know that holding all these feelings inside, bottling everything up for yourself is unhealthy. Kali has told you this many times—you need to actually talk about things instead of just compartmentalizing everything."
"That advice was directed at you as well, Ilia," I point out with a slight smile. "You change colors when those emotions get the best of you."
"Shush. We're talking about you right now, not deflecting my issues."
I shake my head, allowing a smile to curl my lips before I take another slow breath, forcing the residual anger and dark thoughts down where they belong. "It's another reminder of why we have to do this, Ilia. Why we can't stop fighting, can't compromise on our goals, can't accept halfway measures or symbolic victories. Because that bastard currently hanging in the plaza was, according to his own words, one of the nicer overseers. Can you even imagine how much worse the others must be? The ones who actually enjoy the cruelty?"
"I can imagine," she whispers. "And we'll tear down every one of these places, Adam. We'll hang every bastard who built them."
"And burn those places to the ground," I add with cold conviction. "Until nothing remains but ashes."
"Until nothing remains." Ilia echoes.
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AN: This was a little difficult to get out but here it is
Comments
Shorter than joe Mama
...damn...
