In his brief but oh-so-productive past 30 or so hours in this new body, Jack- or rather, Jacques, as he had to get used to calling himself (the distinction sometimes threw him off)- liked to think, that with his absurd and magnificent adaptability; he had grown into a true connoisseur of the finer things in life.
Not just the obvious, such as the opulence of sprawling mansions, the gleam of polished marble, or the soft whisper of silk against his skin, but the subtler pleasures. The things that separated men of his stature from the unwashed masses.
Take food, for instance.
The food of the rich wasn't just something to stuff down your throat; it was an art form. No, scratch that. It was a performance. A spectacle. A declaration that screamed, I am better than you! A single plate could cost more than the average ragie wagie's bi-monthly salary, and to the arch enemies of the goddamn commies, who that somehow managed to pop out in this world as well, that was precisely the point.
We won. You didn't. Seeeeethe.
A carefully seared cut of Atlasian frost salmon, flown in fresh and paired with an eccentric drizzle of Vacuoan desert honey glaze. A glass of Mistralian plum wine, aged in barrels older than most family trees. And the bread—oh, the bread. It was not some peasant loaf, mind you, but a slice infused with a whisper, an actual whisper, of imported north-eastern Mistralian spices that were so rare that they made the price tag of a luxury airship seem modest.
But it wasn't about the flavours, though they were, of course, exquisite. Nor was it about the presentation, though it was undoubtedly flawless. No, this was about what it represented. Eating like this wasn't survival, it was dominance. Pure, unbridled dominance.
Every bite was a middle finger to mediocrity, an edible proof that Jacques Schnee was a god among men.
And yet, there was one glaring issue with the food of the rich: it was small.
He grimaced as he stared down at his plate. Nestled in the center of a dish larger than his face was…a dollop. A bloody dollop of foam. Foam! Jacques swirled his wine and let out a quiet, beleaguered sigh. Even his sighs were rich.
For fuck's sake, how was he supposed to bulk up with this shit? Two hundred pounds—that was the goal. Anything less, and pulling off the pedostache would be a lost cause. He'd tried shaving it off, gods knew he had, but the results had been... disastrous. One slip of the razor and he'd nearly taken his own eye out.
Jacques scowled at the memory, running a hand over the stubborn mustache. It wasn't going anywhere, clearly. The universe, or at least this body, had made its stance pretty damn clear. Fine. He'd take the hint.
Hmm.
There was a moment of silence as he stared, fork poised, at what the chef had dared to call a meal. Perhaps it was part of some sick, upper-class joke he hadn't been privy to. A rite of passage? Or maybe, just maybe, it was another test from this maddening world to remind him that even gods occasionally suffered indignities.
But for now, Jacques Schnee, conqueror of corporate empires and now a victim of haute cuisine, would have to settle for this insulting, microscopic salmon.
Because, unlike the typical ragie wagie, Jacques Schnee could afford to suffer with dignity.
But a misery shared is a misery halved, or so the saying went. At the very least, Jacques could indulge in his supper—because calling it "dinner" was far too pedestrian—with the best company available: himself.
Well, himself and his much younger, blood-related company, who apparently didn't share his disdain for the overpriced joke masquerading as a meal on his plates paid by his own damn money. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it, the little heathen.
Jacques's eyes flicked across the table, watching the boy take measured bites and savor the minuscule portions as if they were actually worth the price tag. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Youth. They never knew any better.
Taking a sip of his wine, at least that lived up to the hype, Jacques leaned back slightly and adopted the sort of fatherly tone he imagined rich patriarchs were supposed to use during moments like this.
"Tell me, son," he began, setting his glass down with care, "how are you faring these days?"
Whitley paused mid-bite, glancing up from his plate. He set his fork down neatly at the edge of his plate. "I'm doing well, Father," he said politely but softer than Jacques expected. "Studies are going well, and I've been shadowing the board meetings like you suggested."
Jacques nodded, leaning back in his chair with his wine in hand. "Good. That's... adequate." He hesitated seeing the boy look at him. Were those fucking stars in his eyes?!"I'm sure you're handling it better than I would. Those meetings are tedious, aren't they?"
A large smile flickered on Whitley's face. "They can be, but I'm learning a lot. I've even started reviewing the company's reports to understand things better. I will not disappoint you, father!"
Jacques blinked. The boy sounded proud, even excited, and for once, Jacques felt like he wasn't completely botching this whole parenting thing. Setting his glass down, he gave Whitley a genuine smile. "That's excellent, son. Really. I'm proud of you for putting in the effort. Honestly, it's more than I'd manage."
And that was the truth. For all his divine favor and apparent superiority, Jacques still had no bloody clue how to run this colossal money-printing machine of a company. So, his solution? Just pretend it wasn't his problem. Genius.
Got a problem? Just don't care. Voila!
Sasuga Jacques-sama! Truly blessed by the wisdom of the Heavens!
Luckily, "Jacques" was seemingly a pro at delegation. Telling his kid to focus on meetings and "all the important shite" seemed to be a staple move. Add to that his vice president whom Jacques had yet to deal with directly and was, disappointingly, a sleazy-looking middle-aged man and not a stunning and skimpily dressed big tittied secretary who'd call him 'Prez~♥ahn♥'.
He let out another rich sigh.
At least the guy seemed competent. Probably. Jacques hadn't interacted with him beyond forwarding a few "proceed as usual" emails and getting back a sycophantic "as you command."
People sure loved that phrase, huh? Starting to feel like Jacques had made them say it on purpose. Creepy, but efficient.
Between Whitley's enthusiasm and the VP's autopilot, the future of SDC seemed to be in good hands. At least until Jacques finished downloading whatever managerial abilities this body's brain might have stashed somewhere. It was happening—slowly, sure—but it was...a process.
Ah well, Jacques thought with a mental shrug. If it's running itself, that just means more time for the important things.
Like himself!
And his survival!
And speaking of his survival...
"Tell me, Whitley, the apple of my eye, the future of our name, and the one child who doesn't disappoint me." Jacques began with a tone as casual as one could manage when steering the conversation toward unknown waters. It worked seeing how the boy was preening like a peacock."What do you think of Huntsmen?"
Whitley blinked at the abrupt shift in topic, his fork hovering over his plate. "Huntsmen? "Well, they're... necessary, aren't they? Protecting people from the Grimm and all that. They're brave, I suppose."
Jacques made a vague gesture with his hand swatting away the obvious answer. "Yes, yes, all very noble and altruistic," he said, his voice dripping with mockery."But that's the fairy tale version. I'm asking what you think. The reality of them."
Whitley hesitated, clearly sensing that Jacques wanted to lead the question somewhere. He straightened his posture, a habit drilled into him since childhood by Old Jacques, and carefully chose his words.
"They serve a purpose," he said, diplomatic as ever. "But they can be... unpredictable. Some of them don't seem to respect authority, which can make them a liability."
Jacques smirked, swirling the last of his wine in his glass. "At the end of the day, they're just tools. Expensive, volatile tools."Unpredictable. A liability. Yes, precisely." He took a slow sip, savoring the rich flavor. Damn, this shit was good. "And yet, we pour resources into them, idolize these glorified mercenaries like they're some kind of saviours. Why?"
Whitley, ever the dutiful audience, set his fork down and gave his full attention—or at least a convincing imitation of it. It was something Jacques himself might've done in his position. "Because people need heroes," the boy said after a moment of thought. "It gives them something to believe in. Something to aspire to. Without that, society becomes... restless."
That..was actually a good point.Huh... Jacques didn't really think of it that way.
Jacques tapped a finger against his lips, making a noise of contemplation. "I suppose that would be one way of looking at it. But that wasn't the answer I was looking for." His smirk widened. "Think deeper, Whitley."
"I'm... not sure," Whitley admitted after a moment shifting in his chair. "Is it for control? To keep people distracted? Or..." He trailed off.
Jacques chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "Not bad guesses, my boy. You're circling the point." He reached for his wine again. "The answer is simpler than that, though. Huntsmen are powerful, and when you're powerful, the world bends over for you."
He let that sit for a moment before continuing."Wealth, influence, and strength—are the pillars of power. Atlasian elites have the first, the politicians hold the second, and the Huntsmen wield the third. They're feared because of it."
Whitley nodded, though there was still some uncertainty in his expression. After a beat, he asked hesitantly, "What if you have all three?"
Jacques grinned, letting his Aura flare briefly for effect. A faint violet shimmer radiated from him, the light catching on the glass and silverware, making everything gleam in a weird, almost otherworldly way.
The glow cast deep shadows on his face, making his blue eyes look sharper, colder—more dangerous. He spent several hours practicing this in the mirror last night, and now, seeing the absolute awe in Whitley's expression, he was glad he did.
"You become God."
Whitley's eyes widened, his gaze fixed on the glow. His mouth fell slightly ajar, the words he'd been about to say forgotten.
Oh, those were definitely stars in his eyes.
"Strength, influence, wealth, these are things I've amassed and mastered," Jacques continued, leaning in slightly as if sharing a great secret. "And let me tell you, Whitley, the world doesn't just bend for me; it kneels. And one day..." He reached out, patting Whitley's cheek. "It will kneel for you too."
Whitley nodded quickly, with so much enthusiasm, it was almost cute. Jacques just hoped the boy didn't snap his neck. "Of course, Father!" Whitley added eagerly.
"Wealth and influence are crucial, but there comes a time when someone stupid enough will challenge you. That's when you need to prove you're more than capable of bloodying your hands."
Whitley's eyes widened slightly as understanding dawned—or what he thought was understanding. "Like the White Fang," he said with a glare.
Jacques blinked. Not what he meant. He'd been thinking of that pompous deer, but sure. That worked too. "Exactly," he replied. On that note, they've been suspiciously quiet since his ass got here.
They must be up to some nefarious no-good shit.
Whatever the White Fang was up to, Jacques figured he'd deal with it later. For now, he had more important things to focus on. Like gaslighting his daughter!
With that, he leaned back in his chair. "Now, since we're in agreement, Whitley..." he said with a grin. "Don't you think it's about time we unlocked your Aura?"
Whitley's eyes lit up almost instantly, and a huge smile spread across his face. He was all in, practically glowing with excitement.
Jacques couldn't help but smirk. This was going to be fun.
"And I know just the right teacher for you," he said, his grin widening.
"A perfect teacher?" Whitley asked, a confused look replacing his smile. "Is it an acquaintance of yours?"
"No. It is not," Jacques replied, walking to stand in front of him, and ruffling his hair."In fact, she is someone you know very well. She's your sister, after all."
"Oh."
He ignored the way his son's smile fell.
Jacques already had intentions of fixing his relationship with all the Schnee children, but he knew Winter would be the toughest to reach.
Unlike Whitley, who was always within arm's reach, and Weiss, who Jacques could find at Beacon, Winter was elusive. She had a life of her own, far from him and far from Atlas.
For one, being a professional huntress meant Winter was often sent on long missions, sometimes months at a time, to distant lands crawling with Grimm. Jacques had no intention of stepping foot in those swarmy dirty places. hell no.
Even if Winter was in Atlas, it wasn't like he could just waltz up and knock on her door. She had long since moved out, staying in the military barracks near the academy. Jacques couldn't just stroll into a base and demand to see her.
Well, he definitely could. But the HQ was like ten miles away, and he'd have to tell the servants, take security with him, and then face the cold—like hell cold outside. Yeah, it wasn't worth the effort.
Besides, if he showed up at her barracks, Winter would just run off and refuse to meet him. But mostly? It was cold as hell outside.
But if there was one thing he knew about Winter, it was that she wouldn't ignore her brother. That girl might hate him—but she loved Whitley, and that was a chink in her armor. Hopefully.
If there was even a hint of danger to him, she'd come running back. Fingers crossed.
Thankfully, he had some nice but still unknown terrorists to blame!
Of course, her hatred for him was a problem. Winter's respect for him was nonexistent. But... things change. The pathetic admiration for Tin Can Man will soon be out of the picture, and that, at least, gave Jacques some leverage. God willing.
All in all? an eleven out of ten plan as expected of him!
He could finally show her that he was changing.
Whitley would be trained in preparation for the plot.
Winter could repair her relationship with her brother, thanks to Jacques, which would earn him points in her book.
And most of all, Jacques could use Whitley's training as an excuse to have some actual, filling fucking food on the table.
Forget a bird or two; Jacques was bringing down the whole damn nest with one stone!
The Flying Island was without a shade of doubt the greatest wonder of Remnant. Its existence was considered a miracle, a testament to the might of the relatively young Atlasian kingdom. It was a declaration to the other kingdoms: Atlas is healed, and stronger than before.
Atop the island sat the Capital of the Kingdom of Atlas, a metropolis that was proudly and unrivalled the most advanced and well-protected city on the planet. How could it not be, when it was home to both the Schnee Dust Corporation and the Atlasian Military?
The former was the greatest economic empire ever to grace Remnant. The largest Dust exporting and manufacturing company in the world, it enjoyed nearly a monopoly on the substance that powered the world. There wasn't a place where its influence didn't reach. The Schnee name had become synonymous with Dust, all thanks to the world's richest man, Jacques Schnee.
While the latter wasn't as dominant on a global scale as the SDC, the Atlasian Military was still widely regarded as the best in the world. The best huntsmen and huntresses from the Kingdom of Atlas served within its ranks, all led by General James Ironwood. Their headquarters were located at Atlas Academy, where they also recruited the finest future guardians of Atlas.
These two behemoths made crossing Atlas a fool's errand.
It was funny, in a tragic way, how she was connected to both.
Her footsteps echoed as she walked down the secret tunnels beneath the academy. Her destination was the same as it had been for the last eight months. Every day, she crossed these empty halls, guarded by the most modern Atlasian Knights, each equipped with the latest weaponry.
They couldn't afford to use Huntsmen as guards down here. The number of people who knew the truth about what resided here could be counted on both hands. That was already a massive risk.
No human or Faunus was allowed down here.
Certainly, no woman.
None but her.
She stopped before a massive gate, forged from the sturdiest metals Atlas had to offer, designed to ensure that no one could get in, and no one could get out. She was the only one capable of opening it.
She placed her palm on the scanner and channelled some of her Aura into it. Soon, she could hear the gears turning within the wall as the massive doors began to part. She stepped inside, closing the gate behind her.
Ahead, she saw a small house. As she moved toward the door, she paused for a moment to force a smile on her face; one that reached her eyes, even though it felt fake.
Just like she had done for years back then.
She opened the door and stepped inside. The house's interior contrasted harshly to the cold, sterile halls outside the gate. this was a place of comfort for the greatest and proudest treasure of Atlas, after all.
It had been designed to feel as homely as possible, ensuring that its sole resident would feel at ease, which seemed to be the case given the state of the kitchen.
"Good afternoon, Fria," She greeted, startling the elder woman from her cooking.
"Oh!" Fria exclaimed, turning to face her. "Oh, hello, dear. Is it time for your visit already?"
It made her stomach churn, seeing the older woman. Not that Lady Fria had ever done anything to offend her, quite the opposite, in fact. It was how this frail, elderly lady was one of, if not the strongest human on the planet.
It sickened her how someone who appeared so harmless could so easily crush her. How she was at her mercy whenever they were near each other.
The feeling of powerlessness in the presence of another person—it reminded her of the past.
It reminded her of Him.
"No, I just had a bit of time, so I decided to come a little earlier today," she explained, lifting the bag in her hand. "I also brought some new books for you to read."
The Winter Maiden smiled. "Ooh, you just know what to say to make this old lady happy," she said. "But that's for later. I'm trying to make this dish that my late husband used to love, but I just can't seem to remember the recipe."
The younger woman set down the bag and tossed her jacket over a nearby chair. "Well, it seems that we should just keep trying until we get it right then," she said as she put on an apron and rolled up her sleeves.
"I would never say no to spending time in my kitchen," Fria laughed softly. "It does wonders to calm the nerves."
She tried her best not to let the nervousness slip into her voice, but it was there at the thought of a restless Maiden. "Oh? Something soured your mood, Fria?"
The older lady huffed, hands on her hips. "That rascal Nicholas. You wouldn't believe what he did."
Her eyes widened slightly at the annoyance in the Winter Maiden's voice. Realization hit her a second later, and she did her best to keep the pity from showing on her face.
It was happening more often these days.
"What did he do this time?" she asked with a forced smile.
"His only daughter—my pupil, mind you—gave birth, and he never told me," Fria harrumphed, shaking her head. "A whole week, and I'm just told. I ought to smack him on the head."
It wasn't a week ago.
It had been twenty-four years ago.
She chuckled softly, trying to keep the mood light. "Well, I guess someone's keeping secrets."
"Oh, look at me complain," Fria said, placing a hand on her cheek, a hint of guilt in her voice. "I shouldn't be bothering you with that idiot's actions."
"It's no bother," she quickly reassured her, and it was the truth. "Really, I don't mind."
It was the truth. Back then, he had been nearly always too sick for her to spend any time with him, and when he wasn't, he wasted no time picking up a weapon and venturing out. Hearing about him, and how he was with others, had been... nice.
Fria smiled warmly at her, her eyes softening. "I just hope the little girl grows up to be as sweet as you."
Not knowing what to say, she merely nodded sadly.
The walk back was just as silent and long as the one toward Fria's house. After helping the Maiden with her cooking, which, sadly, they had not succeeded in, the younger woman smiled gently.
"We can always try again tomorrow, Fria," she said warmly, though she knew there was a growing sense of hopelessness behind the smile.
Having said her goodbyes, she left the house. By the time she made it back to the surface, the sun was already beginning to set. There was a strange quietness to the evening, a stillness that seemed to follow her wherever she went.
Resolving that there wasn't much she could do at this time, she made her way toward the Eastern Wing of the Academy, where she resided now. The place wasn't much—smaller than her old home, but not nearly as suffocating as the white mansion she used to live in.
No matter how grand that house had been, she had always felt like it was closing in on her.
Her new place felt like a relief by comparison.
When she got to her apartment, she knew she needed to start on the report about the Maiden. The general needed to be informed about Fria's condition.
Fria always seemed a bit paler every time she visited, and her coughs were becoming more frequent. It wasn't something the older woman ever spoke of directly, but it was obvious enough. Her memory was starting to deteriorate, and though she played it off as insignificant, it was clear that Fria's time was running out.
Her body is breaking apart, she thought to herself, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. At this rate, Fria has a couple more years at best.
The transfer machine was still untested, and from what she had gathered, the general was hesitant to use Fria as its first subject. It seemed that he was waiting to see how things went with the Fall Maiden. He wants to see how it goes with her first, she supposed. It seems the General's loyalty is to Atlas first and foremost.
Her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a buzz from her scroll.
Bzzzzzzzt.
She pulled it from the inner breast pocket of her jacket, frowning as she checked the caller ID.
Bzzzzzzzzt.
An unknown number?
That shouldn't be possible. Her scroll's number wasn't available on the civilian network, and only a handful of people knew about this number. Winter had no reason to believe that whoever was calling had done so by mistake.
Bzzzzzzz—
PiP.
"Specialist A/202 speaking," she said as she answered, using her rank and code. "Who is this?"
[It's me.]
Her body stilled.
How?
Why?
He of all people should never have gotten hold of this number.
"…How did you get this number?" she asked, her voice low and tense."I don't remember giving it to you."
[Ironwood was kind enough to give it to me.] came the taunting reply.
Her heart hammered in her chest. This didn't make any sense. Why would the General give him her number? He knew about their history. He should know better!
But who else would?
Did the General betray me? she thought, a cold dread settling in. Does his influence even reach the head of the military?
Was nowhere safe from him?
[No need to be so afraid, my little breeze. Your dear father is calling you about something important.] he continued. His voice was calm, too calm. [It concerns your little brother's future safety.]
"…Did something happen to him?" she asked, though she almost bit her tongue before the words left her mouth. Have you done something to him? was what she really wanted to say.
[Not at the moment,] he replied coolly, [but that could change very very soon.]
He was threatening her, and it was clear he knew exactly what buttons to press.
[Try to be here in a couple of days,] he added with a pointed tone of voice. 'Or else...' went unsaid.
"…I understand," she replied softly. Her mind was racing with a thousand curses and denial, but she knew she couldn't risk her brother's safety to spite him.
[I knew I could rely on you, my precious Winter.]
The scroll cracked in her grip.