Bastard.
Cunt.
Arrogant prick.
Conniving son of a bitch.
Asswipe.
Jackass. This one was the most common because low-brow twits thought themselves clever.
Cunning little shit. Two-faced weasel.
Throughout his life, both of them, Jac(k)ques had been called a lot of things. Some were crude and straightforward, the kind of colorful language he'd earned back when he was just plain Jack, dodging rent and sweet-talking his way into bar fights. Even when he was much younger, he'd had a talent for avoiding Pa's, admittedly deserved looking back, ass-whoopings, with a success rate of at least one in three.
Other insults were more polished, thinly veiled insults wrapped in faux politeness, like "a man of questionable integrity" or "a businessman of... unique methods." Jacques' memories were full of those. Apparently, rich people-his darling Willow aside- didn't just call you an asshole outright; they dressed it up first.
Oh, and his favorite from Jacques' past life "A gentleman with the morality of a dust mite." Really, who had the time to come up with that shit?
But the point was: he'd heard it all. None of it fazed him. Not the vulgar, not the posh, not even the truly creative ones like "a shark with better hair" or "Atlas' answer to a parasitic fungus." (That one still made him laugh. It wasn't even accurate; he showered daily, thank you very much.)
Did he care? Not a bit. Names were just words. Words were power. And Jacques knew how to wield them better than most.
It was why, even as Willow had fired off her own insults from across the mansion, he just kept laughing. "Scheming cocksucking sack of shit!" she'd shouted with enough venom to drop a fully-grown Nevermore. Please. That barely registered on his scale. You didn't survive two lifetimes of clawing your way to the top without growing a thick skin, or learning to savor a little venom when it was flung your way.
Because here's the thing: if people were calling you names, it meant they were reacting. And if they were reacting, they were paying attention. And attention, well... that was where the real power lay.
Jacques leaned back in the cloud of white fluff. Life wasn't about being liked. It wasn't even about being respected. It was about being effective.
Or at least, that's what Good Ol' Mustache seemed to think. Jacques could practically hear the former owner of this body crooning some smug variation of "All press is good press, darling."
But for some reason, people talking shit about his Aura? That got under his skin.
Disgusting.
Chaotic.
Abnormal.
And the cherry on top? Fucking Evil.
Who the hell just casually called someone's Aura evil? What did that even mean? Like, sure, Jacques had some questionable tendencies (fine, a lot), but calling it evil? That felt personal. And uncalled for.
And the worst part? The accusations weren't even creative! Evil. Seriously? That's the best they had? At least throw in something with flair like mysterious, daring, hell, even dangerously dangerous would've been acceptable. But no, it was always the same tired insults: "unnatural," "chaotic," "disturbing."
Rude.
Still, he'd admit, grudgingly, it made him a little self-conscious. Not much, of course. Just enough to prod his curiosity (and vanity) into asking why his Aura gave off that... gross, off-putting vibe. It was annoying. And Jacques didn't do annoying.
Thus began a string of experiments that involved frantic note-taking, heaps of trial and error, and more than a few disasters that likely shaved a year off his lifespan. Note to self: Escape Rabbit don't need much of an excuse to throw hands. They are more than happy to shank you if asked.
After all that, he finally arrived at the humbling conclusion that he had… absolutely no clue.
True wisdom was knowing you know nothing, right? How very gracious of him to embody such timeless philosophy.
It wasn't a waste of time, though. What he did learn about his Aura confirmed something that had been nagging at him ever since he fully tamed Tranquil Deer.
The Shikigami didn't just rely on his Aura; they messed with it. When summoned, they warped his Aura, adding a "flavor", for lack of a better term, to the already unsettling vibe everyone loved to whine about.
In hindsight, it made perfect sense. The Shikigami were tied directly to his soul. And since Aura was a manifestation of his soul, of course there'd be some overlap. Throw in the fact that his Aura also fueled his Semblance and, by extension, his murder pets.
Well, yeah!
All of them had a distinct influence. The thrashing, jagged tendrils? Courtesy of Divine Dog White and Divine Dog Black '(now officially dubbed Schwarz and Weiss). Because fuck it, their full names were a goddamn mouthful, and he didn't need people looking at him sideways for calling his murder hounds "Divine."
Naming them after his daughter and late mother-in-law is weirder, you say? Yeah, sure, but it's also fucking hilarious. Especially since Weiss was the black one, and Schwarz was the white one. Irony like that was a gift, and he wasn't about to waste it.
Could he have gone with other names? Well, no. Not in RWBY. Not when this world's collective obsession with naming everything after colors practically demanded it. Why not stick to English then and avoid the confusion, you ask? Because fuck you, that's why. Once again, It was hilarious, and two, Atlas was basically Germany in fantasy drag. Of course, he went with German. What kind of unpatriotic Schlumpfbackiger Staubkaiser would he be otherwise?
Jacques lowered his scroll, his brows furrowing slightly. He looked at the white rabbit on his chest.
...Shit. He lost his original train of thought.
He snapped his fingers as it clicked back into place. Right! Shikigami and their weird voodoo shit on his soul.
The dogs made it jagged and thrashy, like a fucking wrecking ball with teeth. The oversized donkey made it... blockier? Not exactly sure how that worked, but it gave him better-than-normal healing, so he wasn't complaining. The serpent? That thing made it all slithery—honestly, he didn't even know how to describe it other than "slitherry." Yeah, that's a word now, shut up. Plus, it gave his sense of smell a nice little upgrade.
The giant frogs made his Aura a little stickier. Nothing that couldn't be dealt with, but it definitely gave his energy a weird, sluggish vibe. And then there was Lil Ol' Nue which made his Aura buzz and crackle, like that one infamous jobber-turned-farmer. Great, really. A bit of electrical current was always a good thing when you needed to smack the shit out of something.
"Ain't that right?" he muttered, talking to the fluffy cloud of rabbits that had taken over his office. There were thousands of them, scattered all around, left, right, in front of him, under him. They were way more comfortable to lay on than his actual chair. Not that he gave a damn. The more rabbits, the better. They helped him keep his Aura in check, draining it while he practiced the little trick Willow taught him.
And, of course, they were excellent at sniffing out bugs—both literal and other bugs. His office was cleaner than freshly washed underwear, thanks to these fluffy little bastards.
Rabbit escape also made his Aura bubble up, and turn pink despite its psychopathic tendencies. He could separate it into little chunks and put them back together like actual bubbles. He scratched the top of the First Rabbit's head. "Bubbles."
Yeah, Jacques should have probably come up with a better description than "bubbly", "zappy" or "slithery." But what the hell did he care? He wasn't a linguist. He wasn't a poet. And sadly, the Third DLC of pretentious, articulate words hadn't dropped yet into Jacques's brain.
What did drop, however, was something a bit more useful.
Jack finally felt like he could grasp the basics of the SDC. Enough to at least take a look at what the hell was going on with it.
Well, for one, the Schnee Dust Company wasn't just a dust company. Oh no, that was just the shiny surface.
While it did start as a glorified local mom-and-pop Dust supplier when Nicholas started it, under Jacques' leadership, the company had turned into an economic behemoth. Dust was the crown jewel they flaunted—and oh, they flaunted that bitch.
But dig a little deeper, and it turned out the SDC was more like a sprawling, borderline dystopian empire with fingers in every pie imaginable. Mining? They owned most of the continents' mines. Logistics? Their trucks, ships, and airships practically ran the supply chain. Tech? Their engineers churned out proprietary tools and weapons faster than you could say "patent infringement." Energy? The SDC had Dust-powered infrastructure contracts locked down tighter than a pimp on his hoes. Construction, resource refinement, R&D, security, and even toothpaste—they had their hands in everything.
Dust might've been the moneymaker, but the SDC's claws gripped far beyond that, stretching into industries most people wouldn't even think to associate with a "Dust company."
It wasn't just a company; it was the company. Disney on fucking steroids. That white snowflake wasn't just a logo: It was a brand, a monolith, a titan.
And Old Mustache had the bitch on a leash.
Not legally, mind you. On paper, Jacques was first and foremost the CEO, fairly chosen by the diligent and oh-so-proud Board of Directors. In terms of ownership, sure, he had what translated to a shit-ton of money, but he was technically just the fourth-largest stakeholder, after the Atlesian government, the board as a collective, and—drumroll please—the Schnee official heir, Willow. Booooo!
But behind the scenes, if you could even call it that, given it was an open secret everyone knew and didn't care enough to pretend otherwise, Jacques was at the helm, uncontested.
Jacques didn't own most of the Schnee Dust Company—not by a long shot. But, he did own the people who did.
On top of the stakes he actually held, Jacques had almost double that through proxies. Between those who worked directly under him and enough blackmail material to make most of the company's board and Atlesian officials scared shitless, Jacques had secured his position.
The kind of material that would keep them up at night, wondering if they ever have to worry about the soap slipping out of their hands just one too many times, at best, a lifetime behind bars; at worst, the death sentence several times over.
Some were just never given that courtesy, and Ol mustache just gave them the boot.
Don't touch kids, lads. it's not good diddling kids.
Some other people, like those dickheads at the City Council, were bound to complain about it being foul play, but let them bash their heads against the wall. They didn't have shit on him. Old Mustache had made every single precaution possible to ensure a bit of distance in case shit hits the fan. Atlas, for all its structure and power, would rather avoid a schism.
Sleeping dogs, as they say.
Of course, Jacques still had to keep a net positive of profits. He couldn't exactly expect people to just let him be if he tried to run the business into the ground. That kind of shit would get noticed, and when people noticed, they'd start asking questions. And that? That was one thing Jacques couldn't afford.
But the point was simple: no matter what happened, Jacques was still in the clear. He would always win. Even if everything around him crumbled, even if the dust settled and left nothing but wreckage in its wake, he'd still be the richest man in the world. No one could take that from him. Not really.
As long as the world still existed, of course. Can't really have shit if Salem won. Grimm didn't really accept cash sadly.
Still, with his current superiority firmly reaffirmed under God's green earth, Jacques moved on through the emails or whatever the hell passed for communication on Remnant—Yelgram or whatever the hell it was called. He briefly skimmed through Michael's report, the one he'd asked to be sent, and by "briefly," he meant a whole damn hour. Holy shit, that thing was long.
There was a summarized report at the end, but Jack had been fucked over by lawyers one too many times to trust their words and one of those "you missed the fine print, dumbass" moments. And fuck that.
All in all, everything was clear. White Fang fucks deserved the rope. They weren't even a question at this point.
The real fun was the part where Atlas would try to spin their shitty dust-delivery problems into an SDC breach of contract. The funny thing was, they never did, and they never would. They'd never dare. Now more than ever.
Since Tin Can Man—fucking hilarious nickname, and it was growing on him—seemed to have developed some weird little fondness for Jacques over the past month. Calling regularly, talking about joint efforts, all that corporate fluff about Atlas showing its appreciation.
Jacques, with all the earnestness of a man who would shit out a salute just to prove his patriotism, of course, agreed. He was a law-abiding citizen and a devoted subject of the Glorious Kingdom of Atlas, after all. Hell, he'd pop a boner for the flag if the national anthem had better percussion. (please ignore the sarcasm dripping.)
Eh, whatever. The SDC already had its fingers deep in weapon manufacturing and god knows what else's bum. What's a bit more publicity and money to throw around? Just another Tuesday.
Still, the fact that a village was denied its dust, even after it had been paid for, was definitely a bitch. Jack had spent a few cold nights back home as a kid, with no heating, and that shit was not fun. From what he saw, Atlas nights were straight-up nightmares. Fuck it, he'd gift them the next shipment. They could get their damn dust and heat their homes for once.
The SDC board would probably bitch for a bit, but Jacques would just slam his dick on the table to remind them of their places. They better get used to it. Jacques was feeling generous lately, but that didn't mean he was going to let anyone forget who called the shots.
He took a deep breath, his eyes locked on his scroll, more specifically, the White Fang.
Faunus.
Or more accurately—his Faunus problem.
Fuck. That sounded racist as all hell. No, wait—not a problem. That made it sound like he was about to kickstart a pogrom. Okay. A… situation. A Faunus situation. Fuck, even worse. Sounds like he's planning a roundup. Complication? Conflict? Ongoing socio-political fucky-wucky? Jesus Christ.
Faunus-adjacent issues? Now it just sounded like the White Fang was a rash on his dick. Fucking hell. There was no way to word this that didn't sound like it came with a white hood and a torch.
He groaned into his hand. "I am not racist," he defended himself. "I'm just... systemically inconvenient."
Bubbles threw him an unimpressed look.
"Just eat your damn pastries, and fuck off."
Whatever.
Apparently, the SDC had less-than-favorable treatment of its employees with animal features.
Not like it was anything new. Remnant apparently has a history of looking down on the Faunus, and Atlas was no different. They were still "allegedly" treated like second-class citizens, at least as far as the public image was concerned. Sure, they got paid, but not enough to make up for the shit they'd have to deal with.
And the White Fang? Well, they were just the loud, violent neon signs of that issue. He was still going to slaughter any of those masked fucks if he ever came across them, but the problem was somewhere else.
'I have to cure racism!'
"End speciesism now!"
"Horns and humans, hand in hand!"
"One Remnant, many ears!"
Like fuck he could.
He barely managed to cure his own racism, and that only worked out because he realized he was just as full of shit as any other person of a different race.
Mutual hatred for something else was also a good motivator. Hating the Birmingham scum also showed that, "Maybe we're not so different after all!" and "At least we're not Small Heath twits!"
Enjoy Burton away you cunts! heh.
Ah, good times.
Joking aside, he knew he needed to deal with the Faunus issue(Fuck!). As soon as he figured out how.
Looking through the company guidelines and the contracts they offered their workers, Jacques found that nothing illegal was listed. Sure, it was unethical, dodgy as hell even, but nothing that went against the working standards of the major Kingdoms of Remnant.
Nothing like: "If your Faunus worker asks for a water break, beat the fucker until they can taste colors. Then brand them with the SDC logo on their eye."
That didn't mean it wasn't happening somewhere. Probably right now.
The SDC always issued statements condemning such activities. They prided themselves on enforcing equality, responsibility, and brotherhood—the values that every Kingdom claimed to uphold. Of course, PR statements were just as bullshit as they were back on Earth.
Any of the extreme shit mentioned in the canon stories only seemed to happen in the remote mines. Rarely did reports about the working conditions in those places ever make it out. The only things coming from those mines were dust shipments and production rate changes.
That was all the higher-ups cared about, and it was the only thing they demanded. Sure, there were other companies with shady practices, but SDC was just the biggest one. Still didn't make it right...
And as for the Kingdoms? They turned a blind eye. They wanted Dust, and they wanted it cheap. How it got there was no one's problem as long as it kept flowing.
The Schnee Dust Company's malpractices weren't the real issue—they were just a symptom of a much bigger problem. Jacques had ideas to help, sure, but deep down, he knew that any decision he made wouldn't bring about the change he really wanted. It wouldn't fix the root of the problem.
The harsh truth? No one gives a shit about poor people.
And when you added all the other shit he had to deal with—Grimm attacks, pirates, the goddamn White Fang—it just made things worse.
In short: life as Jacques was one giant headache.
"Why couldn't I have been reincarnated as a simple shopkeeper?" Jacques muttered, rubbing his temples. All this bullshit was starting to get to him.
With a mental slap to the back of his head, Jacques snapped himself out of it. "Remember what Pa always said, Jack. Bitching about life is for the weak, not for men who've got shit to do."
Jacques still didn't have a damn clue what to do about the whole Faunus issue. He knew he should probably do something—like start a committee or some charity bullshit, anything that looked better than doing nothing.
But honestly? He was stuck.
He should probably consult his vice-president was still the same sleazy, slick-looking bureaucrat, not some hot blonde in a short skirt who'd whisper, "Prez, you're so smart, ❤" every time he made a decision. Hell, if it were that simple, maybe Jacques wouldn't be so damn stressed. But no, he had to deal with this reality.
Fuck it, that guy was pretty damn reliable from what Jacques could remember.
His mental argument was abruptly interrupted by a notification on his scroll, just as it reached the part where he was about to give himself a mental pat on the back and start tooting his own horn. He glanced down and saw nothing on his usual feed.
Instead, the message had come through on his personal number/email/Yelgram thing, one only a select few people had access to. His vice-president, Ironwood, Klein (who, to those who may be concerned, was still balding) and a handful of other trusted 'allies' and "friends" were the usual suspects.
None of them were this Frieda Nachri.
Subject: An Exclusive Invitation for Your Esteemed Presence
To the Honorable Mr. Jacques Schnee,
I trust this message finds you in excellent health and spirits. It is both an honor and a privilege to address someone of your unparalleled influence, and I hope you'll permit me the opportunity to extend an invitation that is both urgent and deserving of your esteemed consideration.
The Atlassian Broadcasting Corporation would be deeply honored to welcome you to a private gathering we are hosting. This event will address several matters of significant import—matters which, while still being carefully handled, may very well require the unparalleled expertise and discerning insight that only you can provide. While I must, out of necessity, remain somewhat circumspect for now, I can assure you that the issues at hand are ones that could shape the future of Atlas itself.
Given your immense stature and unparalleled leadership in the business world, we could not imagine proceeding without your guidance. Your presence, as always, would not only elevate the discourse but ensure that all necessary measures are taken to protect our shared interests.
Please, allow us the honor of your company. Your time is invaluable, and I trust that the opportunity to contribute to such pivotal matters will be one you find worthy of your attention. Should you need any additional details or clarification, do not hesitate to contact me directly.
With the highest regard and anticipation of your favorable reply,
Frieda Nachri
Director-General
Atlassian Broadcasting Corporation
Attached to the message was a photo of Jacques, looking as pretentious as ever at some high-class party, standing next to what he assumed was this Nachri lady. They weren't exactly side by side—more like she had shoved herself into the frame while he was off somewhere, talking to someone out of shot.
Nice tits, he thought, barely paying attention to anything else.
But still, this was definitely a problem.
The sycophantic nonsense in the message was one thing, but the real message was clear: she had somehow managed to land his personal number. And the photo? That was just to show how easily she could catch him off guard.
At least, that's what his tingling 'Jacques sense' was telling him. "kill this bitch!" it said.
This lady sure was underestimating him.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. There he was, just thinking about how the whole damn world danced to his tune, and then some no-name NPC, who wouldn't even get a cameo in the canon, comes in threatening him like it's no big deal.
He grinned.
Well, staying cooped up for so long in the house wasn't really good for a growing boy like him.
"Fuck it," he muttered under his breath.
It was about time the New Jacques Schnee made his public debut.
But of course, that could wait. Dismissing the rabbits with a mental command, Jacques jumped to his feet. He straightened his clothes and cracked his knuckles.
For now, he had a match to prepare for.
Because if that little brat thought she could use his own damn tackles against him, well, she had another thing coming.
He had gone a bit easy on her since she was technically his daughter.
But fuck it, no more Mr. Nice Guy. No more Brexit tackles.
He'll show her the true horror of a Sunday League Tackle.