As usual, betas are people who get no hoes.
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Another notification popped up on the screen, and Jacques dismissed it with a flick of his wrist. It was always one of three things: an overly formal invitation to some pointless gala, a declaration of undying friendship from someone he didn't care to meet, or his personal favorite, a marriage proposal. Sometimes for one of his kids. Most of the time, though, hilariously, for him.
Even better were the occasional bold young birds angling to be his mistress or whatever delusion they were chasing.
"😉💋Daddy Schnee, I'd do ANYTHING —" Flick that wrist.
' Fuck outta here.' Damn, Jacques was really denying the hoes. What a bizarre turn of events.
Maybe he should send Willow after them. That'd be a sight to see.
"—nd then Sir Jacques counters with a sharp left hook, notice the fluidity of it all, almost like the Semblance is feeding into his movements, really electric, no pun intended. His ability to turn the block into a counter with that sudden shift, it's textbook." The Old huntsman on the TV droned on. " Run it back. Right. He's got the upper hand in this clash, but it's all about pacing—oh, and here's where he turns that defensive stance into an offensive one, a move clearly born through countless number of batt—"
Plastered across the big-ass screen in his office was a cleaned-up, edited shot of Jacques mid-fight, looking like a goddamn action hero. He was caught in the perfect moment, fist halfway through rearranging some poor schmuck's dental plan, stance impeccable, not a hair out of place.
Some geezer from Atlas Combat Academy was narrating over it, gushing on and on about how Jacques was a once-in-a-trillion talent, a warrior forged in the fires of experience, the living embodiment of a god of war, with the handsomeness of a mythological Adonis or some shit like that.
All facts, obviously. Still...
"Whitley," Jacques said pointedly, breaking away from the holographic screen and his half-written statement which was no doubt going to save the whole of Atlas.
"Turn that shit down a bit."
"Sorry, Father," Whitley replied, doing as told with a bit of reluctance.
Jacques wasn't exactly irritated; he was more amused at the absurdity of it all. It was clear what was going on. Whitley wanted to show off and play the proud son subtly. but damn it, ... One could only listen to his own horn being tooted for so long before he started feeling a little bashful about it.
It was also kinda distracting him.
Hopefully, by tomorrow, Jacques'll have these people talk about something a bit more important.
"Thank you," Jacques said because his Pa had raised him well. "Where was I?" he muttered looking back to where he stopped.
Right, making sure Atlas didn't go to shit since that was what a decent person wont to do.
Now, a small disclaimer: Jacques Schnee was not a saint.
To anyone in Remnant, that was an indisputable fact, carved into stone and highlighted in neon for the last few decades. The past week might have muddied the waters with its whirlwind of conflicting opinions, but even that didn't change the fundamentals.
Jacques Schnee was, to put it succinctly, an S-class, Ballon d'Or-worthy, certified Hall of Fame cunt.
No debate necessary. It was obvious to anyone who'd ever met him, caught a glimpse of him, or happened to stumble across his name in a tabloid headline. Saints didn't have multi-billion-lien empires, nor did they strut around in custom-tailored suits with the kind of smug assurance that practically shouted, Yes, I'm better than you. No, I won't apologize for it.
Again, Jack was not a saint .
However! He wasn't a demon either.
Despite what his less-than-stellar record and profile might convince others, Jack liked to think of himself as a decently empathetic type of bloke. Or at least, he tried to be, which should count for something, right?
Back in his old life, before he got dropkicked into this glorious and totally worth it frosty-haired mess, he hadn't been cruel.
Sure, he wasn't gallivanting around solving world hunger or ending wars, but who was? Not everyone can be Mother Teresa. But again! He wasn't cruel.
He did his bit. He helped hand out free gifts to kids in hospitals when the holidays rolled around. Volunteered at soup kitchens on Sundays, granted, he needed a bit of a guilt trip to get off his arse, but still. And it wasn't just the big, bleeding-heart stuff either. He held doors open. Said "please" and "cheers" like a civilized human being. Even paid for his mates' drinks when they were skint, and he'd never let them forget it afterward.
Now, as any halfway decent guy, Jacques prided himself on remaining cordial and humble when life gave him a win. No need to rub it in, right? Graciousness and all that.
But this past week? Oh, things didn't just go Jacques' way. They went Sir Jacques' way.
Ya hear that, Pa? Your lad's about to be fucking knighted!
"Sir Jacques Schnee," he muttered under his breath, rolling the title around like a fine wine as he poured himself a glass of the actual stuff. "Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
The bunny next to him momentarily stopped devouring Jacques' pastries to nod in agreement.
Who'd have thought that all it took to flip the world's opinion of him from "Devil" to "bloody national hero" was a conveniently timed gang of terrorists? And not just any terrorists, no, these kind souls practically gift-wrapped themselves, letting him style on them in front of the entire world.
The public? They couldn't get enough of him. Well, most of them, anyway. Sure, some still clung to their old grudges, but the masses? Oh, they were eating it up.
The elites, the same lot of smug bastards he'd been stepping on for years, were practically groveling now. The very same people who used to whisper behind his back and sneer in public now wanted to shake his hand, attend his events, or at least keep their heads down and pretend they were never against him.
Did they still hate his guts? Probably. But even they weren't stupid enough to forget hpow he pushed their faces into the ground without lifting a finger or how he made sure they owed him their lives barely an hour after that.
Until they paid him back, Jacques Schnee owned them, and that wasn't something they could brush under the rug.
And the government? Already tangled up with him through contracts, subsidies, and whatever other bureaucratic nonsense kept the engine running, now they were practically glued to his side. Not out of affection, of course, he wasn't daft enough to think that. Governments were not to be trusted kiddos! But because, in their eyes, he'd become the equivalent of a bloody safety net. One that happened to have a noose attached for anyone who stepped out of line.
Granted, the whole ordeal did come with a glaring downside, namely, the fact that Salem would probably, no, definitely, be gunning for his very handsome and gloriously full head of hair now that he'd beaten the absolute shit out of her boy toy. Jacques could practically see her putting his name on the top of her murder list, complete with dramatic underlines and possibly a few decorative skulls for emphasis.
A chuckle left him at that image. He waved off Whitley's curious stare and continued with his typing.
Tyrian was probably chilling, literally, a few hundred meters underground beneath the military, frozen solid like the world's ugliest ice sculpture. So that was one less psycho to worry about.
Fria seemingly hadn't fucked him over too, judging the mysterious cylinder that she, t had to be her. The damn thing was wrapped in an ice chain and practically glued to his belt, had left for him. He still had no bloody idea what he was supposed to do with it or how to even open it, but hey, details.
It hadn't exploded yet, so that was a win in his book. It also meant that was a problem for future Jacques. Present Jacques had more immediate concerns.
The phon..scroll, It was a scroll, damn it! He needed to stop calling it a phone before someone heard him and looked at him funny, ringing atop his desk pulled him out of his inner introspection.
He tilted the screen to look at the caller. Hah! he scoffed. Keep dreaming, kiddo! "Whitley," he called out to his son and lifted the scroll. The boy approached and took it with a raised eyebrow. That confusion soon turned to pure smugness the moment he recognized the number. The shift in Whitley's expression was so instant and smug, that Jacques half-expected a little cartoon halo of glee to appear above his head.
The boy turned on his heel without so much as a word, purposefully skipping like the insufferable twat Jacques trusted him to be toward the office door.
The last thing he heard before the door clicked shut was Whitley's voice, dripping with taunting glee and smug satisfaction.
"Weiss~! Dear sister, how gracious of you to call again!" Whitley sing-songed to the poor girl stuck on the other side of the planet.
After the whole shitstorm, airports were a mess, and combat schools had suspended lessons but, of course, they were still reluctant to let the little shitlings go home. For their safety, they claimed. Which meant his little blizzard was stuck, far away from home, and even farther from throttling him like she probably wished she could.
And since Willow didn't have a scroll, and Winter was off somewhere beating up minorities, Weiss's only real contact with the house was through the servants,not exactly the most stimulating conversation partners.
No wonder she kept calling. Poor thing was starved for decent company.
Jacques leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Good lad," he whispered proudly. It wasn't often that Whitley got to flex his particular brand of spiteful brilliance, but when he did, it was a work of art. Luckily, his sister's constant calls left the boy with plenty of opportunities to be a proper wanker.
That'd teach Weiss what happens when you leave your old man on fucking seen.
Other than Weiss, the Family Man operation was going smoother than a baby's ass. Whitley was back to seeing Jacques on that glorious pedestal where he rightfully belonged, thank you very much, and honestly, the boy was shaping up to be a chip off the old block. So that meant Jacques doing something right. Probably.
Winter actually smiled when she saw him these days. Smiled. And she'd even started trusting him enough to ask for his help. Just the other day, she'd awkwardly very politely, requested to borrow his dogs.
He'd shrugged and handed over the Divine Dogs without much thought. After all, it wasn't like they weren't already roaming around the mansion these days. The servants seemed to enjoy having them about, and the animals, taking after their master, were vain enough to bask in the attention.
"Isn't that right?" he patted the psychotic murderous ball of fluff that was shedding over his damn carpet, still eating what was supposed to be Jacques' sweets.
Willow was... Now that was a whole different kettle of fish. She'd been avoiding him, but not in the usual "bugger off and leave me alone before I break a bottle on your head" way. This was more hesitant, like she didn't know what to say or how to approach him.
But Jacques wasn't just some bloke fumbling around in the dark. He was El Gran Don Juan. He recognized the signs.
So, TL;DR: life was sweet. Stupidly sweet. So sweet, in fact, that Jacques, the already established good guy (and don't you dare forget it), was actively trying not to feel too chuffed about it.
After all, while he was sipping champagne and enjoying his newfound hero status, there were plenty of poor sons of bitches and daughters of bastards out there still getting royally shafted by the fallout from the same events that worked out for him.
Why? Because everyone else was busy losing their bloody minds. Ironwood, for instance, had declared martial law, which was just the sort of calm, rational move that totally didn't scream, "I'm one bad day away from swapping this general's hat for a tinfoil one."
Frankly, Jacques reckoned Ironwood might already be closer to full-blown lunacy than his canon counterpart, and considering canon Ironwood shot a kid, that was saying something. He also killed Jacques, but that song and dance ain't happening anytime soon in this timeline. Not unless the Tin Man expy wised for that 'Have-no-heart' metaphor to become literal.
Hopefully, Winter could talk some sense into him.
Point was: Atlas was not bussing fr fr right now. Especially when it came to the miserable handful of Faunus trying to scrape by in this place. The Council? Absolute clowns. Walking, talking embodiments of that tired trope: useless authority figures fumbling the bag every chance they got as befitting of RWBY.
These fuckers were doing their best ostrich impression at the moment.
It wasn't just embarrassing, it was actively counterproductive. Jacques had seen toddlers handle their toys with more finesse than the Atlesian Council dealt with the Faunus population. Frankly, if the kingdom fell apart this time, it'd have as much to do with their own incompetence as with Salem's schemes.
How sad was that?
As such, Jacques decided it was time to actually do something about the colossal Faunus-shaped mess Atlas and his damn company had been stewing in for decades. Not because he thought it'd magically fix everything, he wasn't that delusional, but because it was painfully clear that if he didn't step in, they would keep fumbling around like blind idiots until the whole bloody kingdom collapsed in on itself.
That is if they don't turn their anger and genocide all the Faunus, first. Ironwood was busy with his Salem-oneitis to see that the people were tired of his shit, and half the kingdom was ready to bring back lynching.
The people were starting to get mad, and as a former peasant, Jacques knew that when commoners get mad at the government, they start breaking shit and rioting.
Jacques had seen enough late-night documentaries about empires and countries to know that riots were bad.
It was doubly bad since that shit brought Grimm on this planet.
Grimm were bad. Feel free to quote him on that.
Jacques was a bloody hero now, right? That meant his word carried some weight with these people. And if they didn't consider him a hero, well, even better. Because if the so-called "Final Boss of Racism"; not his words, he was quoting the internet mobs, obviously, came out and told everyone to calm the fuck down with this competitive Racism, maybe they'd actually take it seriously for once.
So, he figured a statement was a good place to start. Just to start. The real heavy lifting would come later, once he'd softened everyone up with a bit of PR fluff. Jacques had already gone ahead and told the board of directors he intended to overhaul worker contracts and fix a few things that absolutely needed fixing.
Like, stop beating up the damn workers, you fucking twits!
They didn't like that. At all.
Despite being the sort of cowardly twits who knew Jacques could ruin them with a snap of his fingers, they'd actually dared to argue. Apparently, these people took their money very seriously; seriously enough to risk pissing off the man who held the noose around their neck. It was kinda respectable for all the wrong reasons.
Even his Vice President, who was still a stuffy middle-aged bloke. No big tits, no short skirts, no flirtatious giggles, and certainly no breathy "Ahhn, Prez, you're so smart!" every time he opened his mouth., was about to keel over from shock, and had decided to take things a step further. The poor bastard was so rattled by Jacques' sudden burst of moral fiber that he'd insisted on coming to Jacques' house to try and "talk sense into him."
Mi casa es su casa, cabron. Jacques wasn't fucking budging. "I'm a nice person damn it!" He slammed his fist on the table.
Now back to the statement. He had planned on something saying more or less, "I get it, I'm listening, and no, you don't have to hurl bricks through my windows to get my attention. I care. No, really, I do!"
The PR team, bless their ineffectual little darl souls, upon learning, immediately panicked at the idea of Jacques tackling the Faunus issue head-on. That was a big Ol 'No-no square. Don't touch me there.' for the Schnee Dust Company it seemed.
Still, they managed to cobble together something resembling a statement after he gave them his signature "you will work, or you will suffer" glare.
The result? Pure, unadulterated ass. No, scratch that, shit was fucking doodoo. It was the verbal equivalent of soggy cardboard, wrapped in corporate jargon and sprinkled with just enough hollow platitudes to make it technically passable. It was twelve pages of absolutely nothing masquerading as something, and Jacques felt his brain actively protesting as he skimmed it.
"Atlas is committed to fostering an inclusive environment…blah blah blah…strength in diversity…blah blah blah…moving forward together…"
It genuinely pissed him off and reaffirmed his long-held belief that PR was a worthless department.
Due to that, and with a long, frustrated sigh that sent the servants scurrying from the room the last time they'd heard it, Jacques tossed the whole idea of an official SDC statement into the metaphorical trash bin. Why waste time wading through bureaucratic sludge when he could just say what he wanted?
So, he had booted up his desk, logged into the Remnant equivalent of Twitter, or X, or MyFace, or whatever the hell they were calling it these days and decided to fire off a small, straightforward post from his account.
Which, by the way, was now the most-followed account in all of Remnant. Of course, that was to be expected. Who wouldn't want to follow the man who'd single-handedly curb-stomped terrorists on live TV? Hell, even the haters couldn't resist checking in to see what he'd do next.
And it didn't hurt that he'd updated his profile picture with a cheeky shot of him and Willow from their date night after the attack, looking every bit like the power couple that were definitely in love and absolutely didn't break wine bottles over each other's heads.
His bio? Even better. No long-winded titles, no fancy fluff. Just one simple line, bold as hell:
"You know who I am."
And they did. They knew exactly who he was. He was Jacques Fucking Schnee! HHNNGGGH.
Jacques had to stop himself from standing up and flexing in front of the screen, grinning like a maniac. He wasn't that far gone yet. Also, Whitely had also been present at the time, and Jacques didn't want to raise any 'early signs of Dementia' flags in his son's head.
Nevertheless, his recent activity on the account alone had stirred enough controversy to fuel gossip columns for weeks, and Jacques was convinced it was one of the reasons Weiss wanted to talk to him.
And, oh look! Speak of the devil. As soon as he had logged in the damn thing, he found that she'd even sent him a message. followed by twenty other messages. How quaint. Jacques couldn't help but smirk. Ah, littlest breeze, what goes around comes around.
Maybe he'd respond. Eventually.
After a long and tiresome process of writing, deleting, rewriting, and deleting again, Jacques finally managed to cobble together something half-decent. It wasn't easy, mind you, balancing the tightrope between his carefully crafted public image as the Man and the genuine attempt to say something meaningful.
Finally, after much grumbling and even if Ol Moustache's articulation did most of the heavy lifting, he had it.
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@JacquesSchneeOfficial
"The recent attack on the eve of our Himmel Koenig was not simply a strike against me or my family; it was a declaration of war on the very soul of Atlas. It sought to shatter our unity, defile our values, and threaten the future we have worked so hard to build.
Those who orchestrate such cowardice, who manipulate movements and exploit pain to serve their twisted agendas, will face justice. Mark my words: there will be no refuge for those who seek to sow chaos in our kingdom.
Yet what grieves me most is the enduring cycle of division that ensnares us all. It pains me to see innocent, honorable and proud Atlesian Faunus suffer for the actions of the despicable White Fang. For too long, bad actors—human and Faunus alike—have played upon fear and distrust, weaponizing them to keep us fractured. No more. I, along with the proud members of House Schnee, declare this: We will not allow Atlas to devour itself from within.
For I have a dream!
I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. I have a dream that one day, right here in our beloved kingdom little Faunus boys and little Faunus girls will be able to join hands with little Human boys and Human girls as sisters and brothers.
Atlas is not merely strong; it is unbreakable. Not because of its walls, its technology, or its armies, but because of its people. Together, Human and Faunus, Mantle and Atlas, we form a whole that no force in this world can dismantle.
Unity is not a dream; it is the path forward. Division is not our destiny; it is a relic of lesser minds. We are Atlas. Together, we rise. Together, we endure. And together, we will create a kingdom worth calling Home.
Atlas wasn't built in a day. And it will not be undone in an instant.
#AtlasStrong #UnitedWeStand
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Jacques read the post over three times, tweaking the wording here and there. Because it would be a cold day in hell before Jacques Schnee let the most-followed account in Remnant post something riddled with typos. That sort of rookie mistake was beneath him.
Jacques leaned back, rereading the post just one last time. Then...
Tap
He hit "post" with a flourish, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "Now that," he muttered, "is how you shut up a room."
And he only plagiarized half of it.
"Now…" he said to himself, standing up with a dramatic stretch. The bunnies in the room glanced up in bemusement as he cracked his joints. A couple of satisfying sounds echoed in the quiet office. He checked the time. Still too early for lunch. Too early for a drink too. Not that he was planning on making a habit of drinking before noon. One glass was already enough.
His vice president wouldn't be around for a couple more hours, so...
Training? Nah. Still too early for that, and he'd rather just rest today. Rest was just as important, right? Besides, he'd already tamed Max Elephant. Any more "rituals" could wait until the pink mammoth had settled.
And, honestly? He wasn't in the mood to work up a sweat or a bruise this early.
Whitley was too busy being a dickhead to his sister, so he was out.
Maybe play with the bunnies? He looked around him. Nah, they seemed to be happy just bouncing around, doing their own thing. He glanced at the clock again. Still too early for anything serious. "What to do? What to do?" he muttered, pacing back and forth. The day stretched out in front of him, but there was no rush. No urgent tasks demanding his attention. Not yet, anyway.
Maybe he should just go back to sleep...
Luckily, he'd been spared from further thinking when the door to his office swung open.
"Willow!" he greeted with a grin at the woman who had seemingly decided to stop avoiding her brilliant cool husband.
His eyes narrowed and took in her stunning: Ten out of Ten would let her molest him if he was eight, wife standing in the doorway, dressed in a blue sports gear that, of course, made his mind wander down more interesting paths. The kind of paths that made Jacques want to throw her down and tear that outfit off with his teeth.
Sadly, it wasn't time yet.
Because just like he had his 'Jacques senses' that told him when he was about to make an ass out of himself or when someone was about to insult him, his 'El Gran Don Juan senses' were no less formidable in another, far more interesting department.
And right now, those senses were telling him to settle.
Not yet.
And he was a man who trusted his instincts.
Willow's brows furrowed mentally knowing that he was thinking something he shouldn't. She had a sixth sense for shit like that when it came to him. Luckily, she didn't call him out.
Instead, she threw the ball at him. "I want a rematch," declared the poor lady who last time had been absolutely battered, twenty-nine-to-five, left to watch in helpless resignation as Jacques flaunted his mad skillz and tekkers like a man possessed.
Jacques caught the ball with one hand, raising an eyebrow at her. He glanced at the ball, then back at Willow. Maybe, just maybe, a little sweat wouldn't hurt.
Four months since his arrival, Jacques Schnee remained unbeaten in footy.
A record he intended to keep intact.
Hopefully, by the time he returned, his glorious people would have driven the masses together in a grand display of unity.
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ATLESIAN DAILY POST
"""JACQUES SCHNEE ACCUSES HALF OF GOVERNMENT OF TREASON IN LATEST OUTBURST!!!"""
The Hero of Solitas's bold statement calls for rebellion while targeting political figures he claims are undermining Atlas' future.
Jacques looked down at the paper in his hand. He brought out his scroll to check something.
Now, if he remembered correctly, the Daily post was a newspaper owned by...Ah. Yes.
Atlesian Broadcasting Company.
Hmm.
Nachri, you bitch....