Life's a bitch.
And, like all bitches, it has a nasty habit of kicking a man in the teeth right after whispering sweet nothings in his ear. it made a man question his self worth. One moment, you're on top of the world, king of all you survey, and the next you're flat on your arse, staring at the ceiling and wondering if your "throne" was just an upside-down barstool with delusions of grandeur.
It's cruel like that.
But Jacques Schnee, scratch that, Jack stuck in Jacques Schnee's overpriced and overdressed body, wasn't the type to wallow. Not for long, anyway. It was bad for morale. Worse for the complexion
Still, he'd be lying if he said that first day hadn't nearly broken him. He remembered it too well. The second morning, slouched in a overstuffed gilded chair that looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a home, surrounded by absurd luxury he hadn't earned and responsibilities he definitely didn't want. That was when it hit.
A rare moment of clarity. A vulnerable little blip in the grand (delusion) grand-ness.
"Am I... full of shit?" he'd actually said. Out loud.
Was...was he a fraud?
The mirror hadn't answered, naturally. Just stared back at him with that flawless smug face and tailored suit. But he'd stared right back, long enough to find his resolve behind the eyes.
"No," he'd declared eventually. "I'm just a bit caught off guard."
That was all. Temporary turbulence. Sure, he went in swinging a bit too confidently, but of course he did. He was Him. The setbacks? Just narrative spice. Every protagonist stumbles in Act One.
'It'll never happen again." He had reassured himself.
Now, three weeks later, he could say it with actual conviction.
Life might be a bitch, sure. But Jacques... Jacques was her pimp.
And just like that, he was back.
Confidence restored. Swagger recalibrated. And if the game had changed, well, he'd just change the rules.
For you see, Jacques had never been one for modesty. Humility was for men who needed others to believe in them. He didn't. He believed in himself enough for a small nation. Except for the times he did show humility, of course. In those cases, humility was actually a sign of deep wisdom and emotional maturity. The mark of a truly great man.
It wasn't hypocrisy if you were right both times.
And he always was right because deep down, Jack had always known something very important.
He was brilliant.
Without turning back, Jacques tilted his head just enough to let the disgusting, and more than likely poisonous (or was it venomous? He always got those mixed up), tongue whip past harmlessly. His hand shot out, grabbing it mid-retract.
With a strong yank, he swung his arm, dragging the tongue's owner straight into the thrashing tendrils of his Aura. The creature was shredded in an instant.
"Keep it to your side, would ya?" he said, still not bothering to glance back.
Twin barks answered him.
But could anyone blame him? As he adjusted his cufflinks and admired his reflection, the sheer brilliance staring back at him was undeniable. Not just a man, no, a legend in the making. Remnant was lucky, blessed even, to have him.
He, Jac(k)ques Schnee, wasn't some run-of-the-mill shitty Isekai protagonist with floppy black hair NEET and the personality of a torn cardboard on a rainy day. No, he had something that self-righteous author self-insert twits lacked: Character. Charisma. And, above all, a shred of self-respect.
And it was through that trifecta of greatness that he had, in a matter of days, achieved what others would consider impossible. Sure, his plans were not always foolproof, but that only led to showcase the swiftness of his adaptability.
The Schnee family, which had once been a dysfunctional mess, was now on the road to recovery. Thanks to him. His wit, his charm, and perhaps just a touch of his near-death experience with an oversized deer, which was a true dear truth to be said, had set them all on the path to healing.
Funny how his hatred for that horned menace had all but evaporated now that it was Jacques' loyal slave. What was that old saying? "Keep your friends close, and your giant minions closer."? Something along those lines, no doubt about that.
Truly, the poetic irony of it all was a testament to his humility and boundless heart. Bards should be singing about him. Statues should be built.
He glanced down at the cufflinks on his sleeves, admiring the way they sparkled in the light. "If this world had any sense," he muttered to himself, "there'd be a statue of me in Atlas Square by now. Maybe a plaque. Something tasteful but grand." He waved the thought away. There was no need to rush. Greatness like his deserves time to be properly appreciated.
No scheming or self-pity for him, thank you very much. Just quick thinking, a dash of aforementioned charisma, and maybe a bit of dumb luck. But that didn't fit the narrative he preferred, so it was best to leave that part out when he finally got around to writing his autobiography.
Naturally, he'd sprinkle in a few PR-friendly mishaps for relatability. The kind of small, harmless setbacks that made the average person think, He's literally me! Fr Fr! while still showcasing his dazzling recovery. Because even a man as clearly blessed as Jacques Schnee, divine favor and all, had to appear human. Otherwise, where was the fun?
"Humility," Jacques muttered with a grin, adjusting his cuffs and giving his reflection a knowing nod. "One of my finer qualities."
He briefly considered the opening chapter of his book. Perhaps something about his modest origins, and what do you know? Good Ol' Lil' Mustache actually started out as a dirt-poor orphan! Jack felt a bit more proud of his body at knowing that.
Shame he never made that small tidbit public. Jack would've made sure to drop that info in every damn conversation. Old Jacques made sure to keep his origin story on the low, so the least Jack could do is respect that.
"Chapter One," he said aloud, as if addressing an invisible crowd. "The Rise of Jacques Schnee: A Tale of Ingenuity, Courage, and the Occasional Flaw." He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "...Or maybe not that last part."
Jack shook his head, dragging himself back from one self-wank fest only to land in another, arguably more relevant self-wank fest! In his defense, he had a lot to pat himself on the back for lately.
Though, to be fair, it was a bit hard to focus with the sounds of torn flesh, broken bones, and muffled cries of mercy happening on the other side of the room. He sent a mental thanks to Ol' Moustache for soundproofing the place; the poor servants working outside his room really didn't need a background track like that.
Still, progress was progress. The Schnee family was on track to become an actual family, and that was entirely thanks to him. A good deed indeed.
And as Sister Angie used to say, when Jack could pry his attention away from her, uh, blessings, the Lord always rewards good deeds. Or something along those lines. It had been hard to hear her with all that distracting... holiness.
Jacques shook his head in fond amusement as he slipped on his ridiculously overpriced Froststep, for a feel of the Path of Success shoes. That lady was one of the few people he might've genuinely missed. She really had been good to him.
Luckily, the Heavens, the two dickhead gods, or whatever Lovely and Reasonable Deity had sent him here and the one he kept forgetting to sacrifice an offering to had seen fit to reward him. Generously, too.
For at last, one of Jacques's greatest worries had been put to rest: he could, in fact, grow a beard!
No longer was he doomed to endure the hideous mustache mocking him with its immovable smugness. Now, he could mitigate its offensiveness with the stubble gracing his chin: a promising preview of the glorious masterpiece yet to come.
He hadn't quite decided what style to rock yet, but whatever it was, it was going to be nothing short of legendary!
"Looking sharp, Jacques," he said to his reflection, giving himself a wink. "The finest specimen this family has ever seen." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Well, at least in the top two." He gave it some thought. "Top three, if we're being generous."
He finished dressing, straightening his jacket with a practiced flourish.
After all, he'd seen the portraits and old photos. Those pre-war Schnee ladies weren't bad—no, sir, not bad at all.
And speaking of Schnee ladies, there was one waiting for him at this very moment. Well, not waiting specifically for him, more for his presence to grease the wheels of this delicate "bridging the gap" and reconciliation operation.
On one side, there was the ex-drunk and currently neglectful mother, who had proven herself alarmingly adept at wielding wine bottles, both figuratively and literally, as the lingering ache on the crown of his head could testify.
On the other side, his one and only true ally in this frozen hellscape: a sharp-tongued young boy who doubled as his Lil Bro, son, and best (only) friend. Granted, the kid may or may not be nursing some trauma-rooted, women-shouldn't-vote sentiments, but eh... nobody's perfect.
And then there was the somewhat serious young woman who exuded what he suspected to be some form of military-flavored tism Jacques wasn't equipped to diagnose.
The family dynamics were less functional household and more three-ring circus, but hey, it was his circus. And, naturally, he was the ringleader. It was up to him to sprinkle a little charm, mediate with the finesse of a saint, and—most importantly—not fuck himself over.
'Seems feasible enough,' he thought, turning from the mirror after one last, lingering glance. Truly, perfection was exhausting.
As he turned, his Divine Dogs sat proudly by the disintegrating corpse of the last Frog, their tails wagging with the kind of enthusiasm only murderously loyal shadow creatures could muster. Jacques gave them an approving nod. "Good work, boys. Efficient as always."
With that task handled, he mentally tallied his remaining Shikigami. Three left to call on, not counting Big Raga. Could always use it for intimidation even if I don't have it, he mused, a grin tugging at his lips. Big Raga was his ace as any proper showstopper; he wasn't ready to pull out unless absolutely necessary. Like a final Fuck you to someone.
"Alright, let's get this circus moving," Jacques muttered, stepping over what was left of the Frog with practiced nonchalance as the dogs retreated back to his shadow. The day wasn't going to conquer itself, after all.
Jacques strolled down the hallway, hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty tune that felt entirely out of place in the dreary place. Seriously, did everything have to be so white?
He paused by a large portrait of Nicholas Schnee, the old patriarch looking down with a smile that seemed so wrong to see next to the other stern portraits of men who'd never laughed a day in their lives. Jacques gave it a lazy salute. "Morning, Pops. Still smiling, I see. Good on you."
Servants and maids flitted about like nervous sparrows, bowing or quickly stepping aside as Jacques passed. He gave them polite nods, which only seemed to make them more uneasy. 'Guess they're not used to charm,' he thought smugly.
One maid dropped a stack of freshly pressed linens in her haste to get out of his way. Jacques paused, considering whether to help. After a brief moment of reflection, he bent down, picked up a single napkin, and handed it to her with the air of a saint.
"Don't say I never do anything for you," he said, flashing her a grin. She stammered a quick thanks, cheeks flushed, before scurrying off. Jacques resumed his stroll, whistling again.
"Charitable and dashing," he nodded to himself. "What a burden it is to be me."
Rounding the corner, Jacques nearly walked straight into—What the fuck is that thing?!
There was something in the hall. Ghost-pale. Muttering to itself like it was decoding an ancient prophecy or drafting a murder plot. Pacing back and forth like it hadn't slept in three days and was about to transcend reality or commit arson.
He stared, genuinely startled.
Was that a ghost? A cryptid? Some kind of banshee-tier hallucination? Oi, ol' mustache! Your house better not be haunte—Oh, wait. Never mind. That was just his wife.
Willow was muttering short, clipped phrases that sounded like a mix of greetings and Atlas-grade insults. She hadn't noticed him yet, too busy stalking back and forth like she was ready to rip the next unlucky soul in half.
If Jacques were a betting man, that unlucky soul was probably him. Fuck. Ah, well, better him than one of the maids. Noblesse oblige, and all that shite.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Jacques stepped closer and quipped, "And here I thought I had the monopoly on dramatic hallway brooding."
Willow stopped mid-pace, her head snapping toward him like a predator locking onto prey. Her icy glare could've frozen the sun, but Jacques only smiled, tilting his head in innocence.
"Where the hell have you been?" Willow hissed, closing the distance in a flash. Jacques barely had time to blink before his back hit the cold wall with a soft thud. Her palm slapped the wall next to his head, making him flinch.
Oh, my! A kabedon,?! And this early in the morning?
The lady of the house sure was forward today. How scandalous!
Jacques raised his hands defensively, plastering on a disarming smile. "Now, now, darling," he began, smooth as silk, "no need to threaten me before breakfast."
Willow's eyes narrowed further. "Don't test me, Jacques. Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?" She didn't yell, oh no, that would've been too simple. This was much worse.
"Well," Jacques said, clearing his throat and straightening his collar, "considering my impeccable time management, I'm guessing... not that long?"
"Forty minutes." She punctuated each word with a sharp jab to his chest.
"Ouch," Jacques muttered, glancing down at the imaginary bruise forming from her relentless poking. "I suppose the term 'fashionably late' doesn't apply to spouses?"
Willow's lips twitched, teetering between a snarl and a smirk. "This isn't funny, Jacques. I've been—"
"Pacing dramatically?" he interrupted, leaning slightly away from her glare but still keeping up the smirk. "Because I must say, you've truly outdone yourself this time. A masterful performance. Ten out of ten. Oh, wait—I'll stop! I'll stop!" he added quickly, holding his hands up in surrender when she raised a fist.
"What the hell were you doing, Jacques?" she growled.
"Well, if you must know," Jacques said with mock seriousness, stroking his chin like a philosopher deep in thought, "I was doing very important things. The sort of heroics that would bring a tear to your eye if I could even begin to explain. Alas, I can't."
He pointed at her. "My question is: Why you're haunting my wing and terrorizing my portraits and slaves this early."
Willow scoffed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Ah, yes, the poor maids. Don't say I never do anything for you.'" Her eyes narrowed as she threw his own words back at him.
"I might've said that once or twice... in passing." Jacques broke eye contact. "I was simply being courteous. You jealous?"
"Don't start," Willow snapped, cutting him off. "I'm here because I'm finally about to have breakfast with our son, who, in case you've forgotten, has less patience for me than you do for... well, anything! "
"Ah, yes. The Whitley situation," Jacques mused, stroking his chin as if deep in thought. "Do not worry, my dear. I am a man of my word—no need for that look, really!—and I fully intend to honor our agreement." He said it with all the sincerity he could muster, which, to his credit, was quite a bit. Sure, it had taken Willow over two weeks to work up the nerve to set this up, but that hardly changed the fact that he'd agreed.
Ah, the life of a family man, so full of thankless sacrifice.
"And, if I might add," Jacques continued, flashing his most disarming smile, "you're looking absolutely amazing today."
Almost as amazing as himself, which was saying something.
"I don't give a shit what you think, Jacques!" Willow growled at him. "I didn't dress up for you."
"I know, but I still appreciate the effort," he said smoothly, his tone dripping with false sweetness. He couldn't help but tease the woman. He was El Gran Don Juan after all.
"You really don't know when to quit, do you?" Willow shot him a withering look.
He shrugged, unfazed. "Why quit when I'm so good at it?"
Jacques' playful smirk faded slightly as he noticed the way Willow was looking at him. He sighed. "Look, I'm not trying to piss you off. I know this isn't easy," he said, his voice softer now, more sincere since their reconciliation would be good for him, too. "But I've got your back. Whitley, everything else, we'll handle it together."
He paused with his hand hovering over her shoulder. "Let's head to the dining room. It's best if we get there first. Don't worry, Whitley won't be long. And if he's in one of his moods…" He gave a small wink. "I'll make sure to calm him down."
Willow gave him a look, clearly still unconvinced, but Jacques could see the tension in her shoulders start to ease. "Alright," she said warily. "But you better not make me regret trusting you, Jacques."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Jacques flashed her a grin and gestured with a small, theatrical bow. "After you, My fair lady.."
Willow gave him a pointed look before turning sharply on her heel and heading toward the dining room. Jacques followed close behind, hands tucked in his pockets.
As they walked, Jacques liked to think that the stress between them had lessened a bit. For Jacques and Willow, of course, not the staff. Those poor schmucks were downright staring at the two of them walking together. It was borderline rude.
He caught a servant gawking so hard he slammed into one of the pillars. Heh, dumbass.
Willow didn't respond,
They soon arrived at the Sunroom, a lavish space where morning light streamed through tall windows, casting a golden glow on the polished marble floor. The long table with enough seats for twenty was already set with an absurdly extravagant spread—because, of course, nothing less would do for the Schnees.
Jacques stepped forward, raising a hand to dismiss the hovering servants to the walls. This was a family meal, after all. With an exaggerated flourish, he pulled out a chair for Willow. "Madame," he said.
Willow rolled her eyes and sat without a word, but the faint dip of her head was enough.
Jacques, meanwhile, took his time settling into his seat, lounging back like he owned the place, which, technically, he did.
Soon enough, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the hall.
Willow straightened in her seat and threw him a panicked look. Jacques, on the other hand, simply nodded in reassurance and leaned back further, drumming his fingers lightly on the armrest.
"Showtime,"
The doors opened, and in walked Winter and Whitley together. To Jacques' delight and smug satisfaction, it seemed the two were at least marginally less distant than before. In the past two weeks, Whitley has, well, not stopped but certainly decreased the amount and heat of any verbal jabs at his older sister, and Winter had been glaring at Jacques less and less.
Progress! And naturally, Jacques took full credit for that
Winter's posture was as rigid as ever, her back straight enough to rival a ruler, while Whitley tried to carry himself with Jacques' classic "I'm better than all of you" stance. On Whitley, though, it had a touch more "Look at me, I'm a big boy now!" energy that Jacques couldn't help but find adorable.
Willow's breath hitched as the two entered and their eyes locked on her and Jacques. All three froze. Jacques lightly tapped Willow's knee, signaling her to stand with him, he spread his arms with an exaggerated flourish. "You certainly took your time, my children. Your mother"—he put strong emphasis on the word—" and I were about to starve."
The still wide-eyed Winter slowly approached her mother with tentative smile on her lips. "Mother," she began, clearly searching for the right words. "You're…"
Willow smiled, tears glistening in her eyes but not falling. "Hello, Winter."
Jacques stayed silent to give the two their moment. His attention, however, was on Whitley, who hovered near the door, looking like he couldn't decide whether to step forward, turn and leave altogether, or stab somebody.
"You're... here," Winter finished softly as she stood in front of her mother.
Willow's teary smile brightened just a bit. "Yes, Winter. I'm here."
Her smile faltered as her gaze shifted hesitantly to Whitley. He lingered by the door for a moment longer before, perhaps deciding that stabbing someone wasn't worth the prison sentence, he finally made his way to the table. Choosing the left side to carefully avoid Willow, he greeted Jacques with a polite smile.
"Good morning, Father. I trust this morning finds you well."
Ah, so he's pretending Willow doesn't exist.
Jacques chuckled, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips as he adjusted in his seat. "Well, it's good to see you, too, son. But—" he leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with Whitley "—how about a little greeting for your mother? She is sitting right there, after all." There was no mistaking the quiet urging in his eyes. Come on, kid. Just say something.
Whitley glanced briefly at Willow before looking away, still not quite meeting her eyes. "I wasn't expecting to have company this morning," he muttered, his tone casual as he took a seat.
Jacques gave him a look, the kind that said 'don't make me repeat myself,' but he didn't push. Not yet. Instead, he sat back, a warm smile spreading across his face as he looked between the two of them, Winter and Whitley. There was progress, even if it was slow.
Willow deflated a bit in her seat, and Winter was looking between the two, hesitating as if trying to decide whose side to take.
Neither! Little brat, you never take sides in shit like this. But if she was so desperate, she should join Jacques's side! Jacques's side was the best side. It had Jacques in it. Everybody should be on Jacques's side!
But first, everybody should eat. Hunger makes people cranky, after all, He gestured toward the spread of food on the table, giving them all a knowing look. "We wouldn't want to start the day off on the wrong foot, now would we?"
Winter and Whitley both glanced at the food, while Willow still looked fucking miserable Jacques tapped her knee lightly, trying to get her attention.
"Hey," he whispered "Take a deep breath. It's going to be alright."
Willow barely reacted, but the brief touch seemed to ground her, just enough for her to sit up straighter, even if the unease still lingered.
He tried not to wince at the absolute look of betrayal Whitley was giving him. Damn it, kid. This is for your sake!
He looked at Winter with a pointed look to prepare herself to back him up in case.
"Dig in," Jacques told them.
He wasn't sure how, but he was going to make it work.
After all, no matter how much of a bitch life could get, Jacques was still her pimp.
The under city of Volare was by all means not a pretty city. Quite the opposite, It was a dreary place swallowed by a heavy and gray sky.
The smell of oil and smoke was thick in the air from the huge factories that lined the skyline with their chimneys sending dark clouds into the heavens.
The hum of machines and the clatter of assembly lines drowned out any sense of calm. Rain pooled on the streets and reflecting the far too-bright neon signs that buzzed and flickered. The artificial glow illuminated the wet pavement that had cracked and rotted long ago.
Above, the gleaming towers of the upper city stood in contrast. The bright, perfect images of Schnee's logos and ads mocked the grim reality below. One ad shouted, "Reach for the Sky!" It showed a perfect family living in luxury, while the workers below trudged through the puddles heading to holes and destitute families tired and worn.
The sidewalks were covered in scraps of metal, torn papers, and pieces of trash blown by the wind. Footsteps echoed against the concrete as a lone figure walked down the street. The coat collar was turned up against the chill, hiding its owner's face from the rain, and from prying eyes.
A dead man walking.
Arthur Watts was by no means one to get caught up in sentimentality or past memories, unless those memories could be twisted to fuel the endless thirst for vengeance he held against the fools who had wronged him.
Thus, he wasn't one to dwell on what could have been or mourn what he'd lost. Instead, he focused on what was next, what he could still control. And more importantly, on what was threatening to soon slip out of his grasp. His brow furrowed.
Somehow, what should have been an undeniable fact; his inevitable death, a death he had meticulously crafted to seem as real as possible had been recently questioned by the unimaginative fools sitting at the top of Atlas's military and government.
This was, of course, a frustrating and frankly bemusing turn of events, one that he had only become aware of after noticing the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of certain... "precautions" he had so carefully embedded in their systems.
His impeccable network of surveillance tools of backdoors, signal interceptors, and data siphons designed to monitor, control, and ensure his complete anonymity had all been methodically disabled.
Even worse, some of the systems he had thought completely secure had been repurposed to attempt tracking him down, pushing the limits of what his own encrypted escapes had been designed to withstand.
The fact that they were even trying to find him was irritating enough, but the audacity with which they were attempting to use his own tools against him? It was almost laughable. But the closer they got, the more it began to gnaw at him. They were too close.
The situation was increasingly untenable. Time was something he no longer had in abundance, and that, more than anything, was the most infuriating part of it all. The progress he'd made, the meticulous groundwork he'd laid, was far too minimal for his liking.
He'd always been a man who prided himself on control, on timing. Yet now, with his every move scrutinized, the walls closing in tighter, he found himself scrambling.
He had plans, grand plans which would have taken years to unfold properly, each part carefully positioned like pieces on a chessboard. Yet, the clock was ticking, and he hadn't even moved half the pieces into place.
All of it was so far from perfect, so incomplete, that the thought of rushing anything was nearly unbearable. There was still so much more to do. So many more people to manipulate, so many more systems to infiltrate, so many more connections to sever.
And yet, here he was, faced with the inconvenient reality that he had far too little time to get everything done.
But even with the limited progress, what he'd managed to scrape together was more than enough to start piecing together the puzzle of this abrupt turn of events. Or, more accurately, who was behind it.
From the few technical traces he could salvage corrupted files, fragmented signals, and a handful of encrypted messages, there was one thing that stood out. A recording of a video call. A casual conversation between two figures: the half-baked fool Ironwood, and one Jacques Schnee. If his sources were to be believed, and they always were, this was no coincidence. His sources were meticulously vetted, free from the flaws and biases of human interference.
It appeared Jacques Schnee had been severely injured in what seemed to be a White Fang attack.
But the odd thing? The conversation between Ironwood and Schnee wasn't about the attack. Not directly, anyway. Instead, the two were discussing something else entirely, almost as if the incident was a secondary topic.
The main topic, however, was none other than Arthur Watts himself!
How in the blazes had that upstart, dirt-scraping miner managed to uncover anything about Watts' living status? How could someone like Jacques, a wannabe with no real power, have stumbled onto what he had worked so carefully to conceal? The nerve of it!
It wasn't just a mere inconvenience. No, this was a serious breach. And it all stemmed from the idiotic, cowardly paranoia of Ironwood. Everything Arthur had worked on, all the meticulous plans and hidden work, was at risk of unraveling because of that fool. Jacques Schnee, of all people, had somehow fed into Ironwood's unfounded fear, exposing cracks where there should have been none.
This...this would not stand! Not while Watts still drew breath, not while he still had a hand in the game. He would fix this. He would tear down whatever was left of this absurd little circle of incompetence.
Jacques Schnee would learn the true cost of meddling in Arthur Watts' affairs.
But first, a message should be sent.
The Queen must be notified that an arrogant pawn wished to join the game.