Thistlemoon 17th, 143 AE.
To fly! Humanity's oldest dream.
Since the dawn of time, man had looked at birds and seethed. Oi, why can't I do that? And from that moment on, it became a personal grudge against the sky. Against gravity. And humans could hold a grudge like no other. Spite was a powerful motivator. He would know—it was practically his lifeblood.
Some lunatic—what's-his-name, Ibn Furnace? Firnas? Whatever—decided to strap feathers to his arms and fling himself off a tower with the confidence of a drunk insisting, Trust me, I've got this. Spoiler: he did not, in fact, have this. He promptly learned that landing was the real issue. but hey, he did "fly". A for effort, lad.
Others, likely even more desperate, thought, Sod it, let's just fill a sack with hot air and hope for the best. And somehow, against all reason, that actually worked.
Centuries of trial, error, and truly baffling decision-making eventually led to… success! Good ol time spent seething in an overpriced, cramped airbus, jammed next to a sweaty fat bastard who smelled like old cheese and some brat who'd been kicking the back of his seat for the last forty minutes. All so he could spend a small fortune flying across the continent to watch his favorite team get annihilated four-nil by some Greek no-name dickhead whose own mother probably didn't know he played football.
But hey. Humanity did it. Viva humanity!
P.S. Keep thoughts like that in the safety of your own head. He had enough problems with the Faunus as it was without getting caught quoting imperialistic/discriminatory sentiments.
Jacques was human, thus, he naturally had the same desire—and the same seething resentment.
Now, he didn't have the patience, the time, or the sheer lifespan—to give everyone else a fair chance at life to be more than his lackey— to spend centuries reinventing flight. Mostly because people on Remnant had already done that long before he arrived. And, technically speaking, all the major airlines ran on his Dust, too.
But that didn't count.
There was no oomph to it. No grand triumph over nature. No sticking it to gravity with sheer force of will. It was just business. It had be done by him personally. So Jacques took one look at the problem, gave it a whole two seconds of thought, and came to a very simple, very reasonable conclusion. "You know what this needs? Wings."
But, alas, Jacques did not have wings. Nor did he have a Red Bull.
What he did have, however, was an abundance of blessings. Good looks, a sharp mind, an even sharper sense of humor, a winning smile, a keen business acumen, an impeccable sense of fashion—obviously. Have you seen his fit?
He had a wife. A damn fine wife, and still playing hard to get, which only made her more attractive. A challenge? Sure. But he liked a good chase.
He had kids, too. Good ones.
His son—his pride. A lad after his own heart, truly. Smart, sharp, knew how to listen (most of the time), and didn't waste time with all that heroic nonsense. If there was any fairness in the world, the boy would be running the company already.
Then there were his daughters. The older one was dragging people into "questioning rooms" (the legal term, supposedly) and taking his pets on quests to beat up peasants. And the younger? A main character, which was about as good as it got. Except she had middle-child syndrome the size of Mantle's inferiority complex. Another thing he'd have to deal with next month.
More importantly, he had fucking HAX!
Eight months into this world. Eight months of animal abuse. Eight months of making sure Schnee construction crews had enough money to spoil their kids while he pretended to be a one-man demolition crew. Through blood (mostly not his), sweat (entirely his), and an unhealthy amount of sheer bloody-mindedness, Jacques Schnee—father, pseudo-god, bsuniessman, wrecking ball—could proudly say that he had mastered the Ten Shadows Technique.
Two things happened.
One, his opinion of Potential Man had hit a new rock bottom.
And two, Jacques Schnee now could grow wings. Kinda.
See, the Ten Shikigami were already busted as hell, but the real bullshit of Jacques' Semblance/cursed technique/whatever-the-fuck-you-wanna-call-it wasn't just a discount pokemon. No, it was how stupidly versatile it was. Storage? Yeah, it had that. Shadow fuckery? Obviously. Bullshit fusions? Why not. Aura interaction and boost? Absolutely.
Add to the growing list: Partial summoning.
He'd already cracked the cheat code using just the water from Max Elephant by copying what Sukuna did, and he'd already proven he could smite people without summoning Nue properly the day of the attack on the gala. The secret? Just keep the shadow open and let the Shikigami attack from inside it. Bloody genius.
So, theoretically, it should be possible to keep the Shikigami inside the shadow and only let a part of them out.
Which meant wings should work.
In theory.
He took a deep breath, pouring his Aura into his own shadow, feeling the familiar pull as something big responded. He dialed it down, and his shadow settled into a small puddle.
Using his hand to help him visualize, he raised it slightly. With a strain, he felt the puddle of shadow crawl upward along his legs, clinging like thick, inky tar before settling on his back.
It clung to him before finally solidifying into a shape. He could feel the weight—not heavy, but there, anchored to his Aura.
He grinned. Oh, he was onto something here
"Nue." A no-sign command.
His legs buckled as the full weight of Nue settled on his metaphorical shoulders.
A rumble whine echoed in his mind.
It wouldn't come out.
the hole was too small.
Fuck.
Take two!
Jacques braced himself, keeping the shadow steady as he fed his Aura into it. He felt the weight shift, the shape forming—a bigger shadow this time.
The shadow spilled over his back, cascading down like ink, and then—THUD.
Too big.
For a second, he felt weightless, floating in complete darkness. His his body was stuck in something thick and cloying, and the only sound he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Then, through the connection, he felt Nue tilt its head.
A confused rumble echoed in his mind.
…Where did you go?
Nue came out. Fully.
And Jacques was inside the shadow.
Take three!
A little more Aura, a little more control.
He shifted his shoulders.
And did absolutely nothing.
Hm.
Take four!
Jacques poured his Aura in, willed the shape to form, and promptly got pancaked.
The wings came out. So did the rest of Nue. On top of him.
A heavy, growling mass of fur and lightning squashed him into the dirt.
Take five!
Still too small. Instead of majestic wings, Jacques got tiny, useless nubs that flapped pathetically before disintegrating. Nue let out a confused chirp, and Jacques seriously considered quitting.
Take nine!
Shadow exploded. Nue exploded. Jacques exploded. The only thing that didn't explode was his patience, because that was long gone.
Take seventeen!
This time, the wings formed perfectly! Jacques grinned, then immediately got yanked backward as the wings dragged him into the ground.
Take twenty!
Only one wing appeared.
Take twenty-six!
Hole was perfect. Nue was the one which was too big. Jacques tried to make it smaller. Didn't work. He stood there with a frown, looking constipated.
Freckles passed by. Asked if he needed laxatives.
Take twenty-nine!
Aura is too volatile. Summoned Divine Dogs to minimize the amount he was working with. Didn't work. The dogs laughed at him.
The dogs were released.
Take Thirty!
Aura was still too volatile. Summoned Funeral Tiger to minimize the amount he was working with. It worked. Tiger funeral tackled him before he could lift off.
Tiger Funeral was released.
Take Thirty-Three!
Freckles brought him laxatives.
Jacques stared at the box of laxatives in his hand. Freckles stared at him.
"It's for your constipation," she said helpfully.
He nailed the shape, got cocky, jumped off a crate, and face-planted.
Piercing Ox rammed into him, and took the laxatives.
Take thirty-five!
He took a deep breath, ignored the taste of cardboard in his mouth, and tried again. The wings formed! They held! Jacques grinned, crouched, and—
Take thirty-six!
He flew! For five glorious seconds! Then the wings fizzled out, and he went down like a sack of bricks.
Freckles handed him another box of laxatives.
Jacques ate the box. Not the pills. The box. Out of spite.
There was a crowd of people now.
Take Thirty-Eight!
Jacques lifted off. For exactly two seconds. Then Nue, the bastard, twitched mid-flight, and Jacques spun out like a drunk mosquito and slammed into the wall.
Take Forty-three!
It went well for a couple of seconds. Had to stop. The box of cardboard gave him the shits.
Take Forty-nine!
Jacques held the shape. Held his focus. Held his dignity—barely.
He jumped.
He did not fall.
He hovered.
He grinned. He was flying. Well, hovering—but same shit!
"Behold! Your new sky Lord!"
"For I See NO God up here! OTHER THAN M—ACK!!"
Freckles threw a bucket at him.
He crashed down.
"Aw, shoot, sir, I—I didn't mean nothin' by it! Jus' saw all the flappin' an'—I swear, figured you was one o' them no-good Faunus terrorists."
Take Fifty!
Jacques leaned forward. The wings caught. He shot forward—too forward. The ground and his face got real familiar, real fast. He stopped on the other side of the mansion in a pile of rubble.
Nue refused to be summoned.
Jacques was running on fumes.
Face full of dirt, dignity in the negatives, he just laid there, trying not to cry.
Willow walked by, took one long look at the pathetic heap of a man she married, sighed, and slung him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
On the way back, Freckles handed him another box of laxatives.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thawmere 4th, 143 AE
To fly! Humanity's oldest dream!
Since the dawn of time, man had looked at birds and seethed. Oi, why can't I do that? And from that moment on, it became a personal grudge against the sky. Against gravity. And humans? Humans did not take losing well. Spite was a powerful motivator. He would know—it was practically his lifeblood.
And behold! They had won! The skies, once the domain of birds and other winged vermin, now belonged to mankind! Not with pathetic flapping or feathery nonsense, but with machines. Beautiful, powerful machines made of steel, fueled by Dust, and crafted by the ingenuity of mankind!
And since Jacques was both human and the Dust Man, that meant the skies were his by divine right to begin with. Which meant, logically, every flight in the sky? Every soaring airship? Every sleek Atlesian craft cutting through the clouds? His. His in spirit. His in ownership. His in principle.
He had no need for wings. No need for pathetic, animalistic flapping. He wasn't some halfwit strapping feathers to his arms and yeeting himself off a cliff, hoping for the best. No, he was the proud patron of every airline worth a damn in Atlas. Every single one of them ran on his Dust. Every single one of them owed their existence to him.
This! This was true flight! Wings? Uncivilized. Flapping? Barbaric. Why break your back trying to mimic birds when you could sip wine in first class, reclining at 30,000 feet, while the laws of nature wept at your victory?
B-b-but what about the hecking 'oomph' and spirit of human spirit? The dream? The romance of flight? The ab—Shut the fuck up. That was loser talk. That was for poor people who didn't own every airline in Atlas. That was for people who had to buy plane tickets like common peasants instead of making a single call and having a private airship prepped within the hour.
That was the real dream. That was the real oomph.
He had already won. And when Jacques Schnee won, he dominated. In style.
So, naturally, he found himself aboard the finest, most advanced aircraft Atlas had ever produced—his latest masterpiece, the Jet-Assisted Cutting-Edge Quantum Ultra-Executive Schnee Express, also known as the J.A.C.Q.U.E.S OF ALL TRADES.
Because if he was going to fly, he was going to do it in a machine so powerful, so advanced, and so badass-ly named that lesser men would weep at the mere sight of it.
And weep they would.
It wasn't just a jet. It wasn't just an aircraft. It was The Shit.
The only requirement he gave was simple and to the point:
"I want this bitch to be able to ram straight into a mountain and keep flying like it was just a mild inconvenience. I want to see Ironwood's ugly mug twist in sheer, unfiltered jealousy the moment his bitchass lays eyes on it."
The engineers tried to reason with him. Something about "structural integrity," "aerodynamics," and "the laws of physics." Jacques listened very carefully, nodded sagely, and then told them to figure it out or find new jobs.
They figured it out.
This was no mere Bullhead. No sluggish, pedestrian excuse for an aircraft. No sad, glorified boxy transport delivery van crawling in the sky. No, this was the J..A.Q.U.E.S.—a marvel of engineering, a machine so advanced it made lesser pilots tremble and air traffic controllers sweat.
A battleship of the skies to prove nothing more than his sheer HIM-ness and refusal to be anything less than spectacular.
It had speed. Mach 2, on average. Fast enough to outrun lesser aircraft, faster than any Bullhead dared dream. Fast enough that by the time you heard him laughing, he was already gone.
It had grandeur. The exterior? Sleek, elegant, a work of art in motion. The interior? A private lounge, a fully stocked bar, plush seating, and a dining area that put five-star restaurants to shame. Not because Jacques needed all that, but because he could.
And as for the totally standard, absolutely not overkill weaponry and very much legal defense systems? Well. The less said about that, the better. No need to let anyone in on just how much nonsense went into making sure this thing could win a war while serving dinner.
Now, in the midst of breaking every airspeed record Remnant had to offer, Jacques leaned back in his plush leather seat, swirling a glass of the finest whiskey money could bu— "Oh, for the love of—can you please stop narrating everything you do?" Willow cut in, with a groan.
Jacques raised a hand, and the scissors snipping through his white locks paused mid-motion. His minion—a loyal, if slightly terrified, stylist—took a cautious step back. Jacques turned to Willow with a flat look. "Really? In the middle of my monologue? You couldn't wait?"
"You've been at it for the past hour. It's annoying."
"You're just hating. Woman, what did I tell you about all this hating shit?" " Jacques clicked his tongue. "It's not healthy. And worse, it's pointless. I can't be less of a magnificent stud just because it hurts your fragile sensibilities. Ain't that right, boy?"
Whitley, halfway through stuffing his face with a mouthful of real, actual food—not that bourgeois nonsense he used to eat—paused just long enough to nod. "Mmhmm."
If nothing else, Jacques was proud that someone in this household had taste. Proper, working-class, salt-of-the-earth taste. None of that artfully plated, sauce-drizzled, "essence of" bullshit that barely qualified as a meal. No, Whitley was eating meat. Meat that actually existed in amounts worth eating. It was enough to make a man cry.
Jacques grinned. "See? Boy's got taste and brains."
Willow made a noise of pure exhaustion. "Yes, yes, Jacques, you're an unstoppable force of nature, the center of the universe, and the most humble man alive. Did I miss anything?"
Jacques took a sip of whiskey. "You forgot 'irresistible.'"
Willow gave him the flattest look known to man.
"Hating me is like hating the sun for shining. My brilliance is inevitable." He reassured her of the pointlessness of it all.
Willow sighed, looking back to the scroll in her hands. "Yes, Jacques, you're just like the sun: blinding, overbearing, and guaranteed to give me a headache if I look at you for too long."
"And yet, neither you nor the world can survive without me," he said smugly. "No matter what, you all revolve around me." With a regal wave, he motioned for the stylist to resume cutting his glorious hair. "Do you know how many men would kill to live the life I do? How many women would die just to hear me breathe?"
"Entirely too many," Willow muttered, frowning at the screen of his scroll like she had paid for it. "I think I've blocked half of Atlas at this point."
As if to prove his point, and cut off her next quip, the familiar ping of a DM rang out from his scroll.
Jacques smirked. "Ah, my adoring public calls."
"There's no way those things are natural," Willow muttered before she glared at his reflection of the mirror, as she swiped the notification away. "Your insufferable groupies, you mean."
He scoffed. "Jealous?"
"Disgusted."
"Potato, tomato," he dismissed. "Hardly something to write about. I am a catch."
"You're about to catch these hands," Willow replied
Without hesitation, Whitley—used to this nonsense—shoved his headphones on and cranked the volume.
"Nah, I'm genuinely speaking," Jacques said, smirking. "And really, I don't know why you're so surprised. I'm the strongest, most handsome, and richest man in Atlas. I'm basically a fairy tale prince—except better, because I'm real."
The barber gently motioned him to tilt his head, obscuring Willow from view, but he was pretty sure she was flipping him off. "You're a cautionary tale. At best."
Jacques just laughed. "Oooo..."
"I got a trillion lien, they know that~
All these birdies at home thinkin'—'I should own that'~
And all they gotta do is arch their back,
Shove their ass into the cam and hope Jackie likes the bunda~"
Willow blinked. "Did you—did you seriously just freestyle a song about being scammed?"
"Not a scam if I'm in on it," Jacques said smoothly.
Willow scoffed. "You're okay with these women trying to take your money? They're gold diggers."
"They're diggin' and I'm dickin'," Jacques cackled. Sadly, there wasn't a choir for his laughter. A true tragedy.
Jacques expected an eyeroll. A scoff. Some sharp remark about how he was unbearable. He got nothing. He leaned back, tilting his head up so the barber could trim his beard, but mostly to give himself a clear view of Willow in the process.
She didn't look amused. Not even a little.
Instead of letting out another quip, Jacques just studied her for a moment. The way she scrolled through his messages with just a bit too much force, her eyebrows slightly furrowed. "I'm kidding," he said with a sigh.
Willow didn't look up. "I know."
She was brushing it off—pretending it didn't bother her. But it did. He could tell. Ah shit.
Jacques exhaled through his nose, then stood. The barber hesitated, clippers hovering midair, but Jacques waved him off. He knelt slowly next to her. Willow didn't react at first, just kept scrolling, but her nose scrunched slightly.
He knew that look.
He reached out, resting a hand over hers, pressing just enough for her to feel the warmth of his palm.
"You know I don't actually mean any of that," he murmured. "None of these hoes could hold a candle to you. You think I'd trade in my luxury pimp-ride for some rickety rental? Please. I got the only limited edition model—custom-built, all-terrain, handles like a dream, and I ain't ever letting go of the keys."
Willow finally looked at him. Brows furrowed for a glare, but her lips wobbled. A small smile broke through before she could stop it.
"You're comparing me to a car now?" she said, her voice caught between amusement and exasperation.
"A luxury vehicle," Jacques corrected, squeezing her hand. "Top of the line. Once in a lifetime."
"Still a car," she deadpanned.
"Well, God knows I put some mileage riding you." He couldn't help it.
Willow let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, then smacked his shoulder. "You're insufferable."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. How about this..." Jacques smirked, shifting to kneel properly beside her. He took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles like he was appraising something precious—because he was.
"Alright, alright," he said, his voice dropping into something smoother. "You're a diamond. Flawless. Priceless. The kind men would kill for, the kind they'd ruin themselves trying to keep." He tilted his head, watching her reaction. "Oh? You like that, huh?"
Willow harrumphed, but the warmth in her eyes betrayed her.
Jacques grinned, leaning in slightly. "None of these hoes could ever replace you. You think I'd swap out a diamond for some cheap glass? Please. If I ever lost you, I'd be out there breaking every pickaxe in Remnant trying to dig you back up."
He let that sit for a moment, watching the way her lips parted slightly, the way her fingers twitched under his while she fought to keep the smile from growing—then he leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Gotta feel for all those children I'd have to scam for the job, though. You know, tiny hands, better for sifting through rubble. Can pay them less, too."
"And there it is. God, you're such an asshole." Willow stared at him. Then she smacked him upside the head. "And you wonder why people think you're a villain."
"What? You think I'm getting my hands dirty?" Jacques just laughed, utterly delighted with himself. "I still got one more. Wanna hear it?"
Willow deadpanned, already turning back to his scroll. "No."
"Too bad," Jacques said, smirk fading just a little. "Because this one's actually true. This is something I've never thought about any woman in my life."
Willow glanced at him, expecting another joke, but he wasn't laughing. He still had that smug tilt to his lips, sure, but there was something else there.
Jacques sighed, giving her hand one last squeeze. "From the bottom of my heart, I say this to you…" He paused, holding her gaze. "If I was a kid, I would let [you] molest me."
Willow's stare turned flat in an instant. Jacques barely had time to dodge her heels. "You absolute insufferable Piece of cow shit!"
"I'm being serious!" he protested, ducking just in time to dodge a second incoming heel. Before she could launch a third, he grabbed both of her legs and stood up, yanking her right off the couch.
Willow sputtered, one hand yanking her long skirt down before it could ride up, the other gripping his shoulder to keep herself from falling. "What the hell are you doing?!"
"Proving a point!" Jacques declared. With one arm braced under her, admittedly sizeable, derrière, he reached for his scroll with the other, angling it just right.
Click.
The screen captured it perfectly. Jacques standing tall, a cocky smirk on his face, holding Willow effortlessly in one arm like the catch he was while she scowled at him mid-protest. Her hair was a little tousled, her grip on his shirt was tight, and if one didn't know better, they'd think the two had just finished fucking. Brilliant.
"Look at that." He turned the screen toward her. "Perfect. Send that to every bitch who thinks she can replace you. Let 'em know I'm holding the only woman worth a damn."
"...we look like idiots." Willow snatched the scroll from his hand, glaring at the photo, then back at him. "If you're gonna take one at least make it decent."
"If you're gonna be in my arms, at least pose better," Jacques shot back, grinning. "Come on, one more. Try looking a little more smitten."
"Drop me."She huffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
"Now, why would I do that?" He spun her around effortlessly before pulling her close, one arm still locked under her thighs while he leaned in. "I'm a gentleman, Willow. I carry my woman."
Willow rolled her eyes but didn't fight him. "One more," she relented, lifting the scroll. "And if I hate it, I'm deleting it."
Click.
This time, Jacques dipped his head toward hers just enough to make it look intimate, like some dramatic romance cover, while Willow despite herself smiled just a little.
"Now that's a keeper," Jacques said smugly.
"...Yeah. Maybe." Willow stared at it for a beat longer, then tucked the scroll away. "BigBootyBertha024 is going to be heartbroken.'
He laughed. Then, with the same effortless nonchalance, Jacques spun on his heel, Willow still in his arms, and marched straight back to the barber's chair.
Without missing a beat, he plopped himself down (perfect derrière first) right where he'd been sitting before, legs crossed, drink in hand, not a single hair out of place.
Willow, however, was still in his lap. His free arms settled around her waist. She let out a sigh that came from the depths of her soul, and her weight settling against him in sheer resignation.
The barber hesitated, clippers hovering midair, unsure whether to proceed. Jacques merely raised an eyebrow. "Well? Don't stop on my account." He took a leisurely sip of his whiskey. "A man's grooming waits for no one."
The barber's eyes glazed over for a moment, the last flicker of resistance dying out. Then, with the deadened acceptance of a man who decide he should probably do as told, he simply shrugged and got back to work.
Jacques smirked. Docile and obedient. As his minions should be.
"...Don't cut too much from the front, please," Willow spoke.
She pinched his thigh when he opened his mouth to say something. He kept his mouth shut and closed his eyes, letting the silence be filled with the soft hum of the clippers, the distant murmur of servants moving about, and the refined, luxurious ambiance of the ship of classical music, the ever-present hum of the high-tech engines, and whatever hard phonk or rock Whitely was fucking up his ears listening to full blast.
until...
Jacques' cracked one eye open when the barber suddenly stopped mid-trim. The man had gone still, clippers hovering near his forehead like he'd just seen something unholy.
"Boy, you better not have fucked up my hairline." Jacques' voice was low and warning.
"Ah no, Sir..it's just..." the barber stalled. "Should… should I prepare some dye?"
Jacques frowned. "Hmm?"
The barber hesitated before carefully pointing with a handheld mirror. Willow leaned in to look at his hair.
Ah.
There, in the midst of his pristine white hair, was something that should not have been there.
small, tiny black strands. Many of them.
huh.
"Were you dying your hair this whole time?" His wife gave him an unimpressed look.
No. He wasn't. And as far as he could remember, Old Moustache wasn't either. It was probably nothing. Probably.
There was no way this was a sign.
"Nah," he finally said, leaning back with the smug confidence of a man utterly unbothered. "It's just your ass on my lap bringing my youth back."
The barber made a strangled noise. Willow, still perched in his lap, smacked his chest hard.
"Jacques."
And thus began yet another round of back-and-forth.
Whitley, seated several meters away, slowly raised his head from his scroll. Even with the latest album of Necro-Slaughter Symphony Damned Howl the Annihilation blasting in his ears, it was obvious what was going on: his father teasing and baiting, and Willow, well… it was still hard to think of her as Mother just yet, even in the solitude of his own mind. But there she was, rising to the taunts and provocations when she knew full well she didn't have to, pretending to be angry when she wasn't.
At first, Whitley had found it... amusing, in a way. It was funny how predictable they both were. But now? Now, it was just tedious. He'd gotten used to it, too used to it. He didn't even blink when his father would wink at her from across the room, or when Willow would "accidentally" brush against him.
A slow, knowing smile appeared on his face.
'I hope we crash.'
Luckily, whatever visual pollution he was about to suffer didn't last long. The cockpit door slid open with a hiss, and Winter finally emerged, crisp and composed as ever. He pulled down his headphones.
"We've reached Vale."
Whitley just hoped the Vytal Festival lived up to its hype.