The Great War!
Almost eighty years ago, the kingdoms of Remnant collectively decided they were absolutely, positively, done with each other's bullshit.
It started, as all stupid wars do, over politics, pride, and somebody building a wall in the wrong neighborhood. What followed was four kingdoms, countless corpses, and an entire generation thrown into a meat grinder that historians now politely refer to as The Great War. Capital G, capital W.
It was so Great, they reset the calendar for it. Because if there's one thing Remnant loves more than genocide, it's bureaucracy.
Atlas wasn't even called Atlas back then; it was just Mantle, and it was somehow even more uptight than it is now. Vacuo was still a sunburnt land of chaos, gremlins doing whatever the hell they wanted. Mistral was so busy stabbing each other in the back they forgot which side they were on, and Vale—oh sweet, hypocritical Vale—kept preaching unity while its king, a busted-up HAX merchant with godlike aim and no chill, marched straight to the front lines like a damn anime protagonist. spoiler: He probably was.
"What kind of goofy-ass king fights on the front lines?" asked Mantle's king, who, mind you, was not on the front lines. "Fucxking newblood," he grumbled right before being heroically shanked twelve times by his own council. A tragic loss. Definitely not an inside job.
The Great War had trudged on. It dragged the world kicking and screaming into the age of dust-powered mechanized slaughter, and by the time the last swords were lowered, everyone involved had one thing in common:
They were exhausted.
Bodies stacked like firewood. Economies in shambles. Kings deposed, generals disgraced, and the average soldier lucky if they got to keep both limbs and half a liver. The war was so bad, so stupid, and so incredibly preventable that the kingdoms collectively agreed never to try that shit again.
So, they did what all traumatized, deeply ashamed nations do when faced with the aftermath of a catastrophic war:
They got really into committees.
Committees to discuss reparations. Committees to rewrite history books. Committees to form other, smaller, less effective committees between a summit on postwar identity and a twelve-hour argument over whether Mantle's war crimes were "lightly treasonous" or "just passionate patriotism,".
And of course, they made sure to give a piece of the pie to the Faunus who got caught in the middle of it all. Used. Abused. Tossed aside. When the kingdoms were done tearing each other apart, they turned to the Faunus and said, "Thanks for your service. Now piss off to that desert rock no one wants."
Thus, Menagerie was born—because nothing says "we respect your rights" like forcing an entire race onto an island and calling it a gesture of goodwill. Everyone pretended it was a cultural gift.
Except, of course, Menagerie itself—and Mistral.
The newly slapped-together government of Menagerie knew damn well what the island really was: a glorified exile with scenic beaches. No one builds a capital city out of driftwood, good intentions, and crushing desperation by accident. They weren't proud—they were stranded!
Mistral, meanwhile, was livid.
First, because it was their damn island before Vale's gaggle of peace-loving hippies handed it over like a re-gifted fruit basket from hell.
Second, because the Faunus had the absolute gall—the sheer audacity—to not stay on the goddamn island. They had the nerve to leave. To live in cities. To participate in society. To have opinions. 'Why are you still here?!' Mistral cried." What do you mean you want to vote?!"
It was a diplomatic tantrum that lasted years.
And yet, in a roundabout, profoundly screwed-up way, the shared outrage from both the Faunus and Mistral ended up making history. Because when two parties so fundamentally opposed—one oppressed, the other oppressive—agree on hating the same political compromise?
Well, to the international scene, that was proof enough: maybe humans and Faunus weren't so different after all. Unity. Just... not the kind anyone wanted.
Somewhere along the line, a particularly ambitious undersecretary to the Mistrali Diplomatic Reconciliation Board—a man with too much wine, too little oversight, and a tragically inflated sense of showmanship—suggested a festival. A friendly little get-together. Something to promote unity. Cultural exchange. Sportsmanship. A worldwide distraction with flags and confetti so people would stop asking how many villages got glassed by prototype airships.
Everyone else thought so. "Sure, whatever. Why not?" and gave him a promotion and land.
Mind you, the very man was later fired—loudly and with great ceremony—after being caught pants-down in a councilwoman's office with three underage boys, a bottle of Vacuan cactus wine, a notebook filled with what the press kindly described as "unorthodox anatomical sketches" of foreign dignitaries. and a dust-enhanced massage chair he allegedly called "the peace engine."
But by then, the idea had already taken off.
And thus, the Vytal Festival was born—part reconciliation effort, part global PR stunt, and 100% a transparent attempt to slap a coat of happy paint on the war-ravaged drywall of Remnant. "Vytal" sounding just exotic enough to make it feel ancient, sacred, and not at all made up on the spot during a bender.
They slapped together an official seal, a theme song, and a committee to argue about whether it should include fashion showcases or just stick to violently chucking teenagers at each other in an arena. In the end, they chose both. Because nothing says unity like fireworks and state-sanctioned teen brawls broadcast live in four barely distinct accents.
The rules were simple: each kingdom sends its best and brightest from the top combat academies, parades them around like finely-trained circus seals, and lets them absolutely batter one another in the name of peace, friendship, and diplomacy.
But damned if it didn't work. Sort of.
The world didn't go to war again. Not immediately, anyway. Sure, there were some "incidents." Some sabotage. One assassination. That time a Vacuan contender got disqualified for summoning a sandstorm that flash-aged a dozen Mistrali officials into retirement. But all things considered, it was a hit.
People bought merch. Kids picked favorites. Kingdoms smiled fake smiles at one another while secretly planning to poach each other's students.
And so, every few years, the world gathers in one kingdom or another to cheer as their children beat the ever-living snot out of each other in the name of harmony.
This year, the honor of hosting fell to Vale.
Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Vale, still clinging to its centuries-old reputation as the nice one. The Kingdom of gardens, green hills, and good manners. Home to peacemakers, artists, and the sort of well-meaning idealists who thought a hug and a poetry slam could solve structural inequality.
And of course, Vale being Vale, tried to make everyone feel welcome. They threw open the gates of Beacon Academy, laid down rose petals and banners, and politely pretended not to notice when the Atlesian delegation started deploying auto-turrets in the dorms "just in case."
The city was buzzing. Tourists poured in. Scrolls lit up with festival promotions, merch drops, and conspiracy theories about which kingdom had already bribed the judges. It was all happening. The streets were alive with song and traffic violations.
They pulled all the stops to show off, since this one promised to be different. Bigger, louder, dumber in all the best ways. For once, it wasn't just about goodwill and sportsmanship. This year had stakes.
Which meant everyone had something to prove.
Vale pulled together every favor, every lien, and every last drop of patience to make this the most flawless, peaceful, and impressively over-budget festival to date.
Mistral arrived with enough silks, stylists, and socialites to smother a mid-sized village—but not just one delegation, oh no. Two. North and South Mistral were in the middle of a quiet, simmering political dick-measuring contest, and they'd both decided the Vytal Festival was the perfect place to air their extremely public, extremely expensive laundry.
Vacuo saw that, said fuck it, and came in with three teams, no warning, and what was either a cultural dance or a gang initiation on the tarmac.
Atlas, of course, came in with the most to prove. They arrived like a kingdom with a chip on both shoulders, and a military budget big enough to grind that chip into diamond. Their custom-built airship was an armored behemoth plated in dust-forged alloy, trailing banners so large they needed stabilization thrusters to keep from dragging the ship off course. Emblazoned across the hull in polished silver lettering: "TOGETHER, UNYIELDING." It sounded patriotic. It also sounded like a threat.
The message was clear: terrorist attack or not, Atlas wasn't bitch-made.
A shame, really.
All those banners. All the rehearsed speeches, silk robes, and synchronized parades. The multi-million lien efforts from four kingdoms to remind the world that unity, civility, and cultural exchange were still possible, even after the Great War, even after all the blood and dust and centuries of mistrust.
All of it… ruined.
By one dickhead.
Not a criminal mastermind. Not a rogue agent. Not even a disgruntled protester throwing bottles from the crowd.
No. This was a whole new breed of cunt.
An reluctantly invited guest with too much confidence, too much hair gel, and way too much time on his hands. A man whose presence turned press conferences into stand-up routines, peace talks into roast battles, and official ceremonies into televised psychological warfare.
He didn't sneak in. He strolled. In the air!
With the smugness of someone who knew that technically, no one had the legal authority to throw him out.
Above in the sky, beyond the flags and banners, the clear sky began and darken and the clouds churned like they'd just realized who came and were deeply upset about it.
It was over.
The festival hadn't even started yet—and already, the entire international effort had been overshadowed.
By a single, insufferably loud, dramatically overdressed, aggressively British jackass.
And his huge fuck-off pet.
A massive, spiraling burst of electric light tore through the sky. The clouds barely had time to protest before they were ripped open by something big—and loud—and very much shaped like a dragon. Not a metaphorical dragon. Not a cute logo or a hologram. A giant, writhing construct of pure lightning, coiling through the storm like someone had taught a natural disaster how to slither.
It roared, though roar was a generous term. It sounded less like an animal and more like a mountain being split in half while screaming profanities. Every speaker system in a five-mile radius sparked, popped, and then quietly gave up.
And somewhere above it all, the laughter came again.
Louder.
Smugger.
And with far too many syllables.
"BAAAAAHAHAHAHAAHAAAA—!"
The moment the big-ass lightning dragon showed up Vale collectively lost its mind. Bullheads dipped, looped, and booked it in every direction like headless chickens. Flight control had a meltdown. The Atlesian ships defence grid flared to life with a deep hum, dust turrets swiveling and locking onto the target. Radar scrambled. Anti-air missiles armed. For a terrifying split second, Vale very nearly became open warfare with a sky-born demigod made of pure arrogance and voltage.
Then came the override. Atlas codes. Real ones. Verified. Top clearance.
"...Stand down," said one very terrified controller into his headset, sweating bullets as the Good General' metallic limbs groaned from how hard he clenched his teeth and hands as he stood behind him, next to a angry looking libertarian(?) and the headmaster of Beacon Academy "I said STAND DOWN, I don't care how illegal it looks! Do not put him in a self-defence position!"
Cars slammed on their brakes. Horns blared. Scrolls dropped. Scrolls were whipped out. People pointed. Half the pedestrians were filming, the other half were ducking under hotdog stands. Somewhere, a child started crying. One guy shouted, "It's the end times!" and immediately proposed to his girlfriend. She said yes. They kissed.
The dragon glided toward the edge of the city, soaring over rooftops and highrises like some divine middle finger aimed squarely at the skyline of Vale.
Its destination was clear: the private landing zone. Cleared, secured, and handed over on Atlas' insistence to one individual. Not a team. Not a delegation. Just… Him. The whole tarmac had been cleared for a single arrival, and the dragon didn't so much fly toward it as it declared its territory with every glowing stomp across the sky.
Then, just as it reached the zone—
It hit the ground.
And not with a bang, not with a crash, but with style. The dragon spiraled inward like a storm collapsing into itself and every bolt unwinded before shooting back into the sky in bright arcs with every spin.
And then—
Gone.
In its place, hovering just a few feet above the scorched landing pad, was a Bullhead. Or something like a Bullhead. It had the shape of one, sure, but it looked like it had been beaten nearly to death with performance anxiety by someone with a grudge against minimalism. The plating gleamed like obsidian dipped in gold. The engines purred instead of roaring. And every corner of the thing shimmered with ridiculous, unnecessary, obnoxious style.
And then, from the very top of the monstrosity, he descended.
With outstretched arms, he lowered smoothly onto the landing pad. A corona of light crowned his head. Wings of blue electricity shimmered from his back. His coat flared in a breeze that might've been fake, but no one dared to question it.
Dozens of vehicles screeched to a halt at the perimeter of the zone. Military. Civilian. News crews. Police. All had their mouths open.
He raised his arms.
His smile was criminal.
"Vale," he said, voice booming louder than any loudspeaker had a right to, "I was told there'd be a festival."
Jacques Schnee has arrived!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Maximilian. My boy, my dear apple of my eye! Good evening, or morning, or whatever arbitrary time zone you're operating in these days."
A beat.
"Nothing urgent. Just checking in. How's the board? No one's resigned? Imploded? Spontaneously burst into proletariat ideals? Mmm, pity. I was hoping for a bit of drama to start the week. Keeps the interns sharp."
Jacques sniffled.
"Yes, I saw the projections. Very promising. Though I do question the line item labeled 'Possible Divine Wrath Contingency.' That was your handwriting, wasn't it?
A pause.
"Oh, no, I'm not mad. If anything, I'm impressed you're finally budgeting for my hobbies, and taking the wholez footy rthing seriously."
Something clanged loudly in the background, maybe a barred door, maybe a mop bucket. He didn't acknowledge it.
"Anyway. Quick thing. Be a dear and give Michael a ring, would you?"
He adjusted the sleeve of his coat. Still pristine. Of course it was.
"No, not to watch the festival with me. You know if I brought anyone, it'll be you, mate. ...Nah, I'm here. I arrived early. I made an entrance. It was tasteful....Well. I thought it was tasteful."
Another pause.
"Tell him I need him in Vale. Yes, urgently. And bring the whole team. Oh—and the long-form documentation, the shiny folders, the big one with the 'absolutely not guilty' tab."
Jacques smiled.
"...Right, that's all. Love you. Be quick."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The locker clicked shut with a muted thunk.
Weiss exhaled through her nose and sat, still in her undersuit, the segmented armor pieces laid out around her in perfect order. Polished. Maintained. One scratch on the greaves—she'd buff that out. Again.
The team wasn't there yet. Good. Weiss sat back, letting her shoulders sag for half a second just long enough to remember what silence felt like. No bickering. No "creative differences." No half-formed battle plans that somehow turned into personal therapy sessions. No daft arguments , or wasted breaths about the most crystal clear of topics with that..fool who defended terrorists of all people. Why didn't Blake understand?!
Weiss let out a breath, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table. She wasn't wrong. She wasn't the one at fault. She wasn't the one who couldn't see the bigger picture, who refused to understand what was at stake.
She wasn't avoiding her team.
She just needed the peace of mind to prepare.
She didn't need witnesses for this part.
Her fingers moved on muscle memory, checking the Myrtenaster's cartridge loader, the pressure seals, the backup glyph dial she'd pretended she didn't need. She moved like someone clocking into a familiar job—except this one came with cameras, crowds, and an entire legacy weighing down her spine.
Another deep breath.
The Vytal Festival.
Even saying it felt dramatic.
A celebration of peace. Of unity. Of how far Remnant had come since The Great War.
And yet here she was, in a steel room lit by fluorescent lights, checking whether her sword could pierce aura faster than someone could finish saying "cultural exchange."
Because unity only lasted until someone started losing.
And people loved to see the Schnee lose.
It wasn't fair. It never was. But being a Schnee meant pretending otherwise.
Weiss paused mid-polish. She braced an elbow on her knee and stared at the floor, her fingers tightening around the cloth she'd been using to clean the already spotless edge of Myrtenaster. Her scroll blinked beside her, a week old read message glowing at the top. From Whitley. "We're coming to the festival."
Of course they were.
She hadn't spoken to her father in… what, nearly a year? Not for lack of trying, mind you. Every call ended with Whitley's smug voice on the other end.
She'd sent him messages, of course—well, more like messages—all formal, all business, but always with that subtle hint of personal intention. She hadn't expected him to reply to everyone, but a word, a sentence, anything... But there was nothing.
Weiss stared at the latest message on her scroll, the screen dimmed but still showing the tiny icon in the corner: Read—Yesterday, 2:14 PM.
He always did read them surprisingly. He just never replied, well, not with words anyway, never acknowledged a word she said except for that one, infuriating constant.
[Sent—Yesterday, 2:16 PM."]
What the hell did that even mean?! Jacques Schnee didn't do whimsy. He didn't do cute. He didn't do frogs. She'd spent her whole life watching him cultivate an image like it was sacred, polished, untouchable, and above all else, controlled. So why now? Why send some cryptic, smug little doodles?!
It was so… unlike him.
Her shoulders sagged. But what exactly did she know about him?
She remembered the cold shoulder first. The silence that lingered longer than any lecture. The "I expected better." delivered with a look sharp enough to carve ice. The disappointment hanging heavier than any raised voice ever could. You didn't yell at glass, after all. You just stared at it until it cracked on its own.
It would be so easy to roll her eyes, to scoff and be done with it. To tell herself that she was free.
But.
But.
She also remembered the night of the Gala. Coat already burning at the edges. Saving lives. Protecting Winter and Whitley. Shielding her mother with his body. Her mother had actually gone to that Gala. On his arm. She'd smiled at him once. Faintly.
And that night, Jacques had looked less like a tyrant and more like—
She didn't have a word for it. Maybe she didn't want one.
Her scroll buzzed on the bench beside her.
She ignored it.
She had work to do.
Armor plates clicked into place.
If this was going to be the stage, then she'd damn well act the part.
Weiss Schnee, heiress, huntress, contestant, disappointment. Take your pick.
And just like every other year, she was going to grin and bear it.
Because that's what Schnees did.
They smiled.
And they won.
Her scroll buzzed again.
Her brows furrowed, and he reached for her scroll to silence it. It wasn't a notification.
It was a message.
It read:
"We're going to be late."
That was all.
No greeting. No explanation.
Just a single line, and a picture attached.
Weiss opened it.
It was a photo, poorly angled like Whitley had taken it while actively being told not to. Blurry, slightly crooked, but unmistakable.
Her father was cuffed and being loaded into the back of a police van.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jacques gave the scroll back to the lovely police officer—smiling with all the charm of a man who had clearly done something wrong and was deeply proud of it—and returned to his seat inside the holding cell.
It was a lovely cell, all things considered. Padded bench, clean walls, not a single shiv in sight. The kind of cell they reserved for special guests, war criminals, and rich assholes.
He leaned back like he owned the place. Which, in fairness, he absolutely could if he felt like making a few phone calls. And since he was technically in charge of the other three people in the cell with him, he did own at least the vibe.
Across from him, Eisen sat calmly reading a newspaper. The man was still in that Employee of the Decade grindset, clearly. Former military too, apparently. Nobody had told Jacques until they were already airborne, at which point Eisen casually took the controls like it was Tuesday. Technically, he was the one responsible for flying the J.A.C.Q.U.E.S., which made his presence here very, very understandable.
To Jacques' left was the young assistant pilot, tightly wound, stiff as a board, and still trying to process any of this. His arrest also made sense.
Freckles was there too. Freckles had been arrested because she launched herself at the first cop who tried to cuff Jacques. She just yelled "No one touches the boss!" and went feral.
Jacques smiled faintly.
"I reckon we'll be out before sunset," he said cheerfully, giving the trembling Bullhead assistant pilot beside him a reassuring pat on the back. "Don't worry. First offense always gets leniency, especially when the paperwork involves a lightning dragon. Trust me. I've tested this system more times than I care to admit."
The assistant pilot said nothing. Mostly because he was still crying.
Jacques sort of got it. The man who came to meet them—Deputy Chief Commander of Vale's Special Enforcement Bureau, complete with seven medals, two stress ulcers, and one very tight tie—had been going off for fifteen minutes straight. Not at Jacques, of course. Oh no.
It wasn't that the Commander wouldn't yell at him. It was that:
A) He was Jacques Schnee.
B) If he did yell at Jacques, there was a very real chance he'd be verbally dismantled, publicly embarrassed, and possibly—possibly—slapped with a velvet glove Jacques kept on hand for "occasions."
And C) Because everyone in that room knew one simple, horrifying truth: He was Jacques fucking Schnee. And he had a Lightning Dragon.
So, he bitched at the other three. Screaming about damages. Violated airspace. Dozens of emergency system shutdowns. A literal category-four weather anomaly "materializing over public infrastructure." Property damage. Noise ordinances. International flight regulations.
Eisen didn't seem to care. Freckles didn't seem to understand. Which meant all that frothing indignation had to go somewhere. So the Commander, gods bless his ulcer, took it out on the only one who might actually flinch: The young assistant pilot.
"And the birds," the Commander had shouted, waving a folder. "Do you know how many flocks you disrupted?! We have migratory laws, son!"
After the first quarter, Jacques politely told him to fuck off, and he called Max, and wait while the poor boy was muttering about him being forced to take the fall, or some shit.
Luckily, and obviously,someone arrived to let them out.
The door opened with a hiss. Everyone looked up.
General James Ironwood stepped through first, face carved out of fury and the jawline of righteous military rage. He looked ready to throw someone through a wall.
Glynda followed behind. She looked like she was five seconds from rearranging someone's teeth alphabetically.
And trailing behind them was Ozpin. Sipping his coffee.Smiling like he was happy to see someone.
If Jacques was a betting man, he'd put money on all those three 'someone's' being him.
"Sup." he greeted, and Ironwood cringed so hard, Jacques feared a bolt might pop out of place.
HE took a step toward Jacques.
"There are witnesses." Jacques reminded James politely.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ozpin's private study was smaller than most people expected.
Tucked high in Beacon Tower, past the grand halls and war rooms, it was a quieter space—built less for events and more for solitude. The walls were lined with books that had outlived their authors, the fireplace was fake but warm, and the lone armchair opposite his desk was just slightly too comfortable for anyone he didn't trust. A second mug of chocolate steamed gently on the table between them, untouched.
He liked this room. It reminded him of who he'd been, once. And who he still had to pretend to be. It had the opposite effect on the other people. It had the opposite effect on most guests.
Minuscule traces of magic lined the room—not enough to dazzle, just enough to unsettle. To reveal. Meeting new people was always a gamble.
Ozpin had learned, over the years and lifetimes, that everyone wore a mask. Some were paper-thin, meant to charm. Others were iron-clad, meant to hide. A rare few—very rare—wore theirs like a costume in a play they didn't quite believe in anymore.
Jacques Schnee fell neatly into that last category.
Yet it was an act. More than that, Jacques—if Ozpin was reading him correctly—thrived in the act. He wasn't just playing a part. He enjoyed it. He was the act.
This wasn't nervous posturing or manufactured charisma; this was a man entirely at home in his own absurdity. The immaculate cuffs, the dishevelled-yet-perfectly-styled hair, the theatrically unimpressed glance around the study; it wasn't just arrogance, though there was plenty of that. It was a theatre. Performed with full awareness, and even fuller commitment. Not for the approval of others, but for the pure, unapologetic joy of performance.
At the lack of a better term—and as the young students of Beacon might put it—he was doing it for the love of the game. The look in his eyes made it very clear.
People said that the eyes were the window to the soul. Yet Jacques' soul-his Aura-didn't merely peek through the window, but rather kicked the door off its hinges.
And what a thing it was. Vile, sickly, and cursed, not in the fantastical sense, but in the very human way that something could be rotten through charm alone. It wasn't dark like Salem's, or broken like so many others he'd come across. It didn't whisper threats. It didn't need to. It simply was a threat.
Now, threats were not new to Ozpin. He'd shared tea with monsters and debated with devils. But it was a rare, rare thing to be in a room with someone whose soul made a polite, matter-of-fact suggestion that he take a long walk off the edge of Beacon and consider not stopping.
He didn't flinch. But he did reach for his cup.
Jacques grinned and snapped his fingers. "You blinked."
He took a sip to hide the smile on his face.
"I must thank you," he said, placing the cup back on its saucer with practiced care. "You received my invitation, and, true to form, you didn't just respond. You fulfilled it."
Jacques tilted his head, feigning modesty. " Well, I do pride myself on punctuality. And spectacle. Mostly spectacle."
"And what a spectacle it was," Ozpin hummed. "Vale is still recovering from the announcement that it wasn't an invasion."
"I heard the kingdoms were having a bit of a dick-measuring competition before I came," Jacques said breezily, crossing one leg over the other like he was settling in for a fireside chat rather than a diplomatic conversation. "Trying to one-up each other in a festival about unity, of all places. Shameful, really."
He gave a soft tsk, shaking his head with mock disapproval. "So, naturally, I did my part to preserve peace and harmony—showed up unignorable, and undeniably better. Reminded them all they're equally unspecial." He spread his hands, as if it had been a charitable act.
"A little perspective, you understand. Important for morale."
Ozpin raised a brow, not entirely hiding his amusement. "With a lightning dragon."
"Morale booster." Jacques' grin widened. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled as he shifted the conversation. "But enough about my grand entrance, Ozpin. I trust you've been keeping an eye on my little snowflake?"
"Miss Schnee, yes," Ozpin replied smoothly. "Quite the capable student. She's been performing admirably in her training, especially alongside the rest of her team."
Jacques made a thoughtful humming sound as he began spooning far too much sugar into his coffee. "Ah yes. Team RWBY: Ruby, Weiss, Blake, Yang, wasn't it? I might be mistaken, but the first initial is always the team leader, no?"
"Indeed," Ozpin said with a small, knowing smile. "Though I wouldn't be so quick to judge a team based on initials alone, Mister Schnee. Leadership in Team RWBY is something they all share, in their own way."
"I suppose you might be right." Jacques chuckled and lifted his cup. "Still, I'm surprised Weiss didn't kick up more of a fuss about it. That child... well, she is rather proud. I wonder where she got it from."
Ozpin allowed himself a chuckle. "Whatever concerns she may have had regarding Miss Rose, it seems they've been addressed. Weiss has grown a great deal since her first days at Beacon. Ruby as well. It's the nature of a team—to learn from one another.
"I see...It brings peace to my heart, then," Jacques said, taking a slow sip from his cup. He laced his fingers together in a ggesture just shy of bashful, though anyone paying attention would recognize the performance. "But—pardon my ignorance—I never attended a combat school, nor did I ever need to be part of a team. I've always managed just fine on my own, you see. So I admit I'm curious: on what basis are these teams formed?"
Ozpin raised an eyebrow at the seemingly innocent question. He'd been alive long enough to recognize a layered inquiry when he heard one, but he answered anyway with an undisturbed smile. "The initial pairings are determined during the Emerald Forest initiation. From there, teams are assigned based on compatibility, strengths, and how well individuals complement one another—physically, strategically, and personally."
Jacques hummed, swirling his drink with his spoon. "Sounds rather complicated. So many things to consider."
The man had a way of making simple questions feel like traps, but Ozpin remained unfazed. "It is a delicate process, yes. Strength alone is never enough. Teams need harmony. Balance. The ability to rely on one another under pressure."
The two were quiet for a while, content to enjoy their drinks for a moment.
After a long second, Jacques set his cup down and letting the click of porcelain against the saucer breaking the comfortable silence. His fingers lightly drummed against the table as his eyes wandered.
"Harmony, balance, right. Sounds very… idealistic." He gave a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Which is why I'm curious, Ozpin," Jacques continued, leaning forward slightly. "If balance is so crucial in these teams, how do you reconcile... certain choices? People from less-than-ideal backgrounds being allowed to play such pivotal roles? I'm referring, of course, to your choice of my daughter's teammates."
"I'm not sure I follow," the Headmaster said plainly.
"I'm talking about putting a terrorist on the same team as my child, you shitty brat."
Jacques' sickly Aura seemed to flare then, the temperature in the room dropping just enough to make the hairs on the back of Ozpin's neck stand on end. It was subtle, like a shadow creeping under the door, but as sharp as a blade. Still, the smile on Ozpin's face never wavered.
"Ah, Miss Belladona. It's true that not everyone in these teams comes from perfect backgrounds," Ozpin replied. "But that is part of their strength. It's the adversity they face, the choices they make, that shape them into who they are. Every student has the potential for greatness, regardless of their past."
A tendril of Jacques' Aura lashed out without warning, too fast to track, too precise to be blind rage. It tore through the far wall like paper; no scorch mark, no dramatic blast, just clean destruction. The building groaned. The windows rattled in their panes. Dust rained from the ceiling as the room shook under the sheer force of it.
"You're betting my daughter's life on your little idealistic experiment," he growled, "That she'll grow from it. That the terrorist in her team won't snap and put a knife in her back. There are simpler and far less painfull ways to die than pissing me off, Ozpin."
"I know very well what you're capable of, and I would rather not experience it firsthand," Ozpin said quietly. He let the words linger in the air before continuing. "Blake Belladonna is not a bomb. She is a young woman trying to make amends. Knowing that, as a headmaster and an educator, I cannot deny her the chance."
Jacques tilted his head, the smile on his face stretching just a little too thin.
"And if she fails?" His voice was ice cold.
Ozpin didn't flinch as his eyes locked onto Jacques' "Then she will face the consequences. But until then, she deserves the same chance as any other student."
Jacques' Aura flared at that answer, the temperature in the room dropping just enough to make the hairs on the back of Ozpin's neck rise. The lights above flickered, and shadows seemed to bubble and ripple unnaturally. They casted a dark, ominous hue over Jacques as his eyes briefly glowed.
Ozpin, unbothered, took a slow sip of his hot chocolate.
The intensity continued to build up more and more until it almost seemed that the whole office would explode.
And just as quickly as it had started, the flare of Jacques' Aura dissipated. The lights steadied. The room returned to its previous stillness, as if the entire episode had never happened at all.
Jacques let out a deflated sigh, his shoulders slumping. "You're not fun," he muttered, almost petulantly. "How am I supposed to play the angry overprotective father if you answer me so earnestly?"
Ozpin set his cup down, his smile never faltering. He knew Jacques well enough by now, this was all just a performance. A bluff.
Once more, it was just an act, one designed for Jacques' own amusement.
"I suppose there could be worse teammates than the daughter of Ghira and Kali Belladonna," Jacques chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "But man… a Faunus princess, a Dust Empire's daughter, the daughter of a bandit, and the daughter of a Silver-Eyed Warrior… Man, this team's got more baggage than a train station."
Ozpin allowed himself a light laugh, though it carried an undertone of subtle discomfort. In the short conversation, he had grown accustomed to Jacques' sharp remarks, but this one seemed particularly pointed, targeting his knowledge, especially regarding Miss Rose's parentage. It appeared that Jacques wasn't content with letting Ozpin have the last laugh.
I know about the Silver-Eyed Warriors, and I know you're looking for them.
Jacques' words were a thinly veiled declaration, a challenge wrapped in casual observation. But it was just another reason why the man's presence was so… significant.
Jacques' Semblance made him both dangerous and invaluable. His wealth and resources were a formidable advantage, one that could turn him into a potentially deadly ally or an equally dangerous adversary. But what was even more frightening than Jacques' power and influence was his knowledge.
The man had far too much information, things Ozpin had worked hard to keep hidden. The Silver-Eyed Warriors, the Maidens, Salem... If Jacques knew too much, it could complicate everything Ozpin had worked for.
Or, a more hopeful part of him, one that had somehow endured after centuries of self-loathing, hatred, and regret, wondered if Jacques could perhaps be the key to saving the world.
Despite himself, Ozpin was still a hopeful man.
As always, he could only bet.
And so, he talked to Jacques about benign things, interesting things, and casual things. He simply talked. Little by little, he worked to gain the man's trust.
But Jacques was a smart man. He knew exactly what Ozpin was doing. Still, he allowed it to continue, because even if he saw the game, he didn't seem to mind playing it. Perhaps, like Ozpin, Jacques believed that there was something to be gained from this exchange. Or perhaps it was simply for his own amusement, to see how far Ozpin was willing to go, how much he'd reveal before he was ready to ask what truly mattered.
Ozpin never pressed. He never asked the hard questions. He didn't need to. Not yet.
Each time, the conversation danced around the edge of deeper subjects, but never delved into them. Jacques played his role as the enigmatic man, the one who held so many cards close to his chest, but Ozpin had learned long ago that patience was a currency worth spending.
But for now, they spoke of trivialities. About the weather, about the latest developments in Vale, about things that held no actual importance. And yet, in those moments, Ozpin wanted to believe that a strange bond began to form a understanding between the two.
Soon enough, hours passed, and, just as Ozpin expected, the conversation never strayed far from pleasantries.
By the time they stepped outside, the sun had begun to sink low behind the Vale skyline, casting long shadows across the stone courtyard. The air had cooled, and the sky had taken on that particular gold-tinged hue that marked the edge of evening.
A sleek black car waited at the base of the steps, engine quietly humming, a uniformed driver already standing by the passenger door. The Schnee family crest gleamed on the side.
. "Well," Jacques said with a smile, his breath faintly visible in the cooling air, "this has been a fun conversation."
It was, Ozpin would admit. Jacques was a charming conversationalist if one decided to play along with his antics.
"I'm glad you came," Ozpin replied with a smile that was equal parts genuine and cautious. "You'll be returning for the Festival, I assume?"
"I suppose I must," Jacques replied with a hum. "You've made it sound positively unmissable. The tournament, the students, the fanfare… I'll even try not to cause a scene."
"I would appreciate that," Ozpin laughed.
Jacques offered a faint grin as the driver opened the door. "Very well then, Headmaster. Let us consider this a warm-up round."
He turned to step into the car, then paused.
"I imagine you'll want me present for the day of the tournament, yes?"
"If you can behave yourself," Ozpin replied smoothly. "We're still finalizing the schedule, but I'll see that your seat is reserved."
Jacques flashed that same grin. "Good. I do so love a front-row view."
He slid into the car without another word. The door closed behind him with a soft thunk, and within seconds the vehicle pulled away.
He would invite Jacques again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
It was a process.
And when the time came, when the world began to buckle and burn under the weight of what was coming, Ozpin would ask.
And Jacques would want something in return. Something grand. Something that would make even Ozpin pause.
For now, it was enough that Jacques came when invited.
That he stayed.
That he listened.
And somewhere, buried beneath centuries of cynicism, Ozpin still held onto the hope that maybe, even if just maybe, this time, he had chosen right.
He sighed.
His musings were cut short when a familiar black car rolled to a quiet stop at the edge of the courtyard once again. The same sleek, spotless vehicle, Schnee crest and all, glinted beneath the golden haze of the sunset.
The tinted passenger window rolled down with a soft whirr.
Inside, Jacques leaned an elbow casually against the door.
Ozpin raised a brow, still standing on the steps.
"shit, I almost forgot!" he called out, half-laughing, half sheepish "Lionheart is compromised and working for Salem, and he's sending some bitch named Cinder Fall to the Vytal Festival. She's the same little bitch who gutted Amber! She wants to finish the job." He snapped his fingers again, trying to jog his memory. "And what else, what else… right! Raven Branwen. Spring Maiden."
He gave a small nod. "I think that's all. For now. I'll tell you if I remember anything else, alright? See ya, Oz."
The window rolled up with a faint hum. A second later, the black car was gone.
Ozpin stood there in the cooling air, silent for a moment.
He raised his arms slowly.
"Yay?"