Some things in life sit in the background, quietly anchoring you to reality. You don't wake up every morning and thank the universe that your bed is right where you left it, or that your posters haven't peeled off the walls overnight.
No, you take it all for granted—that undeniable familiarity, the effortless comfort. Home is home. It doesn't require mental energy or inspection. It's that safe mess or carefully curated space that fits your life just right, like the old mug you always reach for or the squeaky spot on the floor that's almost endearing as it sat comfortably and shamefully next to the bin full of his used tissues.
Alas, Jack only learned that lesson when he opened his eyes and found himself staring at a polished, corporate-looking office and the sense of wrongness was immediate and impossible to ignore.
"This is not my room." It was the first thought Jack had the good sense to put together, a simple yet astute observation that, given the circumstances, bordered on brilliance.
Because when you wake up somewhere you don't recognize, simplicity is brilliance.
He turned his gaze to the side as his ass sank into a chair that was far too comfortable, the kind that only people with disturbingly large bank accounts seemed to own. The room itself was practically dripping with money, each polished surface reflecting a shine that said, Only the finest, please. Everything was so pristine, he half-expected a team of butlers to swoop in if he dared to leave a fingerprint anywhere.
Leather-bound books, clearly untouched, lined mahogany shelves, and a glass desk gleamed like it was waiting for some slick corporate ad to be filmed on-site, complete with a voiceover about power and dominance. It was the kind of setup designed to make visitors feel small and insignificant.
The sight made the wagecuck in him want to let out a primal scream, brandish a hammer and sickle, and start a one-man rebellion in the middle of this capitalist fortress.
A chuckle escaped him despite himself. As if he'd ever actually become a filthy commie. No, this was just the disgruntled worker inside him having a little tantrum. After all, he was on the fast track. One day, he'd be part of that coveted one percent, lounging in his own obnoxiously plush office chair, with his own untouched library of fancy books and a glass desk that practically shouted, Success.
An uneasy chuckle echoed back, almost drowning in Jack's own, far more confident laugh. It drew his attention sharply to the man sitting across from him; a man whose expression and posture practically screamed brown-noser. The recognition hit Jack like a eureka moment: Ah, a sycophant.
It also reminded Jack that he still had no idea where the fuck he was. A small pinch of his flesh quickly dissuaded the thought of it being a dream. So, this was actually happening. A pat between his leg assured him that, yes, his dick was there. So, all hope was not lost.
"-unexpected, though it's really nothing the company hasn't dealt with before," the man across from him was saying, chuckling as if they were sharing some private joke. "Not that I need to tell you, of course. You of all people know this, sir. Haha."
Yes. Of course. Jack laughed along, having absolutely no idea what this guy was waffling about.
"Frankly, sir, it's the same old story," the man continued, leaning back in his chair, hands folded smugly over his stomach. "I mean, they can hardly expect sympathy when they practically manufacture their own issues, right, Jacques?"
"Indeed," Jack nodded with a mask of stoic agreement.
What the hell was this guy even talking about?
Also, why was he saying his name all weird and posh like? It's Jack, not Jacques or whatever he said. What? Was this guy trying to make him sound fancy? Cuz Jack could defentily do fancy.
Actually, who the hell was this guy again?
Then, like a bolt of lightning, the name shot to the front of his mind. Michael, a senior associate at the law firm representing him.
Huh. Nice to know. He had a law firm all to himself. Bitching.
That still left the question: Where the hell was he?!
Michael, apparently thrilled with the sound of his own voice, didn't seem to notice Jack's confusion. He kept talking, clearly enjoying the moment. "These Faunus mutts always make noise, but at the end of the day, they don't have the resources to do much else. A few protests, some media bluster… but the SDC remains unshakeable. Nothing a couple of Atlas Huntsmen can't fix."
Jack kept his face neutral, trying his best to not look like an absolute moron. Faunus… The word was lodged somewhere in the back of his mind. Did he say Fauna? Nope, it definitely had an s—Faunus, SDC, Huntsmen. Some of those words seemed vaguely familiar, but not in a "I'm an expert on this stuff" kind of way. More like a "I've heard these terms tossed around before" kind of way.
He leaned back in his chair, fist pressed against his mouth as he mentally retraced the conversation.
He said Faunus.
I'm rich enough to have a team of lawyers.
Faunus are protesting against me.
He called me Jacques.
He repeated those in his mind like a mantra, the pieces slowly starting to click into place.
Hmm.
So, he was a rich guy named Jacques. He had a ridiculous amount of money, and he was apparently dealing with some sort of legal trouble because of these Faunus people. And—oh yeah, the SDC thing. Wasn't that some sort of company?
Hmm.
"...Jacques?" the fat lawyer called out, but he paid him no mind.
Jack swirled around in his chair, then stood up, walking toward the massive glass-wall window-thingie. He stared out at the view for a few moments, letting his mind wander. After a while, he nodded to himself, as though something had just become perfectly clear.
Yep. The moon's fucked.
And as he caught his reflection in the glass, Jack, or rather Jacques, realized that his day was more than likely just as fucked.
Jacques took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. To focus, he attempted to go through the alphabet. When that didn't calm him down, he tried to do it backwards, just to see if he could still do it. But by the time he reached "n," his brain had completely short-circuited. With a sigh, he dropped the alphabet game and started counting from twenty.
Twenty... nineteen... eighteen...
He made it to seven before his mind started to wander again. Nevertheless, he was calmer.
"Very well, I trust your judgment, Michael. I'll leave the matter in your capable hands." Jack turned to the man once again, flashing the same smile he used whenever his bitch of a boss dumped an extra load of work on him. "However, if that was all, I would have to cut this meeting short. The last few days had been quite hectic, and I am in desperate need of rest."
"Oh! Of course, sir. I understand." Michael stood, adjusting his suit with a practiced motion. "I'll send you the report as soon as possible. It won't contain anything we haven't discussed already, but it's better for you to look at it."
Jack nodded, though he could barely keep the smile on his face. "I'll be expecting it," he replied, his tone growing more forced with each passing second.
"Have a good day, Jacques!" Michael said, before turning to leave, closing the door behind him.
As the door clicked shut, Jack let out a long, slow exhale. The room was very quiet now.
He lowered his head, standing there in the silence of the room. He whispered comfortingly to himself, "Remember what Pa always says, Jack. Panic is for pussies and sissies."
Another deep breath. He closed his eyes with a snort, the image of his father's gruff voice echoing in his mind. The words almost seemed to glow in his head, warm and familiar.
...Wait.
No, seriously, there were words glowing in his head.
Jacques Schnee.
Ten Shadows Technique.
Don't die, dumbass.
It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to make his brain itch. Very helpful, yet not really helpful at all. The thought of just throwing himself out the window did cross his mind—hell, it probably would have been easier than dealing with all this—but Jack wasn't that much of a drama queen. Still, the last part? It lingered. Don't die, dumbass.
Yeah. That was a solid piece of advice. Can't have Pa think he's pussy or a sissy. No, Sir!
Moreover, he wasn't about to rise to the taunt of some higher entity that could, and probably would—hell, it already had—completely screw him over.
Instead, Jack simply clasped his hands together in mock reverence, muttering a promise to sacrifice something in its name. Like the good, mortal idiot he was, he'd play along.
"Alright, alright," he whispered under his breath. "You want something? Fine. I'll offer you... My undying, unbreakable will. Or, maybe just my sanity. You can have that one for free."
And as a single tear fell from his eye, Jacques reminded himself once more.
'At least I still have my dick."
Turning back to the desk, Jacques noticed two small picture frames. Lifting one, he squinted at it for a moment. The boy in the picture looked about fourteen, with neatly combed white hair framing a thin face. He wasn't quite a man yet, but there was a look of pride there—a Schnee look.
That was definitely Whitley. Little shit looked like someone begging to get bullied, Jacques thought with a snort before shaking his head. Can't be bullying little kids, he reminded himself. Gotta be a responsible adult now.
Besides, the kid was probably the only living creature, let alone person, that didn't despise Jacques with a passion. That was an achievement in itself.
He set the picture down, then moved to the other frame. It was a picture of a girl, clearly a bit older than Whitley, with long hair styled in a side ponytail. She had that same familiar look, though she wore it with both more confidence and more misery. It was kind of amazing how she managed to pull both off.
Sasuga Oujou-sama!
That had to be Weiss. The lack of tits made it clear. His precious daughter, and the fucking bitch who had him arrested. Fuck!
Looking around the office again, he realized there was no picture of Winter. Probably fucked off to the military already, he thought with a grimace.
He glanced back at the picture of Weiss. The absence of her eye scar meant she probably hadn't gotten it yet. Or maybe it was something she'd just gotten. That meant she was still heir, not Whitley. That's a plus. At least he was not that far into the future yet.
"I'm probably at the beginning of RWBY," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. Good to have at least a vague idea of when I am.
If he hadn't completely fucked up his memory of canon, which, let's face it, was barely existent outside of porn, this gave him at least a couple of years to prepare before things went off the rails and Atlas descended into chaos.
Two years to make sure the "good" side liked him enough to not screw him over. He could work with that. It would take more than a few clever plans and muscle. No, what he really needed was a nice dose of plot armor and some solid protagonist-centered morality! That always worked out in the end, right?
Of course, that wouldn't be easy. Jacques had an undeniable talent for pissing everyone off. His family, the Faunus, basically the entire world; he was already on everyone's shit list. And right now? He didn't have a single ally. That was something that absolutely needed to change.
Secondly, he had to get fuck-off strong. Or at least strong enough to avoid getting folded by a Huntsman-level fighter—because that was basically everyone and their grandmother. Original Jacques made the rookie mistake of not being a warrior, and that had royally fucked him over. He wasn't going to make that mistake again. If the Ten Shadows Technique was what he thought it was, that could be his golden ticket. Better figure that out quickly.
Thirdly, and most importantly: get bitches. Self-explanatory.
Honestly, this plan was brilliant for something he threw together in his head while walking into a trap. It was simple, but effective. Its true genius? No one ever saw it coming.
"People get self-inserted all the time, and they do fine!" he exclaimed, as if convincing himself. He wasn't entirely sure who he was trying to convince, but it didn't matter.
He was a real human being in a cartoon, and if reading shitty fanfics at 3am taught him anything, it was that logically, everyone would be groveling at his feet before the first arc was over.
Seriously, how hard can it be?
He should probably write all of this down, along with everything he remembered from canon before his brain started failing him. He couldn't afford to forget key details—like who worked for who, the big events, powers, and abilities—or, God forbid, the identity of the main character. That would be the most embarrassing thing ever. Still, he'd put off the writing for now. First, he needed to clear the office of any bugs Willow might've planted. She wasn't going to ruin his plan just because of her petty vendetta against Jacques.
New sub-item added to the list: Turn Willow's hate boner into a love boner. Or, at the very least, get her to touch my boner. Heh.
Sometimes his own genius and adaptability terrified him.
With his mind racing, he strolled over to the side wall where the body mirror hung, giving his new self a long, hard look. Not that he was into guys, but damn—he looked good. Horrible mustache aside, of course.
High cheekbones, a solid stature, and those damn blue eyes. It was no wonder Jacques had managed to snag himself a spot in the Schnee family with a face like this. A little lean, sure, but nothing a few really good workouts couldn't fix.
All in all? Not bad for a man who was probably pushing fifty. Hell, he was practically a damn catch.
Also, fuck—he was fifty. Twenty-Six years have gone to shit. His dick better be working!
The pedostache had to go, too.
Ego boosted, full of smug satisfaction, and with a solid plan in place, he made his way to leave his office. No time to waste. 'Time to execute this genius plan of mine.'
His hand stopped as he held the doorknob.
But, first!
Wonder what the porn in Remnant looks like?