A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 46

+++

The snow fell in thick, heavy flakes, blanketing the streets in a embrace of cold. In normal circumstances, most would be at home or at work, not standing out to experience Solitas's winter. But most weren't. People clogged the avenue, their voices echoing in unison, their signs thrust high into the air, and flags flying against the wind. Ahead of them, steel-faced soldiers stood, riot shields in place, and barricades set up. Through it all, a lone woman walked. Her arms strained under the weight of two paper grocery bags, edges dampened by stray snowflakes. She kept her head down, wisps of dark hair escaping her hood, her breath puffing out in quick clouds as she wove through the throng.

The crowd barely noticed her. A chant surged to her left, a rhythm of anger that thundered against the storm. She glanced up briefly, and caught sight of cheeks flushed red from cold and adrenaline. The snow clung stubbornly to their coats and scarves, but no one seemed to care. A man with a megaphone barked something over the noise.

"Who has the blood of children at his feet?" the man cried.

"Jacques Schnee! Jacques Schnee!" the crowd roared.

"Who has made Atlas into a symbol of mockery?"

"Jacques Schnee! Jacques Schnee!"

The woman with the groceries adjusted her grip and pushed forward, turning into an alleyway, the din of the protest muffled almost immediately by the narrow brick walls. Here, the snow was untouched save for a set of fresh footprints leading deeper into the shadows. The alley was narrow, the kind that swallowed sound and light, and for a moment, the woman hesitated. Her breath hitched, her hands tightening on the bags. She glanced over her shoulder, but the crowd at the street's edge had already disappeared behind the falling snow.

She moved quickly, her boots crunching softly against the frost-covered ground. Halfway down the alley, two men emerged from the shadows. They were tall, broad-shouldered, their faces partially obscured by scarves and low-brimmed hats. One of them stood in front of her path, arms crossed, while the other leaned casually against the wall, his breath escaping in slow, measured puffs.

The woman stopped. For a long moment, no one moved. The only sound was the soft hiss of snow landing on the frozen ground.

Then, the man by the wall gave a small nod. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. The man in her path stepped aside, his boots crunching loudly against the snow. His eyes lingered on her as she passed, their expression unreadable. Her pace quickened as she approached the unremarkable building at the end of the alley. Its brick facade was plain, its windows dark, a place no one would look at twice. She reached the door, shifted the groceries to one arm, and knocked three times.

The door creaked open, and she slipped inside without a backward glance.

Inside, the air was warm but stale, carrying the faint smell of mildew and something metallic, like old pipes. The dim light from a single dangling bulb flickered faintly overhead, casting long, jittery shadows on the peeling yellowed walls. The woman set the grocery bags down on a rickety wooden table near the entrance, the sound of her boots echoing faintly on the concrete floor.

A man stepped out from the far corner of the room. He wore a worn jacket with leather reinforcements at the shoulders and a padded collar. His trousers were dark gray wool, tucked into scuffed boots wrapped in cloth at the ankles. His gloves were fingerless, exposing knuckles that were calloused and scraped.

"Jack," the woman called. "Groceries."

"Thank you," Jäcklein Flach said, glancing at the paper bags. "Get your payment from the guys outside. We will be out of your hair soon."

The woman shook her head. "Don't worry about it. The Party needs this, Geyer needs this. My husband does not mind you all staying. Just make sure to clean up afterwards."

"Of course we will," Jack laughed. "We may be hillbillies but we do know how to clean up."

She gave him the faintest of nods, then turned for the door. "Stay safe," she said simply, then slipped out into the cold, the door shut softly behind her. Jack turned for the paper bags, and brought them up. Turning on his heels, he marched deeper into the building. That was until he turned into corner, the sound of a news caster speaking loudly.

"Geyer," Jack called. "Groceries."

On a couch, Florianne Geyer sat, cross-legged, and eyes set on the screen. Her prison outfit had been swapped into something humbler. Long blue jeans that hugged her thick legs, and knee-length boots that warmed her feet. She wore a thick white shirt, with a light brown coat folded neatly by her side, and a thick hat that covered her hair. She turned to watch Jack enter, and nodded, gesturing to the screen.

"Behold, our enemy," she said softly, her voice tinged with dry sarcasm. Jack set the bags down on the kitchen counter with a thud and began unpacking them.

On the screen, the ANN broadcast a sea of protesters. It was chaos, but an organized chaos. The streets of Atlas and Mantle were clogged with people, shouting and yelling abuse. The footage cut to similar protests in further-flung towns. Flags waved in the cold air, the lantern of Atlas, the rainbow flag of the Colour Revolution, and their own, the brown boot of the peasants.

The camera panned to an interview, a man stood, loudly crying out against the SDC for sending private security forces into Mistral. Geyer's lips tightened as the television shifted, showing off grainy video footage of SDC freighters flying low in the Mistrali countryside. A caption scrolled across the bottom of the screen: "SDC Deploys Private Force Amid Rising Tensions."

Geyer knew that Jacques Schnee was a real piece of work. She thought that he had showed all his cards in how despicable he could be. But sending his own private security into the Mistrali countryside of all places while Solitas was undergoing extreme political tensions, and terrorizing the populace? That was a whole new low and that only showed to Geyer that Jacques Schnee wasn't a human. No, Jacques Schnee was ice cold evil, with blood so chilled that he was more reptile than man. And that was an insult to reptiles!

Jack, still unloading the groceries, spoke. "We've got a worked-up populace. We've got public support. What do we do?"

Geyer leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The flickering light of the screen danced in her eyes.

"Keep the pressure up," she said simply. "Let our organizers keep the protests alive. The marches, the strikes. They have to keep going. As for our fighters..." She trailed off, her lips pursed in thought.

Jack paused, holding a can of beans mid-air. "What about them?"

"They will be going to Mistral, with me." Geyer said firmly. "They'll need help. The SDC is still absurdly powerful, and the rebels there can't hold out alone. Our enemy isn't just here, Jack. It's everywhere."

Jack raised an eyebrow, setting the can down with a soft clink. "You want us to fight alongside rebels in Mistral? That's a big move. Risky."

"Risky is staying here and giving Ironwood a reason to crack down," Geyer shot back. "Fighting the SDC here on home soil will be risky. If we start a fight here, he'll have to declare martial law, and we'll lose everything we've built."

Jack leaned against the counter, his fingers drumming idly on the wood as he watched her. "Munzer knew you'd say that," he said after a moment. "But Geyer, we sprang you out of Tegel knowing full well the Navy might come after us. We're not afraid to die for this."

"And how many of us have already died, Jack?" she retorted, her voice sharp. "How many people did we lose just breaking me out of prison? Dozens? More?"

Jack's lips tightened, but he didn't answer.

Geyer sighed and leaned back against the couch, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Her voice softened. "Look, Munzer's thinking like it's overthrowing the Eisfalks all over again. But Atlas isn't the same. The economy isn't in ruins. The Army isn't collapsing. Atlas is still rich and armed to the teeth. If we start a war here, we'll lose. And worse, we'll lose the support of the people marching with us. The workers, the students, the unions, they'll turn against us if we're seen as starting bloodshed."

Jack's gaze flicked to the newsfeed, where the camera lingered on a protester handing a scarf to a child.

"So, what? We just let the SDC keep running things here?" he asked, his voice quiet but tense.

"No," Geyer said sharply. "But we fight smart. Here, we hit them in the courts, in the streets. Without violence. We keep the people on our side, and we keep the military out of it. Meanwhile, we send our fighters to Mistral, where their weapons will mean something. Where we can actually hurt the SDC."

Jack exhaled slowly, his fingers still drumming against the counter. "And if the SDC retaliates here? If they hit us while we're focused on Mistral?"

Geyer let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "They won't. Not here. We are Atlesians, Jack. The SDC can't hurt us It's fine for them to exploit and terrorize people in other kingdoms. Mistral. Hell, they can exploit the faunus in the mines out of view of ordinary folk. But here? They can't get away with that."

Jack's jaw tightened, his teeth clenched. "I'm not comfortable with this, Geyer," he said, his voice low and simmering with barely restrained anger. "I want to hurt the SDC. For everything they've done to this country, for all the lives they've ruined, Jacques Schnee deserves to bleed. He deserves to suffer."

Geyer's sharp gaze softened, her tone losing its edge as she leaned forward. "I know, Jack," she said quietly. "I understand how you feel. I feel it too. But as bitter as it is, we can't afford to take that step. Not here. The moment we risk Solitas's dust supply, the moment we make this fight personal for every Atlesian dependent on it, we lose. The people marching with us will turn against us. And then we'll have no one left. We cannot become terrorists to our own people."

Jack looked away, his fingers tightening into a fist on the counter. For a long moment, the room was silent, save for the faint hum of the news broadcast in the background.

Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained grim. "Alright," he said reluctantly. "I'll make the arrangements. I'll get others moving for Mistral. But Munzer won't like this."

Geyer smirked faintly, the sharpness returning to her features. "Munzer can take it up with me," she said. "He's thinking with his fists when we need to think with our heads. We'll hurt the SDC, Jack. But we'll do it in a way that counts."

Jack didn't respond, his eyes lingering on the flickering screen where the protests raged on. The anger in his chest didn't fade, but he knew better than to argue further. With a final exhale, he turned back to the groceries, silently finishing his task as the weight of her words settled over them both.

+++

The Schnee Manor was quiet. A strange thing, given the fury gripping Atlas. The protests, the calls for justice, the endless condemnation of their family name. It all seemed so distant here. That silence broke as a bullhead descended onto the landing pad, the roar of its engines scattering snow across the gardens. The rear hatch hissed open, and from the mist of steam and cold air stepped a woman in uniform, white-haired and composed, a small metal case in hand.

Winter Schnee took a breath, tasting the chill, the faint perfume of roses carried on the wind. Then she stepped down, boots crunching against the stone. She had a task to perform. An impossible one, perhaps but necessary. For the General. For Atlas. The manor staff watched from the doorway as she crossed the courtyard. Familiar faces. Some smiling, some uncertain, but all softened by relief. Winter gave them a brief nod. No smiles. Not yet. She was here on duty.

Then a small, hesitant voice broke through the air.

"Winter?"

Oh no.

"Winter!" Weiss cried, the formality gone in an instant. She sprinted down the steps in a blur of white skirts, trailed by a gaggle of maids and one very anxious butler. Halfway across the courtyard, she remembered herself, stopped short, and dropped into a little curtsy.

Winter couldn't help it as her composure faltered into a real smile.

"I'm so sorry, Madame," Klein puffed as he caught up. "Miss Weiss just couldn't wait another moment. She misses you terribly."

"It's quite alright, Klein," Winter said, kneeling to meet her sister's eyes. "I've missed her too."

Weiss's face lit up. "Are you moving back home?"

Winter's smile turned wistful. "I'm afraid not, Weiss. I'm in the military. I can't return unless my superiors allow it."

"Well, they should let you," Weiss huffed, crossing her arms. "It's lonely here without you."

Winter's expression softened, the weight behind her mission pressing harder at that. "Hey," she said quietly, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from Weiss's cheek. "Once I finish what I came here to do, we'll share a snack before I go back. What do you say?"

"Really?" Weiss's eyes sparkled.

"Really."

"Yes!" Weiss cheered, hopping once before pausing mid-step. "But...what are you here for?"

Winter hesitated. "I need to see Mother."

"Oh," Weiss said, the cheer fading from her voice. "She's...she's in the back gardens."

Winter braced for the answer she expected, the same one she'd heard every other time. "Is she...?"

But Weiss shook her head. "No. She's with Whitley. They're watching the roses."

That...was new.

Winter blinked, a small flicker of surprise piercing through her discipline. "Take me to her," she said.

"Follow me!" Weiss beamed, grabbing her sister's hand and tugging her eagerly toward the gardens. They walked quietly, their steps echoing the hallways as Weiss led Winter into the back of their manor. The back gardens unfolded like a dream, rows of primroses, camellias, and other flowers bloomed, their colors vivid against the frost. Winter and Weiss stepped down the marble path, their boots tapping softly against stone veined with frost. The further they walked, the more the world seemed to hush, the manor receding behind them, the air heavy only with flora and leaves.

At the heart of the garden stood the old gazebo, wrought iron painted white, its roof dusted with snow. Beneath it, a woman sat upon a cushioned bench, back turned and head facing the gardens further beyond. By her side, a pram, a baby's soft cooing coming from it, while two maids stood nearby, quiet and watchful, their breath fogging the cold air. It was picturesque, like a painting brought to life.

Weiss slowed her steps as they approached, as though afraid to break the spell. Winter's boots stopped beside her, her breath catching faintly. One of the maids turned, saw them, and dipped her head. The other simply whispered and there, Willow Schnee turned.

To Winter's surprise, she did not look drunk. The light caught her hair, once silver-bright, now dulled but graceful, as though she'd gathered her strength from the very frost around her.

"Winter..." Willow greeted her, voice soft.

Winter paused, trying to catch herself. Then she straightened her back and found her voice. "Leave us," she said quietly. The maids obeyed, one of them pushing the pram away. Winter glanced down, and smiled as little Whitley cooed at her.

"Winter…?" Weiss asked, glancing up at her sister, worry in her eyes.

Winter forced a small smile. "We'll be quick. I promise."

Weiss hesitated, then nodded. "O…okay," she murmured, looking between them one last time before turning away, the sound of her small steps fading down the marble path as Winter faced her mother alone.

Silence gripped, mother and daughter regarding each other.

Winter spoke first. "I am here on behalf of General Ironwood. He has a proposition to make."

Willow watched quietly as Winter strode up and placed the case she carried on a nearby table. She turned, meeting her mother's gaze. "In light of the unrest gripping Atlas, the General has saw fit that national security takes priority over previous economic advantages. He invites you to replace Jacques Schnee as CEO of the SDC."

​Her mother turned to the case, saying nothing. Winter continued. "The Board have contacted the General himself and wished to clean the SDC of its taint. I was offered the role but I am an officer. I can't do such things. You however, can."

​Silence descended.

Then, Willow spoke up. "I...I am not blind to what is happening outside our walls. I know what is going on."

Winter's gaze hardened. "Then you know what to do."

"I know," Willow said softly. "But...I won't."

Winter stared. "...What?"

"I will just be a puppet. I won't run anything. I will kill myself running the machine Jacques has made. I...I can't." Willow replied, voice just as soft.

"Mother, this isn't about you," Winter said, her voice clipped but quivering at the edges. "This is about Atlas. About the people-"

"Do you think it's that easy, Winter? That you can just ask me to take up that mantle?" Willow's laugh was thin, brittle. "I've spent my entire life being clipped by Jacques. He made sure I couldn't move without him, couldn't sign without his approval, couldn't even speak without second-guessing myself. Years of it. Years of being told I was fragile, incompetent, weak. Of being shoved out of every room where decisions were made until I stopped even trying to enter." She shook her head, a bitter sound catching in her throat. "And you want me to walk back into that cage and somehow lead?"

Winter's hands tightened behind her back but she said nothing.

"I know what I should do," Willow whispered, her voice breaking but steady beneath it. "But I'm afraid, Winter." She drew a shuddering breath, staring out at the frost-coated flowers, their trembling petals quivering like her hands.

Her eyes met Winter's again, bright and desperate. "If I step into that office, I'll see him everywhere. Every wall, every table, every face...all his. All there because of him."

The garden went still, the only sound the faint cooing of Whitley being wheeled further down the path. Winter stood like carved ice; her mother sat like cracked porcelain.

"I'm sorry," Willow muttered, rising as if to flee. She turned toward the manor, but Winter didn't follow. Instead, her gaze drifted past the garden's edge to the expanse of white and grey beyond. There, half-shrouded in frost and the skeletal branches of the birches, stood a statue.

Nicholas Schnee.

He rose proud and tall against the winter sky, one hand resting on a mining pick, the other on a globe, his gaze not downward but outward, as though still measuring the horizon he meant his descendants to conquer. Snow had gathered on his shoulders, dulling the brilliance of the stone, but still he radiated quiet defiance, a conviction that outlasted time.

"He looks so strong," Winter murmured without thinking.

Willow slowed and turned, following her daughter's gaze. "He was," she said softly.

Winter's expression softened. "You always loved telling me stories about Grandfather. About how kind, how good he was. I believed it because I met him too. He told me once that the world can take everything from you, but there's one thing it can't: Joy. Hope."

Willow said nothing.

"Outside these walls, people are suffering. Father built everything on their suffering. And yet they're still out there, protesting, fighting. They still believe this world doesn't have to be joyless and cruel, doesn't have to be what Father wants it to be."

Winter stepped closer, her eyes wet. Willow's lips trembled.

"Father took everything from you. I know that. I understand that. He took my childhood from me too, mother. Weiss is next. And if Weiss won't please him, then maybe Whitley. He's just a baby, Mother. Are you really going to let Father ruin him too?"

Winter's voice cracked. "If you can't do it for yourself…then do it for them. For Grandfather. For your children."

She swallowed hard, the word escaping like a plea. "Please…Mama."

Willow's composure broke. Her hand flew to her mouth as a sob tore loose, the frost in her voice dissolving into something raw.

"Oh…" she wept, voice shaking. "My baby…"

Willow sank back down onto the bench as if her legs could no longer hold her. Her hands pressed over her face, trembling, tears slipping hot against her palms even in the frozen air. The sound of her sobbing was low at first, a thin, wounded sound that barely reached Winter, then grew heavier, spilling from her like something long locked away.

"I wanted…" Willow choked, her voice ragged, "I wanted to protect you. All of you. That's why I stayed quiet. That's why I let him…do what he did. I thought if I endured it, it would end with me. I thought he'd leave you alone." She dropped her hands from her face, revealing eyes wet and red, a rawness Winter had never seen. "But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong!"

Winter swallowed but said nothing, her throat tight.

"I am so afraid," Willow whispered, her words shaking like leaves in wind. "He made sure that if I ever tried to lead, I would fall apart..."

Winter stepped closer, but slowly, careful as though approaching a wild thing.

Willow's tears ran fresh. "I don't know how to fight him there. But..." She looked up at Winter, the despair in her gaze edged with something faint, something almost like defiance. "But I want to. For you. For Weiss. For Whitley." Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out. "I just don't know if I can."

Winter reached out, laying a gloved hand gently over her mother's trembling fingers. She smiled, softly. "You can, mama. Because I will be fighting with you too."

Willow swallowed. Her eyes, though red, shifted. Determination flared. "For Atlas," Willow invoked.

Winter shook her head. Instead, she echoed what her grandfather told her so many days ago. Why he worked so hard. He did not just work for his family. But...

"No," Winter returned. "For All."

+++

This was betrayal.

After everything he had done, everything he had sacrificed, the ungrateful masses were turning against him.

Jacques Schnee stood by the tall windows of his office, his gaze fixed on the seething protests below. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his thin lips curled into a sneer of pure disgust. The sight of the crowds churned his stomach. They were idiots of the highest order, rabble too blind to appreciate the man who had built the very foundation of their lives.

It was because of him that dust was cheap and plentiful. It was because of him that Atlas was powerful, advanced, and unmatched. It was because of him that they enjoyed their comfortable lives with heating in the winter, lights in the dark, and ships in the sky. Without him, they would have nothing. Nothing. Sure, the faunus suffered. But Jacques scoffed at the thought. Mining was dangerous, grueling work. It had always been that way. It wasn't a profession for hand-holding or coddling. The faunus were suited for it, weren't they? Hardy little creatures they were. Before him, they were nothing. Before him, they worked for scraps, eking out miserable lives. And now? Now they had jobs. Steady employment. He had the statistics to prove it. The SDC was the largest employer of faunus in all of Remnant. And yet, somehow, those fools in the streets were siding with them.

The thought made his fists clench behind his back. The audacity. The ingratitude. He'd pulled Atlas into an era of technological supremacy, made it the envy of every other kingdom, and this was his reward? Protests? Riots?

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to focus. The fools outside didn't matter. No, they were noise. A nuisance. What mattered was power, and Jacques still had plenty of it. His connections ran deep: government officials, military officers, corporate allies. They all owed him favors. They all knew where their interests lay, and it wasn't with the riffraff in the streets...or the dreamer idiot that was trying to change it.

Already, Ironwood was making waves. To think his own daughter was helping him, that ungrateful little shit. He had gathered a bevy of supporters to his side, even the Supreme Army Commander was throwing his weight behind Ironwood. But that didn't matter. He had weathered storms before, he would weather them again.

​Three knocks echoed against his door. Jacques turned around. "Enter."

The door squeaked open, and a face peeked in. "Um...sir? The board has convened."

He raised an eyebrow. "What now?" he asked, annoyed. The board never "convened" without his consent. That they had done so now meant only one thing: they thought him weak. He smoothed his collar, straightened his tie, and let the silence stretch long enough for the secretary to shift nervously in the doorway before he spoke again.

"Very well," he said at last, tone flat as glass.

When the secretary scurried off, Jacques turned back to the window one last time. The crowd below writhed like a single organism, banners flaring, chants rolling upward against the glass. He watched the bright colors move with one last furious glare before he walked off. The boardroom lights were already on when he entered, the long table gleaming like an altar. Half the board rose when he appeared; the other half didn't bother. That small rebellion drew a spark of heat beneath his ribs.

"Gentlemen," he began, letting the word drag just enough to taste of contempt. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

No one answered, the protests the only sound around. He looked around, and many of them refused to look at him in the eyes.

"Well?" he said, his voice cracking the quiet. "Have you all lost your tongues, or have you simply forgotten how to speak in the presence of your employer?"

A few of the board members flinched, eyes darting toward him and then away again. Jacques took a breath. "If you are all worried about the chaos outside, do not. It will pass. You are all acting as if the company were about to collapse into dust and ruin. It will not. I will not allow it."

Still, no one spoke. Jacques's lip curled. "What a waste of my time," he muttered, just loud enough for them to hear. He turned, intending to leave, when a voice rose from the far end of the table.

"Sir," it began, quiet, but carrying a weight that made the others sit straighter. It was his second. "With respect, we cannot afford to dismiss this. The situation outside isn't a tantrum. Our families are receiving death threats, we can't go outside our homes without being heckled or abused."

Jacques raised a hand, cutting him off. "I didn't ask for a list of excuses."

The cretins eyes flicked up. "They aren't excuses," he said. "They're consequences of your leadership."

The words hung in the air like frost. For a heartbeat, Jacques didn't move. He stared at the traitor as though he hadn't heard him correctly, then let out a short, mirthless laugh.

"Consequences," he echoed, stepping closer. "You think I'm the problem? You think I caused this rabble to fill the streets?"

"Yes," the traitor said simply.

Jacques stared. His voice dropped a hiss. "Careful."

"No, no," the traitor stood up. "We have tolerated your arrogance because you delivered results. But now those results have turned to poison. You've alienated the people, the government, and even your own family. And while you've stood here congratulating yourself for your brilliance, the foundation you built is cracking."

Around the table, eyes darted between them. Fear, calculation, the faint scent of blood in the air. The traitor drew a breath. "Therefore, under Article Twelve of the corporate charter, I am calling for a vote of confidence regarding your position as Chief Executive Officer of the Schnee Dust Company."

The room went dead silent.

Jacques blinked once, slowly. "You are calling…a vote?" His voice was soft, too soft. "You?"

"Yes," The traitor said, his tone firm. "And I'm not alone."

Jacques turned his head slightly, scanning the table. Several averted their eyes; one or two nodded faintly. The heat rose in his chest, a slow, venomous tide. He felt it in his pulse, in his jaw, in the deliberate stillness of his hands.

"So this is what it comes to," he said, almost to himself. "Betrayal. From men I made rich, from families I fed, from fools who owe their every coin to the name you now conspire to ruin."

The traitor swallowed but didn't back down. "The company must survive, sir. Even without you."

For a moment, Jacques only stared at him, the faint twitch of a smile ghosting across his lips. Then he laughed. Softly at first, then louder, the sound echoing off the high ceilings until it bordered on madness.

"You think you can survive without me?" he said when the laughter finally broke. "You think any of you could run this empire without my hand guiding it? You think Ironwood or the Council will save you? You'll last a week before they gut you like pigs for scraps of influence. You'll beg for me to return."

"We-"

"You are idiots!" Jacques roared, the venom out of his lips. "You all voted on my policies. You all marched with me. Do you think you all will be spared from what happens next?"

No one met his eyes. Good. Let them. "You are all just as culpable as me. You are all just as guilty as me. If I will not lead you, then who will?"

The doors to the boardroom opened. Heel steps echoed against the walls. A familiar perfume entered Jacques senses. The directors looked up reflexively, backs straight. Willow Schnee crossed the threshold with the calm of a woman walking into a mausoleum that had once been her home. She wore white wool and silver, not ostentatious but immaculately composed, her gloves folded neatly in one hand. A thin veil of cold air followed her, curling through the stale warmth of fear that hung over the boardroom.

Jacques straightened, disbelief flashing across his face before it hardened into fury. "You," he said, the single word coming out almost as a growl. "What are you doing here?"

"Someone has to lead this company," Willow replied, voice soft, precise, and far steadier than anyone remembered.

Jacques stared. "This is your saviour?" He barked, turning to the directors. "A drunk that could barely stay sober long enough to raise my children?"

Willow flinched, the remark striking her deep. But took a breath. "I'm here because someone has to end this," she said.

Jacques took a step forward. "You have no right to-"

"I have every right!" Willow roared. "I never gave up my shares. I was there when this board was formed. I signed half of the documents that gave you this enterprise you've poisoned."

Jacques's jaw worked, searching for words. "You cannot just walk in here and take what is mine!"

"I can," Willow returned, disdain in her eyes, then softened as she turned to the board. "With a majority vote."

Jacques's mouth opened, ready to lash out again, but the sound died in his throat. Something in her expression caught his attention. Her posture was too exact, her pauses too measured, her words too perfectly arranged. Willow Schnee had never spoken like that in her life. Not when she was angry, not when she was sober, not when she was afraid.

His eyes narrowed.

For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching her as she spoke to the board, her hands steady, her voice unwavering. It was rehearsed, that calm. He knew that tone. It was not born of courage; it was manufactured, shaped, refined. And then, as she tilted her head ever so slightly to listen, he saw it.

A glint. Small and silver. Tucked discreetly behind the curl of her hair.

An earpiece.

Jacques's stomach turned to ice. He stared, disbelief twisting into understanding, then into rage so pure it almost made him laugh.

Of course.

Of course she wasn't strong enough to do this alone. She never had been.

His eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed into slits. "You," he said softly, barely audible above the hum of the boardroom. "You're not even speaking for yourself."

Willow turned toward him, confusion flickering across her face, brief as a blink.

He took a slow step forward. "Tell me, Willow," he said, voice low, each word knifing through the hush, "who's in your ear?"

She froze. Just barely. A heartbeat of silence and that was enough. The flicker of guilt, the falter in her breathing, the microsecond delay before her next word, he saw it all.

His smile was thin and cruel. "Ah," he breathed. "I see it now. That explains everything. You couldn't string two sentences together, and now you come in here, quoting legal codes and corporate clauses. Who is it? Ironwood?" He asked mockingly. "...Winter?"

Willow's jaw clenched, the briefest tremor betraying her before she steadied herself again.

Jacques laughed softly, then louder, the sound echoing through the boardroom like shattering glass. "Of course it is. Of course!" He turned to the board, gesturing toward her as if presenting proof of their own stupidity. "You see? You see what this is? You're not handing the company to a leader. You're handing it to a puppet, controlled by another puppet!"

The directors shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking toward Willow, toward the faint gleam of the earpiece she now wished she'd hidden better.

Jacques pressed his advantage, his voice gaining venom and volume. "This isn't Willow speaking. This isn't her will. This is a script, fed to her line by line. She can't even think without someone telling her what to say." He looked at her again, his sneer turning into something darker. "You couldn't stand up to me sober, Willow. You couldn't stand up to anything. But now, now you think you can play savior because someone is whispering courage into your ear?"

Willow said nothing, her face pale, her hands tight at her sides.

Jacques stepped closer still. "Take that earpiece off," he hissed. "Go on. Take it off. Let's hear what you have to say without our daughter feeding you lines."

She didn't move.

"There was a reason why the Old Man never gave you the company, Willow. This is why," Jacques hissed again. "You're weak."

Willow's breath trembled once, caught halfway between a sob and a word. The tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, bright against the frost-pale of her skin. She blinked hard, once, twice, as though to banish them, and when she finally looked up at him, the tears did not fall.

They burned.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Too quiet. "You're right," she said. "I am weak."

Jacques's eyes widened at that admission.

"I can never fight for myself. I...I am not that strong," Willow admitted, her voice choking sobs, but rage-filled and sure. "But I...I am not fighting for myself. I...I am fighting what my father built. I..."

"…I am fighting for what you destroyed," she said, her voice cracking but never breaking. "For what still deserves to live after you."

The words came haltingly at first, then steadier, like she was learning to breathe again after years of suffocation "I'm fighting for Weiss," Willow said, louder now, the name catching in her throat. "For the daughter you tried to mold into a reflection of your ego when Winter left. You made her believe she had to be perfect to be seen. That love was earned through obedience. You stole her childhood! You stole Winter's childhood!" Her voice shook with fury now, unhidden, unfiltered. "I will NOT let spend her life cleaning up after you!"

Jacques's mouth opened, but nothing came. Willow pressed on.

"And Whitley," she continued, her voice tightening, eyes burning through tears. "He's just a baby."

Jacques's fingers twitched behind his back. His mask of superiority, always so carefully maintained, began to crack at the edges.

Willow took another step forward. "And Winter," she whispered. "Our first. She is such a good soul. And you broke her spirit!" she roared, an anger only a mother could muster.

Her hands trembled, then steadied as she pointed at him. "You are scum, Jacques! SCUM!"

The room was still. Even the low thrum of protest outside seemed to have gone quiet, as though the city itself were listening.

Willow drew herself upright. Her voice dropped to something calm, almost measured, but the emotion in it glowed. "So no, Jacques, I'm not fighting for myself. I'm fighting for them. For what you took from them, for what you'll never give back. I...I will never be as ruthless as you. But..."

She exhaled, trembling, but there was no hesitation left in her. "But what I can do is hold it. Hold it until Weiss is old enough to take over. But that is enough time for me to prepare it. To change this company to survive without you."

Her words landed like a blow. Jacques's throat tightened, rage clawing its way up with nowhere to go. For once, there was nothing to say. No power left to summon, no room to twist her words into submission. Willow held his gaze a moment longer, then turned away, her shoulders squared.

"Board of Directors" Willow swallowed. "Let's call for a vote."

They voted. One by one. It all came ahead.

In that moment, in that second. The Directors made their will known.

​Jacques Schnee was removed from office, by majority vote.

+++

A/N: LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOO

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