Chapter Thirty-One I think?

Fear.

It was humanity's built-in alarm system.

The primal, knee-jerk reaction that had kept them alive since Adam played pretend naked wrestling with Eve. Fear didn't care about pride, logic, or whether you looked cool in front of your buddies. It was pure survival instinct, honed over generations of dodging predators, enduring disasters, and wisely deciding not to piss off things that were bigger, stronger, or way more terrifying.

Fear was why some ancient caveman didn't poke the saber-toothed tiger with a stick, or why somebody said, "Maybe we don't swim where the giant, hungry fish are." It whispered, "Don't touch that fire, idiot," and occasionally screamed, "Run, you dumbass!"

It wasn't glamorous, but it worked. Fear was the secret sauce of survival, the unspoken MVP of evolution. Without it, humans wouldn't have made it past the first lightning strike or discovered fire—they'd have just poked it and died.

It was why they were here and not extinct like those genius dodo birds that somehow forgot how to be scared of literally anything. It was at least good to know for the rest of creation that tasting like shit was in fact not a viable survival strategy.

Jacques, of course, was human.

An absolute fucking specimen, mind you.

Favored by the gods—if he did say so himself, and honestly, who could argue? You? Lol. Lmao even. Try again when you've been deemed worthy by a possibly Eldritch God to be plucked from your humdrum existence and thrust into the body of the richest, most influential person on another planet where people had bloody kickass superpowers, no less, and live the dream of so many lesser men back home.

Irregardless! he was veering off his original point.

While he surely wasn't just some run-of-the-mill mortal schlepping through life and was a cut above—a dazzling beacon of wit, charm, and genius in a sea of mediocrity, Jacques was still at the end of the day a progeny of Adam. Although he had enough well-deserved arrogance to fill a room (and then some), and most importantly, he carried the unshakable conviction that he was the main character—He was— Jacques was still human.

Thus, fear had crossed his path once or twice.

Like all the times Pa had that special "belt-polishing" look in his eye anytime Jack got into a fight at school. Or when Villa nearly got relegated. Or the time he realized "common knowledge" and street smarts weren't going to cut it during his last semester of college. Luckily, El Gran Don Juan worked his magic on his professor, securing a last-minute miracle. And of course, there was the moment when he'd accidentally dropped his phone into the loo—pure panic, that.

Admittedly, it wasn't an experience he cherished, but fear did have its uses. A certain humbling quality, if you squinted hard enough. Or maybe that was just the last shred of mortality in him trying to keep his ego in check.

Spoiler alert: it wasn't working.

Then there were the other times, of course. The real panic moments usually involved She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

But throughout his life, Jack had never actually felt fear in a fight.

In brawl? Dread? Hesitation? Jack never felt a bloody ounce of it.

Sure, he'd had the odd moment of "Shit, did I actually kill that bloke?" but the fear of the fight itself? The kind that makes your heart race and your legs wobble? Nah, not a chance. Never happened.

Why? Because Jack had never lost a fight.

From the day he'd learned how to wipe his own ass by himself, he had zero recollection of ever getting knocked on his ass, and staying there.

Got himself in a right state a few times, sure. Got stabbed a couple of times, but who didn't? bruised, a couple of busted ribs—but never lost.

He was simply that guy. His sheer HIM-ness would never allow it.

So, it was like a kid who's never had their favorite toy taken away. You can't convince him it was even possible to lose something he's never lost before. Jacques couldn't even fathom the idea of losing a fight.

Just fucking swing, lad? It's not that hard, mate.

Thus a certain mindset was developed.

Jack was a bloke who while only slightly tipsy had more than once argued with his mates—who were bloody clueless—that he could totally take on a tiger in a fight. Unironically, he wasn't joking. He wholeheartedly believed that if push comes to shove, he'd fuck up a tiger.

It's easy, innit?

Watch out for the claws and teeth, dodge a few swings, get in a couple of jabs, let it tire itself out, and when it's knackered from all that built-up lactic acid, boom—choke the cunt out. Simple.

Therefore, when faced with the flying, breathing incarnation of a bloody ice storm—Fria, the goddamn Winter Maiden herself—hovering there with a passive display of powers and seemingly trying to freeze his bollocks solid and strip the meat clean off his bones, all while he stood poisoned, burned, and probably a bit concussed, Jack did what any proper idiot with more confidence than brains would do.

He spread his arms wide, a cocky grin slapped across his face, and called out, "What? Fancy what you're seeing, love?!"

Because, even running on the last dregs of his Aura, Jacques' thought process boiled down to one unshakable conclusion: I can take her.

What was there to it, really?

Watch for the pointy ice shards and magic nonsense, duck and weave through a few flashy moves, land a couple of cheeky jabs, let her wear herself out, and then, when all that lactic acid built up and she got proper knackered, boom—choke the cunt out.

Easy.

The winds howled louder, drowning out any sound but Jack's own thundering heartbeat and the occasional flicker of bravado that managed to survive in his overworked brain. Fria's eyes narrowed, and the temperature plummeted further, reaching the kind of cold that actually started to fuck up the pressure.

The iced ground beneath him began to shake violently, and his skin started to feel like it was burning from how frigid it was. The sweat on his brow crystallized into tiny shards, and he swore he could feel his snot freezing in real time.

But Jacques grinned wider, baring teeth like a wolf with too much confidence and too little common sense. His Aura surged in response, amplified by the Tranquil Deer's influence, and crashed outward in a radiant sphere. It pushed back against the freezing winds, melting the snow and ice nearest to him.

Her magic touched his Aura.

Then, without warning, her storm died.

Jacques blinked as his Aura snapped back close to him with no command from him.

What the hell just happened?

The fiery blue hue around Fria's eyes vanished, and her gaze shifted, no longer burning with power but looking oddly… human.

Her brow furrowed slightly as confusion flickered across her face. She glanced around. Her head tilted like she was shocked to be here or as though she'd just woken up from a long, disorienting dream. Jacques found himself begrudgingly relating to that. Been there after a couple of pints and a rowdy night at the pub only to wake up in someone else's dog house.

That thought somewhat pacified his temper.

"I meant to do that!" He bullshitted..

The Old Grandma's focus caught on something nearby. The sphere of ice that encased Tyrian's creepy ass, suspended mid-contortion. The sight of him seemed to root her in the present.

Her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, her eyes softened further, almost contemplative. She studied the sphere for a long moment, the faintest hint of recognition—or perhaps regret—playing across her face.

And then, just hovered there. Lost in her mind. For like seven damn minutes.

"C'mon, love, We gonna stand here all day, or are you planning to give me the ol' winter wonderland special?" he shouted over to her and jammed his thumb to his chest. "Because I've got places to be, people to annoy, and money to make! And don't tell me this is your idea of intimidation! Seen scarier things in the mirror after a night out, mate."

That brought her out of her mind. Realizing she wasn't alone, her eyes turned back to the ground where a man young enough to be her son stood there like an idiot, a half-cocked grin frozen on his face.

Her eyes locked into his eyes.

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

For a moment, neither moved, both locked in a strange, shared bewilderment.

"Wassup?" he blurted, arms spreading in what could charitably be called a vaguely threatening gesture, but mostly just looked stupid.

And then she smiled, her old and tired mind playing tricks on her perception of reality to see a ghost of the distant past on the face of the living.

Down below, Jacques stared at her, still confused. The smile wasn't the smug smile of someone who enjoyed freezing grown men's bollocks for a laugh. It wasn't even the grin of a conqueror savoring her dominance. It was… soft. Warm, almost—well, too warm and kind from the woman who had just turned the entire city block into a scene straight out of a nature documentary about the North Pole.

Then, with the grace of a snowflake, she began to descend, her floafers barely disturbing the frozen ground below.

Jacques stood where he was, his arms still slightly spread, but most of the fighting mood leaving him. It was kinda messed up, he pondered, about how ready he was to hit somebody's grandma. He still would though if she tried attacking him. But still...

She stopped a few feet away, her eyes flickering to the sphere of ice imprisoning Tyrian then to the Bomber mole Grimm and finally back to Jacques.

"You held your ground," Fria said, her voice soft but laced with something that made him uneasy. "Even when you should have run."

Jacques blinked. "Running's never been my style,"

"You're either brave or foolish. Maybe both." Fria's smile grew faintly wider, though it didn't lose that strange sadness.

"Both," he quipped without hesitation, his smirk returning. "Though I'll have you know, bravery is the dominant trait. As for foolishness, well, that's just misunderstood genius waiting for an audience."

Fria's eyebrow arched slightly with a hint of amusement "Ah, the famed tongue Willow warned me about."

Jacques's smirk turned into a cheeky grin. "Warned you, did she? Well, I was never one to disappoint." He leaned forward ever so slightly. "Though I assure you, my tongue's talents extend far beyond conversation."

Fria's laugh came unexpectedly. It was light, clear, and touched with genuine amusement. It was the laugh of someone who wasn't used to being caught off guard.

"How crude and audacious you are," she said with a soft chuckle, covering her mouth. "To insinuate such things to a lady, one who's old enough to be your mother, no less."

"Nonsense, If we stand next to each other, people might confuse us for twins." He said unabashedly.

Piece of advice: Hag-type characters are weak to cliché compliments, precisely because they're so cliché. They've heard it all before—the "you don't look a day over twenty," or the "for someone of your age, you've still got it" lines. 

That's because the aim is not to have them believe that shit, but to make you look endearing and innocent.

Fria studied him for a moment, her head tilting. "Perhaps, you are right," she murmured, her smile deepening ever so slightly. "At least you've stopped shaking in my presence."

Wait, what?

She continued before he could ask if she was taking the piss.

"Tell me," she said, and while her tone remained light, there was a faint edge to it, "what are you doing here, Jacques Gélé?"

His smirk faltered. He didn't like the way she said his name. It wasn't angry or accusing—it was worse. She sounded like she knew something he didn't.

"A fair question, I suppose," he replied, buying himself a moment to think. After a beat, he shrugged. "Saving the day, from the looks of it. Can't stand idle while the dregs of the world and terrorists are wrecking my city, can I? But truthfully..." He met her gaze with a pointed look. "...I must admit, silver-eyed warriors and magic-wielding Grimm nearly threw me off my rhythm."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Luckily," he continued with a grin, "Thanks to a Maiden's timely intervention, I've got everything under control."

The ice around him creaked a bit loudly as it advanced.

Jacques could practically feel the gears turning in her head as she processed his words, but Fria's reaction was minimal—a slight stillness in her smile. Her eyes flickered with something that almost looked like disappointment, but he did his best not to take it personally.

"A Maiden, huh?" she mused, a small, fake embarrassed laugh slipping from her lips. "You sure are the sweet talker, but much too old to be called that at my age, young man." She downplayed the term, but Jacques could tell it wasn't exactly a compliment.

She drew closer, reaching out to squeeze his cheek, the one where Tyrian had carved a line from his ear to his nose. Jacques didn't even flinch. "I don't really get what you're saying, but good job, brave boy," she said in the voice of a grandmother talking to her favorite grandson.

"Well, I do my best, love," Jacques replied smoothly, his grin widening.

The message was clear, casual, and almost dismissive. I ain't particularly impressed with your cryptic little reveal, ya lil puke. 

Jacques would've liked to say he was surprised, but honestly, he wasn't. The woman barely qualified as a character in canon, more of a shitty plot convenience to move things along. He had next to nothing to work with on how to deal with her, but her cutting straight through his quick, brilliant, and entirely humble bragging? That checked out.

Like teacher, like student, he thought with a scoff.

At least now he knew where Willow had inherited her ability to see through his well-crafted bullsh— Wait. Willow!

Shit! He completely forgot about his family!

Jacques spun around, squinting at the icy hellscape that used to be a city bloke. Everything was buggered. Giant walls of ice fifty bloody meters high surrounded him on all sides, sealing him off like some posh leftovers in a freezer bag. The sky? Empty. No helicopters, no airships, not even a bird for company. His audience was nowhere to be seen.

Beyond the wall, it was just smoke and dust clouds swirling around like some depressing artsy film. and since his Jacques Senses were playing until Fria went away, he couldn't tell his arse from his elbow when it came to figuring out where to go.

Like she had a direct line into his head, Fria spoke suddenly. "It seems we've both remembered we have much to do," She had that same irritating, motherly tone, the kind that made you feel like a kid caught nicking biscuits before dinner. "The others are in the northeast. Go on then, little hero, run to your woman's arms."

Jacques stopped dead, slowly turning to face her, eyes narrowing. That sounded a bit too smug for his liking.

"But," she added, her voice dropping slightly, "keep that smart little mouth of yours shut about things like Maidens and silver eyes. No need for folks to start thinking all that dust had ruined your brain, right?"

It also explained why the fuck there weren't any cameras taking beautiful shots and feeds of his amazing goodness.

Nevertheless, It wasn't a suggestion.

He took it as one anyway.

Jacques snorted. "What, and deprive them of the bloody legend I'm building? You're no fun, love."

Fria smiled faintly, not even dignifying that with a proper response.

Right. Northeast. Time to find them, and then figure out how to get out of this frozen mess without looking like a complete prat. Fuck it, he'll ram through it. But first...

"Ta for the help, Fria," he said, giving her a mock salute. "You enjoy your ice palace. I'll just be over here saving the day, again."

Jacques shot a glance at the ice sculpture containing his least favorite stab-happy lunatic. Jacques reached out, casual as you like, hand moving toward the icy prison. There was no bloody way he was leaving without killing that lunatic. He wasn't about to give Tyrian a chance to thaw out and start stabbing his way through his day again.

Before his fingers could brush the ice, though, the damn thing shifted. Not much, just a bit, like it was sliding away from him on its own. Jacques froze mid-motion, blinking at the slightly relocated popsicle.

He turned to Fria with a sigh so exaggerated it practically echoed. "Oh, for fu—really? We're doing this? What, is the ice haunted now, or do you just not want me to break your creepy little art project?"

Fria gave him a look. The kind of look you'd give a particularly slow child who just asked why the sky was blue. "It's not for you to decide his fate," she said evenly, like she was explaining the bloody weather.

Jacques pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "Not for me to decide—he tried to stab me! Repeatedly! What, am I supposed to just leave him here so he can thaw out and have another go?" He took a deep breath like he was about to launch into a heartfelt speech. Spoiler: he wasn't.

"Look, lady," he started, gesturing wildly between Fria and the frozen psychopath. "I get it. This is your badass, mysterious character intro, all icy power and whatnot. Very impressive, well done. Girlkeep Gayboss all that stuff. But him—" he jabbed a finger at Tyrian's frosty prison "—he tried to kill me. I beat the bastard. So, by the laws of nature and common bloody sense, it is my God-given right to twist his neck and make sure he never gets up again. Ever."

Fria kept giving him that same fucking smile that said: yes, dear, that is a flower.

"In fact," he continued, waving his hand to accentuate the presentation of his airtight argument, "if he were conscious right now, I'd bet good money he'd agree with me. Enthusiastically, at that. The guy's a real team player when it comes to murder, you know? A proper sport."

Tyrian was a dear like that, after all.

He paused, expecting Fria to suddenly see reason and hand him an ice pick. Instead, she just gave him that same bloody look, like he was an idiot child rambling about tiger fights again.

"So?" he motioned her to fucking move, so he can get it over with.

Fria's smile widened just a fraction, the sort of smile a kindly grandma might give to a toddler explaining quantum physics with crayons. Jacques hated it. He also hated how many damn similes his mind was providing to describe the smile....Or were these metaphors? he could never tell the difference. He hated that too.

"Of course," she said, her voice dripping with saccharine understanding. "You're absolutely right, young man. It's only fair that the fruits of your labor, the spoils of your victory, belong to you."

. "...Really?" Jacques squinted at her, not buying it for a second.

"Oh, absolutely." She nodded, her tone as sweet as treacle. "You've worked hard for this. Risked life and limb. Fought valiantly, no doubt. Who am I to rob you of your well-deserved vengeance?"

Jacques blinked. "...I did." This was going suspiciously well. Too well. He opened his mouth to continue, but she wasn't done.

"However," she continued, holding up a single finger, "I couldn't, in good conscience, just let you go about it like some common hooligan. No, no. A man of your caliber deserves something far more fitting. A reward, perhaps. Something befitting the dignity of your victory."

Jacques' mouth opened, then closed again. His instincts screamed trap, but his ego was already doing a little victory lap. "...Go on."

Fria stepped closer, placing a motherly hand on his shoulder. It wasn't comforting. "Let me make you a deal," she whispered in a conspiratorial like she was letting him in on a big secret. "You want him dead? Fine. I'll personally see to it after I'm done with him. But..."

There it was. The but. Jacques braced himself.

"You leave it to me," Fria said with a smile that was entirely too smug. "I'll make sure he never wakes up again. And in return…" Her voice dropped even further. "I shall reward you personally. I shall give you my most precious reward."

Jacques blinked. Her most precious reward?

What could be a woman's most precious re—?!

His face scrunched in equal parts confusion and horror as he immediately stepped back, hands raised in a firm, albeit polite, protest.

"Look, I'm flattered, really," he said, his tone awkward but firm, "but I'm a married man."

Fria's brows furrowed, clearly not following his train of thought.

As much as he was a fan of footie, and as much as he fantasized about repping England's kit and Bringing it Back Home, Jacques was still just an amateur in the Sunday league. He's got his limits. He'll leave shagging grandmas to England's golden boy, thanks.

"Not that, you idiot!" she snapped, her voice rising with all the righteous fury of an offended schoolmarm. "Trust me, kid, you're not that charming."

He'd beg to differ, but...

"Right. Gotcha." Jacques nodded, offering her a sheepish grin. "My bad."

Fria composed herself with impressive speed, smoothing her expression into something calm and vaguely enigmatic. "As I was saying," she continued, her tone now dripping with exaggerated patience, "I will give you something precious. Something rare. A treasure you won't find anywhere else."

"What is it?" he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Jewels? Gold? A mystical weapon of untold power?" He wanted that last one.

"What I'm offering you," she resumed her cryptic shit with a smile. "..is something far more valuable than gold. Far more precious than jewelry, and with more importance than you could imagine. It's not just an object, you see, but a symbol." She leaned in slightly. "A symbol of trust, of power—something that can't be bought or sold. It's something no other Maiden would ever offer you."

"Word?" Jacques said in the same hushed voice. He wasn't sure why they were whispering, but fuck it, this sounded important.

"Indeed," Fria's smile only deepened as she felt the crack in his armor. "And since you are going out of your way to humor this old lady, I shall give you two."

Two?!

Jacques swallowed in response. Two of them?!

He looked down at her chest.

He sighed. "No, seriously, I'm flattered, but again I'm a marr—Fuck!"

Fria smacked him.

"God fucking..." Jacques gritted out, cradling his ear. It was cold as a motherfucker too! Fuck, his ear was ringing.

"So, what do you say?" Fria continued with a smile like she didn't just fuck up his entire auditory system.

Jacques rubbed his ear, wincing as the ringing subsided, trying not to let the icy sting of her smack show too much. He shot her a glare, but it wasn't entirely out of anger—more out of sheer disbelief. "You got a damn mean slap for someone who looks like they've been around since the Ice Age."

Fria gave him an innocent shrug, though the playful glint in her eye told him it wasn't all that innocent. "It's called 'discipline,' dear. Helps keep boys like you in line." She gave him an unimpressed look "You're lucky I'm offering you anything at all. Not many get that privilege."

Jacques opened his mouth, but for once, he wasn't sure what to say. "Two, huh?" He cleared his throat, glancing around to make sure no one else was eavesdropping on their strange little conversation. "What, are we talking about some kind of deal? A bribe? Or is this just your idea of a good time?"

Fria's smile turned almost smug as she leaned in a little closer, making sure he could catch every word she said. "Not a bribe, darling. A gift. But not just any gift. These are... rare. More precious than anything you'd get from some high-and-mighty rich girl or a spoiled noblewoman. I doubt those stuck-up trash ever seen anything like it" She paused, letting the words hang in the air. "It's something personal. Something I've never offered anyone else."

Jacques narrowed his eyes. "You are trying to trap me in some weird old-lady power play, aren't ya?"

"Oh, please." She snorted, a small, dismissive laugh escaping her lips. "You're more than capable of getting yourself trapped without my help. No, this is my offer. And what I offer is for you, no one else. I could have kept it to myself, you know." She raised a hand, casually flicking a lock of his hair that fell on his forehead back. From her bitch-slap, no doubt. "But I'm in a generous mood today."

Jacques didn't know whether to laugh or roll his eyes. "Alright, alright. So you're offering me two... what exactly?"

Fria clicked her tongue and wagged her finger. "First you must agree to leave the Scorpion for me to deal with,"

Jacques frowned, looking at Tyrian's frozen form. The sight of the stab-happy lunatic still grated on his nerves, but he had to admit... he didn't like the idea of just letting the fucker alive and out of his sight. But damn it, ...."Fine," he reluctantly agreed. "It better be worth it." He said, already making preparations for the next time the fucker will definitely appear.

"Thank you," Fria said with a soft smile. She reached down into the pocket of her ridiculous pink apron, rummaged around for a moment, and then pulled out a closed fist. Without saying a word, she grabbed his arm and placed whatever was inside his hand. It felt hard, like two small objects pressing into his palm, and she closed his fingers around them.

Jacques made to look what she gave him when she put her hand on his fist again.

"Not yet," she added with a wink before stepping back. "But know that I appreciate your trust in me."

"Yeah, well…" Jacques muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the flicker of unease creeping up on him. He kept his hand closed, just like she'd instructed, though every part of him screamed to open it and see what the hell she'd just given him.

He felt like he was getting fucked over here.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of things," Fria added, her voice almost sing-song as she turned away, her figure blending into the icy landscape. "And tell that ungrateful brat to write every once in a while. Till next time, Niko."

Then, just like that, she was gone, Tyrian's bitch ass in tow.

Jacques hesitated for a second, before opening his palm.

He looked down.

A vein throbbed in his temple.

Two badly wrapped cookies rested in his hand.

Not even the good kind. Obviously cheap, or just shoddily made. Like so ass, they looked like they were crafted by someone who hated both baking and taste. The packaging was all crumpled, the edges frayed like they'd been stuffed in a pocket for days. The cookies themselves were a sad, unappetizing shade of beige, crumbling at the touch, and the faint smell of stale sugar clung to them.

Jacques's lip curled, his irritation growing by the second. He couldn't believe he'd traded his dignity for these. And not just any dignity—the dignity of a man who'd just nearly died fighting half the bloody continent's worst killers.

"Homemade," he muttered bitterly, feeling like he might actually lose his lunch.

"God fucking damn it!" Jacques shouted, slamming the shitty cookies and stomping his foot in frustration into the ground with a vicious crash. "I fucking knew it!"

He should've known she'd pull some dumb shit like this!

"Fucking invaluable? Really?!" he spat, shaking his head in disbelief. "I oughta go after her and—Oooooh, I wanna beat her ass, so badly!"

He kicked the remains of the cookies, just to make sure they were good and ruined, watching the tiny wrappers flutter like confetti in the air.

That only pissed him off more, so he punched the fucking things.

"I knew it. I fucking knew it!" Jacques growled, clenching his fists at his sides, as if ready to throw them into something—or someone.

The nerve of her. He couldn't help but feel like he'd been played for a fool, You'd think after being jew'd so many fucking times in his life, he'd learn! But no, he'd taken the bait.

Like a damn rookie!

For a damn cookie!

"And who the fuck is even Niko?!" He yelled again. The bitch didn't even have the decency to get his name right!

He made a choking gesture with his hands, his lips pressed tight as he tried to suppress the urge to go after her. "I just wanna—Hhhngh."

He took a deep breath, gripping his temples like he was about to have an aneurysm.

"Let it go, Jacques. You've got shit to do," he muttered, shaking his head to clear the frustration. It wasn't fucking working.

But he had bigger things to worry about.

Hopefully, his daughter didn't croak while his dumbass was getting swindled by a madwoman in an apron.

He bent his knees, and like a damn rocket, he burst through the ice and shattered the damn walls into a million pieces.

Fuck your walls...