Note: This Thanksgiving, let's remember what we are thankful for. Family. Food. Significant trauma associated with family and food. Okay maybe you don't have that last part, but one member of Team RWBY definitely does. Let's celebrate the holiday and this special arc by checking in on the Schnees. Enjoy.

Weiss took deep breaths, one after the other. Eventually, they were supposed to calm her. That was what they said, right? The secret to steadying one's nerves lay in the breath. And yet, no matter how much oxygen she took in, no matter what assurances she told herself, she could not be anything other than a wreck.

She stood in front of the doorway to Schnee Manor, staring up at the vast entranceway like some impenetrable monolith. She didn't feel the chill of the winter air; the heavy air circulation system that surrounded the grounds kept the temperature warm year-round. Still, her knuckles were white, from clenching her fists by her side.

Her sister was standing next to her, tapping her foot impatiently. To her, this was nothing more than another distraction. She had received word that she had to babysit Weiss's friends once again; surprising, given that their previous escapade almost resulted in their demise. How Weiss finagled that with her father, she would forever be clueless. All she knew was that she had to keep an eye on that idiotic blonde and that smug little anarchist bitch while they toured around Atlas making fools of themselves. And fools they did make—the past several hours had been nothing but selfies, exaggerated reactions to the cameras, and awkward stares by the locals. The citizens of Atlas weren't like Vale—i.e., brainless. They had standards of professionalism, schedules to keep, and manners to uphold; they didn't care to be distracted by teenage morons no matter how "heroic" they may have been. It was Winter's job to ensure they didn't get into too much trouble with the authorities.

"Ma'am, if they don't leave my store, I'm going to report you."

"Sir, if you don't lighten your tone with me, you're going to wish you reported me sooner."

Or threaten people. She also did some of that. Being a Huntress had its perks.

She sighed and shook her head, the thoughts dissipating. She worried about leaving Yang and Blake all alone in the city. Was it that important they have a private family dinner? Knowing Team RWBY, those two had probably set fire to half the city by now, which meant another mess for her to clean up. She prayed that she didn't suffer her father's wrath any further. Nothing would hurt her more than seeing him disappointed.

She thought she caught Weiss staring at her, but she wasn't fast enough to prove it. She chalked it up to her imagination.

The door slowly creaked open. A pudgy, balding man awaited on the other side. His mustache twitched upon seeing Weiss's face, and her expression too lit up when she noticed him. A small part of her wanted to hug him, but too small to make her move. His green eyes were as soft as she remembered them. The last time they fell upon her, she didn't have the strength to look back.

"Master Weiss. Master Winter."

Weiss smiled. "Hello, Klein. It's… been a while."

"Too long," he said sadly. Unfortunately for both of them, they could not dwell on the moment. Weiss had a job to do, and Klein had another master to serve. "You should come inside. It's cold out."

Weiss bowed her head and stepped through the massive door. When she entered the Manor, the first thing that hit her was the smell. The Manor had always smelled of polish and emptiness, two fragrances whose source she could never decipher but were recognizable instantly. The foyer was vast, and it hadn't changed since she had gone away to Beacon Academy. The knight status—the same ones that used to inspire and terrify her in equal measure during her youth—still stood watch over the hall. The blue staircase had been freshly vacuumed, leaving behind not a speck of dust. The great insignia on the ground echoed louder than the rest of the room when she walked on it, something she realized early in her childhood and made a game out of. Some youthful spirit reemerged in her when her heel tapped against the logo's center, but it was quickly snuffed out when Winter spoke behind her.

"Where's Father? I'd rather not delay."

"He's in the dining hall. I'll take your coats."

Weiss's Soul steadied when she heard mention of that terrible man. Her mission was clear. She couldn't forget.

Klein took away their heavy jackets as he led them to the dining hall. It was always too far for the entrance to Weiss's liking. Too far from her room as well. A bratty little thing like her needed to scarf down as much as possible, and distance was her mortal enemy back when her legs could barely carry her. As she was led to the hall, passing the various portraits and statues that her father used to fill the void, she was caught by just how foreign everything seemed. She had only been gone for half a year, and yet with each step, it seemed like she was walking through lifetimes. So much had changed since she last set foot within these walls that were once her prison. She had always felt trapped by them. Now, they just seemed sad; erect but purposeless. Cluttered and cold. If she wasn't racked with nerves—or had Ruby been by her side—she would have challenged them to hold her.

The dining room was always too large for family meals. The table stretched to hold up to forty guests, and it was often filled with men from her father's wining and dining business meetups. It had a chandelier over it that sparkled with blue crystal, and the end on the far side was pressed against a window, giving a glorious view of Atlas through its thin, white curtains. Its walls were the same matted steel as the rest of the mansion, so cold she used to believe it was made of ice. Her father would never let her eat what she wanted because she would get too fat, so she always remembered the table being covered with rows of meat and potatoes and vegetables that go undevoured and rotten. Not that they ever had to care for food or waste. These were all the memories of the dining room—that oftoo-largee spaces and overprepared meals. It was these memories that she expected to encounter, along with her father, seated at the head of the table. And it was that she saw. The same dining room. The same chandelier. The same window. The same Jacques Schnee, standing behind his chair, waiting for them to enter.

But she also saw a shadow sitting beside him.

His hair was as white as hers, somewhat longer and shaggier than she remembered. His clothes, unlike her father's, was loose around his neck and hung too loosely around his legs; the consequence of a still growing frame that had been improperly tailored for. His smile toward Weiss was more genuine than her father's. He was so happy to see her.

He slowly turned a steak knife between his fingers.

"Hi, sister," he said smugly. His voice had gotten slightly deeper since she had last seen him, but it hadn't lost any of its twisted edge. "So good to see you again."

Weiss froze, unable to take a step further into the dining hall. "What are you doing here?"

Jacques spoke calmly, almost like he was unaware. "I wanted to have a family meal. Whitley is family, even if you don't care for him, Weiss."

"Don't care for him?" Weiss said with disbelief. "Do you remember what he did to me?"

"Past, past. That's all in the past," Jacques insisted. He walked over to her brother and put his hands on his shoulders. "Whitley has changed so much since then. We've done what we can to correct his behavior, and now he's a fully made-man. Isn't that right?"

Whitley smirked. His slouched posture reminded him of a coiled serpent. "Therapy does wonders, sister. You should try it sometime."

Weiss didn't trust a goddamn word out of his mouth. Correct behavior? Like Winter? No, she didn't see any scars on Whitley's head, and of course, her father would never endanger his heir in such a manner. He must have meant normal, actual therapy, like something Noetal would give. Still, she hadn't heard a whiff of such action in the ages since Whitley scarred her, and even if it was true, she didn't know what words could talk sense into his twisted skull. She was tempted to leave right then and there, abandon the mission outright for such an obvious danger, when Winter walked passed her, unassuming, and took her place at the table.

Remember the mission.

Remember what matters.

Weiss condensed her rage into a single scowl. "If you try anything funny—"

Whitley rolled his eyes. "Oh, sis… you know I'm not capable of being funny. Never with you."

Weiss felt the eyes of the room upon her, but her gaze never left her brother's smirking face as she took her seat. She placed herself on the opposite end of Whitley, sandwiched between her sister and father, who sat down happily at the table's head. The table before her was full of silverware and plates, but no food. There was only a single cup of room-temperature water, and she swallowed it down without a second thought. Whitley watched her squirm with quiet anticipation. Jacques summoned Klein close to him.

"Tell Willow to get her ass down from her study. Then check the food, will you?"

"Of course, Master Schnee," Klein said graciously. He left without another word. Jacques sighed with discontent. Weiss didn't make anything of it. In fact, she was astonished that her mother was even going to come down. Then again, if he brought Whitley, why not her? What else could add to the misery?

"Thank you for inviting us—" Weiss tried to speak, but Jacques quickly hushed her.

"No, no. Wait until your mother arrives," he instructed. Weiss didn't understand, but her instincts forced her to comply. She sat in silence per his orders, forced to live with Whitley's gaze and that slow, rhythmic turning of the knife.

Ten minutes passed before Weiss heard the echo of her mother's lazy footsteps. When the ghost of Willow Schnee stumbled into the room, it wasn't with the grace of a Huntsman or the pride of an executive. It was merely a slow, lifeless shuffle, one detached from the rest of the world. Weiss saw the dark bags around her mother's eyes and the bits of frizzled white hair that stuck out of her ponytail. Willow didn't even seem to regard her when she was sitting down at the table, other than a longing stare that Weiss interpreted as apathy. She placed herself next to Whitley, and one of her hands gently reached out and rubbed his shoulder, resembling the way a mother should show affection for her son. She wasn't smiling, so she hadn't had anything to drink yet today. She assumed that would change shortly.

Weiss stared through her. Winter just kept her eyes on her plate.

Another minute passed before Klein returned, carrying with him a large tray. He set it down before returning to the kitchen, and repeated the process numerous times until the table in front of them had been stuffed. Roasted duck on the bone. Pan-fried Atlassian sprouts, a Kingdom staple. Tomato kale salad. Potatoes al gratin—Whitley's favorite. A selection of sauces. A bottle of red for the missus. A bottle of white for the patriarch. When the food was finished, and the emptiness in Weiss's nose had been replaced by warm comforts of the past, Klein bowed his head and gave the family their privacy. Before Weiss could serve herself anything, her father spoke with a sincere smile.

"It's… been so long since we were all together," he said wistfully. "So much has happened in the past year. I know the circumstances are strange. Our family has struggled in ways that I never thought we would have to endure. And yet, we have made it. Successful. Thriving. We have made enemies and we have broken them. We have conquered demons and come back stronger, carrying on the legacy of our two fine houses. Schnees. Saevas. That is who we are. That is who we celebrate. I'm… I'm so proud of all of you. I never tell you that enough."

Jacques poured himself a glass of white wine and held it up. He encouraged the others to do the same. Weiss took her glass and held it aloft, as did her siblings. Willow simply stared blankly at the table. "To Weiss for returning home. To Winter for protecting her. To Whitley becoming a man. To all of us."

He drank loosely from his cup, not caring if any of the others joined. Winter followed shortly after. Whitley shrugged, and still looking at Weiss, he sipped from his glass of water. Weiss did the same. Willow—assuming she was finally given permission—popped the cork off her bottle of red wine and put the glass straight to her lips. Weiss watched her down three gulps without a word, then returned the bottle to the table with a heavy clank. In all honesty, it wasn't the most disrespectful her mother had ever been over dinner. Weiss lowered her glass and then reached for a serving spoon. Jacques snatched her wrist before she could take it. How could she forget? The prayer.

With his free hand, Jacques pulled free the necklace that hung beneath his suit: that silver sword representing the Knight's watch over his lineage. Weiss hurriedly mimicked his movement, trying to conceal her lack of necklace in her fingers. She hoped no one noticed as they closed their eyes and recited a small prayer to Decum Luna. To their Lords for protecting them, for granting them power, for guiding them in every step of their journey toward a greater Kingdom. They prayed to Gods that she now knew were liars and whose presence did nothing to bring truth to their teachings.

The prayer finished. She removed her hand from her blouse and covered her neck so no one could see what was beneath. She thought she may have caught Whitley peeking.

Jacques and Whitley started to serve themselves. She did the same. When her plate was full of sprouts and duck and sauce, she stuck the fork into the tender meat and raised it to her lips.

"Well… aren't you going to thank me?"

She froze before she could take a bite, the fork hovering in front of her. "What was that?"

"You've yet to thank me," Jacques said calmly. "That's rather rude, not to thank your host for inviting you into his home."

Weiss's lips curled down. She should have known his words about family were hollow. This is what he really craved: a respected woman bowing to his presence.

"Thank you… Father," the words came out slowly, and she tried to hide her disgust. "I cannot tell you how happy I am to be back."

"Oh, I'm aware," he noted. "You've always been starved for approval, haven't you? Much more than you're starved for food, I can see."

Weiss grimaced. "Right."

"I just thought you'd be a little happier, considering all I'm doing for you."

"I apologize if my graciousness wasn't coming through before. It's… it's just been a long time since I've been here. So much has happened that it is easy to get… distracted."

Jacques smirked. He ripped a piece of crisped skin off the duck with his bare fingers. "That's all right. I won't hold it against you. As long as we understand each other." He tossed the skin into its mouth. It crackled beneath his teeth as he chewed. "It makes sense you are distracted, given your schedule. So, how has your day been so far? Has Atlas given your vlog all its attention you want?"

Weiss took a deep breath. Accept the humiliation. Move on. She bit into her food, swallowing before she spoke. "It's not a vlog, per se. We were streaming—at least the most that we could. It's difficult to get an uninterrupted video feed out of the Kingdom. It seemed popular, though. We found three local shops that were willing to enter further negotiations for sponsorships or donations."

"Is that a good number?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's excellent, then," Jacques laughed. "You see, Whitley, Weiss and her team are doing some social media sharing thing. It's very successful."

Whitley pursed his lips. "I've heard. It's… not exactly what I expected."

"Staying in Vale has taught me to open to mind to new possibilities," Weiss said defensively. "It's not a traditional path to success, but the results speak for themselves."

"Do they?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Only three local shops?" he asked doubtingly. "That doesn't sound very good. Father works with multi-billion Lien corporations. That's surely more productive."

"Whitley, if your sister says it's good, it's good!" Jacques insisted. "She knows far more about how this generation works than either of us. Be proud of your sister."

"Proud?" Whitley mused. "I don't mean to show you any disrespect, sister. But I just don't see how this brings any honor to our family."

Weiss sneered. "It's not something you would understand."

"What is there not to understand?" Whitley asked. "I see you laughing with those Valians gouging on their revolting food. An open mind is good, but not so much that your mind falls out of your skull. I think you're counting on Father not keeping a closer eye on your behavior."

"Father tracks everything I do. Don't underestimate him," Weiss countered. "Winter keeps an eye on us. She ensures that we don't cause trouble."

"Like you did in Vale?"

Weiss froze. Whitley seemed almost unimpressed by his own knowledge, but he knew how much it was affecting her. She didn't know how long Whitley had been stalking their activities. The rat didn't even have social media, and she never recalled him being attentive toward world events. Was he tracking her failures specifically?

"Can… can we not?"

"I'm just concerned for your well-being, sister," Whitley promised, placing his scrawny hand over his heart. "I don't want to see my precious sister have her morals tainted by bad company."

Weiss forcefully bit through a piece of duck. She swallowed. "I don't keep bad company."

"That blonde, always poking her chest out. And that dark-haired girl who says terrible things about Atlas. All you do when you stand beside her is validate her opinion."

Jacques tried to subdue him. "Whitley, stop being rude."

"Did you see she was at some animal gathering?" he revealed. "She spoke in favor of letting them vote. What pure nonsense."

"Whitley…"

"And that girl with the red cape. Your interviews state that she's the team leader. Are you okay with that, Father? Letting the daughter of the Memoria terrorist lead this team over your own flesh and blood?"

"Whitley." Jacques's words were sharper. "Learn to hold your tongue before it reveals your foolishness. Team RWBY is very well respected in Remnant, and they've done well to earn me profit and reputation. That's what matters." He consumed another piece of duck skin, then gave Weiss a sideways glance. "Though it is true that you let Ruby walk all over you. Why is that?"

Weiss answered slightly too quickly for comfort. "Because she knows what she's doing—I mean, you taught me long ago to know my limitation, father. If you want to maximize the Team RWBY Fund to its fullest potential, then letting Ruby make the decisions is for the best."

"That is true," Jacques recognized. "The girl is clever—much more than you. I do hope, at the very least, you are learning from her."

"More than you know," Weiss said, hiding her smile. Some temporary relief came over her. Whitley may have tried to undermine her like always, but she still had her father's trust—for now. She tried to pivot the topic as far away as possible. She turned to her mother, who was taking yet another swig of wine. Her eyes had yet to glaze over. Weiss made her move. "Mother, how have you been? I feel like it's been ages since we've talked."

Willow said nothing. Jacques, stammering, took her place.

"Your mother has started work on a new novel," he explained. "It's a historical work on a subject dear to us: Dust. Tell her, dear."

Willow's eyes flickered to life, just momentarily. She gently rested her hands on the table. "I've… been… trying to create a definitive history of the origin of Dust. We know so… little about where it comes from. I was trying to use the existing literature to create a likely history."

"Yes, yes. It's very fascinating," Jacques stated enthusiastically. "Some people think Dust came from underground elements. Others genuinely believe Dust comes from outer space. Can you believe that?"

"That's an unconvincing theory," Willow sighed. "I'm… unfortunately in a rut, as far as my research goes."

"You'll figure it out," Weiss said, though her detachment was evident in her tone. "Sometimes, things aren't what they seem to be. That's no reason to give up."

There was a slight shift in Willow's expression. Her gaze fell onto the floor. She lightly ran her fingernails against the tablecloth.

"Your eye looks terrible."

Weiss had to catch herself to make sure she heard properly.

"What did you—"

"Dear, I'm sorry, I need to be excused." Willow stood up from the table. She took a step away.

Jacques's peaceful posture instantly dropped.

"Huh? Where are you going?" Willow walked past him, a bottle of wine in hand. The moment her face left his sight, his face contorted in fury. The transformation was remarkable. Whatever joy had been present a second ago seemed like a distant memory. His brow furrowed. He flared his teeth like a rabid animal. His voice dropped.

Like a gunshot, he smacked his hands on the table. "Willow! Willow!"

Willow left the room in a hurry. Jacques growled, pushing himself up to his feet. "Excuse me."

Jacques continued screaming Willow's name as he followed her out of the dining hall, around the corner and far out of view. Weiss watched her parents leave the same way she would as a child: frozen in fear, incapable of stopping disaster. Her hands once again curled into fists. The Schnee Manor was renowned for its echoing halls. Everything resonated off of the polished corridors: footsteps, music, and most often, screams. In some strange way, she hadn't felt truly at home until she heard her father's voice cracking in the distance, blowing a fuse over something so incredibly minor, flipped like a switch. Weiss found herself holding in her breath as if to remain invisible to anything that could detect her weakness. It was second nature.

"You know… this is the first time they've done that since you've left."

Weiss closed her eyes tight as Whitley teased her.

"Don't lie to me."

"It's no lie," said Whitley with a shrug. He pushed himself up to his feet in the same manner as his father. He reached over to the duck and plucked a piece of juicy skin from its underside. As he chewed it and savored its flavor, he sat down in Jacques's chair, leaning in close to Weiss. "You bring out the worst of them, you know that? Fathers become distracted because of our games. You make his life harder with this stupid Fund of yours, and now look… Mother's suffering as well."

Weiss did what she could to hold back her anger. She steeled herself and shot daggers through her brother. "If you think you're going to get to me, you're wrong. I'm not the same weak girl I used to be."

Whitley just smiled. "Yes, you are. Nothing's going to change that."

A white flash appeared in Weiss's eyes, but she held herself back. She wanted to summon a spiked chain straight through the bastard's throat. After everything he had done to her—what he tried to do to her—the fact he was allowed to sit here as part of her family was a grave insult she nearly couldn't stomach. He had gotten away with everything because he was a child, and he was Jacques's favorite. She knew it. He knew it—and he loved it.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything to you," he said dismissively. "I've changed, sister, even if you haven't. One day, Father is going to hand me control of the Schnee Dust Company, something that you fumbled away a long time ago. Wasting time on you is like trying to squish a fly. It's not worth my time. I have… people for that."

Whitley rested his hand on his chin, smirking to himself. His eyes looked past her, and the gears in Weiss's turned until they snapped into a horrifying conclusion. Jacques had taken everything from her sister, and whatever he owned, he intended to pass on to his true heir. That would mean…

Weiss turned around quickly toward Winter.

Winter—to Weiss's shock, Winter was just eating her lunch, as she had been since she sat down. She hadn't been bothered by her father's outburst, or Whitley's taunting, or… anything, really. She just quietly ate her food, filling up on calories. Making herself as whole as she could be. If Whitley was telling the truth, she had no reason to speak up. If he was lying, she didn't care enough to stop him.

For some reason, Weiss found that hurt more than anything else.

In some faraway hall of the Schnee Manor, Jacques pounded on a door, his rage seeping into the next room. Within that room, Willow Schnee sat on a chair, downing gulps of wine until she felt nauseous. In yet another room, somewhere on his own, Klein listened to the storm, unable to interfere. Near the front of the Manor, in some linen closet, hung Weiss's coat. Within that coat, her Scroll buzzed. A series of quick text messages came through that she would not see for another hour.

They came from Yang.

"Hey so quick question. What are the odds you think we can knock out Winter if we all gang up on her?"