There may have been a time, long ago, where the Guardians walked the Earth freely without any fear if what may happen. Now, they hide in fear, knowing that one mistake could be the fate of the world. There was one Guardian, however, that was for some unknown reason, overlooked by the MiM. He was the Guardian of Fun, the friendly winter spirit, Jack Frost.
Jack was slumped against the floor, clutching his head in pain. The migraine had come on suddenly, catching him off guard and causing him to crumple like paper. It happened often, remnants of his past, he supposed, but he could usually tell when it would happen. Now, here he was, lying on the floor in an abandoned warehouse, trying not to scream in pain. Images flashed before his eyes, dreadful images that would surely give him nightmares. Blood splashed on white snow, a grinning skeleton hanging from a tree, himself falling from the sky with no staff to help him summon the winds. Image after image flashed before him and made him tremble. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the pain ebbed away and left him as a quivering, barely controlled mess. These images frightened him more than all of the other ones he had seen. Suddenly, Jack heard dark laughter from the shadows. He staggered to his feet, ready to fight whoever it was. "Oh, Jack," a voice purred. "You're in no condition to fight me." Jack spun around, trying to locate the speaker, but he only succeeded in toppling himself off balance. He sank to the floor again, head still spinning from the things he had seen. "W—who are you?" Jack said, trying to sound fierce. His only response was another peal of satanic laughter. "Leave me alone! Haven't you done enough?" He jumped as a cold hand touched his shoulder, but when he spun to see who it was, no one was there. "But Jack," the voice, dripping with malice, said in his ear. "My games have only just begun." It pulled away with a laugh, disappearing into the shadows. Jack lay there for a full ten minutes, wanting to ensure the being was gone. Once he assured himself that it was truly gone, he stood up shakily and brushed off his hoodie. He truly wanted to believe that it had all been a dream, but the lingering felling of darkness told him otherwise. He stooped down to pick up his staff and leaned on it for a minute to catch his bearings. He stiffened as he felt the tip of a cold knife press against his back. "One move and I'll gut you," a female voice promised, and he could tell she probably wouldn't. "Now, tell me who you are and what in bloody hell you are doing in my warehouse!"