He had a special nickname for me, it turns out: Crack Frost. I had a nickname for him, too, in fact: Bitch Black.

My name is Jackson Overland Frost. When I was fourteen, my mom and dad pulled a John Winchester and disappeared. Despite our concerns, my little sister and I muddled through somehow. The fourth day on our own, Uncle Nick and Aunt Toothiana meant to pay our parents a visit and found our lonesome selves sitting in the darkness, cold and hungry, the power bill left unpaid. They were furious at first, thinking we had been abandoned, but proceeded to go through the multiple stages of grief after the cops let loose the cadaver dogs and admitted to suspecting foul play. We never saw our parents again, and as the case went cold, our moods soured. I imagine the loyal, tireless members of the Alabama law enforcement were all too eager to go back to simpler times, where the baddest boys in town drove five miles over the speed limit and stole identities—not people. Nick and Toothiana managed to gain temporary, and then complete, custody of Mary and me. While it was still active, the search went nationwide, and Mary and I ended up receiving so much attention that, after the fiftieth care package (that is not an exaggeration, mind you), our adoptive parents decided it was time we relocated. Again.

To a repulsively quaint town in Kentucky, where nothing important happened ever, and our third high school, Mary being only a few months younger than myself. (I know, cliché.)

You could say the repetitive change of scenery was beginning to lose its charm.

We were cast into a new school, and Mary got on well, making more friends than she could count, but I felt like a fish out of water. After a month at 'Frost High School' (ironic, right?), I had one friend: Sanderson Mansnoozie, who was picked on for everything under the sun, but mostly his strange name. Another month rolled by, and Sanderson committed suicide. And he wasn't dicking around when he did it, either. The amount of research he put into his last act was admirable, if not hilarious; he went out hara-kiri style, full-blown seppuku, with a sword in his gut and his shoes unlaced, lying at his side. And he wasn't even Japanese.

Of course, I didn't find it hilarious. Not I, the boy who had just lost his best friend - and his parents, as well, not much earlier. At least not until I found out he wasn't actually dead.

The funeral was public and students were invited (more like obligated) to go. And most everyone did. Even Pitch, the school bully. His real name was Kozmotis Pitchiner, but everyone called him Pitch Black because no one actually liked him. The consensus was his heart was three sizes too small, or just plain non-existent. He was the one who drove Sanderson to self-disembowelment, and I imagine he only went to his funeral to appease the school board. I guess killing someone wasn't enough for Pitch Black, or maybe he found himself liking it, because the next day I was the butt of his jokes, just as Sanderson had been.

He had a special nickname for me, it turns out: Crack Frost. I had a nickname for him, too, in fact: Bitch Black.

Now, I faced a brutal onslaught of verbal abuse every time I went to my locker:

"I'm gonna roundhouse kick your ass into next week, Crack Frost."

"You're a bag of dicks, Frost."

Being the altruistic savant that I am (or just plain lanky and weak), I never fought back, not once. I kept on ignoring him until one day in particular, where he called my sister a little whore, all the while threatening to fuck her so hard her brains spilled out through her nose. Seriously, what the hell?

I slammed my locker, and with surprising agility, my fist met his face, breaking his nose with a sickening crack, before he even knew what hit him.

That was the day I believe a profound realization struck him: He wasn't Chuck Norris, and this wasn't Walker, Texas Ranger. He couldn't hide behind his insults like they were actual weapons, not when he had crossed the line.

He never bothered me again.

A few months after Sandy's death, when the recollection of said event was no longer painful, I heard someone knock on the front door. Our parents weren't home, so I called out to Mary, who ended up being asleep anyway, "I'll get it!" and made my way to the door, casually opening it.

"Sorry, Nick and Tooth aren't—" My words caught in my throat.

It was Sanderson Man-fucking-snoozie, in the flesh. He pulled out a pen and paper, holding it to the door, and began writing something down. His muteness was another thing in the long list of things he had been bullied for.

He finished and held up the paper. I expected a mournstache at the very least, Jack.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." We were actually joking about this; It felt wrong.

He scrawled something else on the paper. I brought a friend. Hope you don't mind. He moved aside and Bitch Black walked into view.

It was all too much. Sanderson had pulled a Reichenbach, or Pitch, in his deep-seated regret, learned how to raise the dead. Either way, it was crazy. I think I fainted because I woke up on the couch, Sanderson looming over me with an ice pack and Pitch sitting next to me, his features contorted in fake concern.

Pitch spoke first, to my surprise. "This must all be very . . . hard, I know." He gave me another fake smile, and I noticed his accent for the first time. He wasn't English, was he? I didn't know much about Pitch, but something told me he wasn't. "But we're going to explain all this. You just need to sit tight."

"What does it look like I'm doing? Riverdancing?"

Sanderson laughed, then took the pen and scrawled: Everything Pitch says is true. I'm going to let him explain, or I'll get carpal tunnel.

I huffed and crossed my arms, leaning into the upholstery with a frown.

Pitch exhaled sharply and turned to me. The look he gave me made my skin crawl; he looked so sincere, so un-Pitch-like. It was eerie. "Look, this is a lot, but bare with us. We know." He crossed his legs and took a deep breath. "No matter what we say, you're going to think we're dicks, and you won't believe us until we show you, but my name is Christopher Richard Shrew, and the man who killed himself wasn't Sandy but a man named Satoshi Itou." He acknowledged my further deepening frown but kept going. "Satoshi Itou was raised in a Japanese foster family, hence his . . . colorful suicide. Although, to be fair, hara-kiri hasn't been pract—"

Sanderson slapped him, mouthing something along the lines of "get back on topic, idiot."

Pitch's gaze fell to the ice pack, leaking on the table. "You planning on using that?"

"Knock yourself out. Instinct tells me I should call the cops," I said, glaring at Sandy, "or your parents, but I'm too amused."

Pitch applied the ice pack to his face with a sigh. "Anyway, I'm not the same bully Sandy says you go to school with. Actually, My Jack Frost, whose name is Michael Miller, was a total dick."

"Guys, this isn't the Fairly-Fucking-OddParents. There are no anti—"

"Yes, there are, sort of. No, no anti-fairies. But, Jack, we're all clones. I found Sandy before they did, thank goodness, but we're all in terrible danger. There's . . . there are these blokes, and they—"

I stood up, unimpressed with Pitch's fake English accent, angry that Sandy had lied to me. "Alright, you guys need to get the fuck out of my house."

"Just let us prove it, Jack."

I could feel my blood pressure rising. "Have you guys gone schizo?"

Pitch stood and approached me cautiously, his amber eyes beseeching mine, and at that moment, the insane difference in our height was re-established. "Just let us prove it, and we'll leave you alone if that's what you really want." There was something about this tall monstrosity begging me, a puny, weak being years younger than himself, that edged me into playing along, just barely.

"Whatever. I do this and you guys fuck the fuck off?"

Sanderson nodded and Pitch put a hand over his heart mockingly. "We swear."

"Alright," I said, and raised an eyebrow at Sandy and Pitch, respectively. My gaze lingered on Pitch. "Show me what you got, Clifford."

He forced a smile, but his voice gave him away. "Anyway, It's time we made a house call."

"Uh, what?"

Pitch rolled his eyes, frowning. "We're going to visit someone."

"Yes, I know the terminology. Why, and where?"

Pitch smirked, and so did Sandy. "To the abode of Kozmotis Pitchiner, your bully." He noticed my frown, again. "You promised to humor us, Jack."

I grabbed my coat, not intending to freeze my ass off in the middle of fall. Then I remembered Mary and my aunt and uncle. "Got another paper, Sandy?"

Sandy nodded, pulling a crumpled piece of lined paper out of his jacket, and reached for the pen with his free hand. He handed them both to me.

I had assumed we were walking, but apparently Pitch had stolen a car. I couldn't ever remember not seeing him walk to school, not even that day. True, perhaps it was a parent's vehicle, but I had always assumed Pitch was the result of an unloving, dysfunctional family. I opened the door and slid into the backseat with building concern. Sandy sat in the passenger's seat; Pitch sat behind the wheel, started the car, and drove.

The ride was silent and awkward, but it was over almost as soon as it began. I was surprised—and appalled—to learn that Pitch lived so close to me, only three blocks away, in a ramshackle two-story colonial.

Pitch parked the car and turned to look at me. "What you're about to see might be too much, Jack."

"How do you even know Anti-Pitch is home?" I scoffed, trying my best to play to their insanity. At some point I had become overwhelmed with the base instinct of self-preservation; something bad was going to happen. I could feel it.

Pitch smiled, getting out of the car and motioning for me to follow. "Trust me. He's the only one home."

Okay, I thought bitterly, so Pitch and Sandy have been stalking Pitch's family, and they think that there's a changeling in there pretending to be Pitch. Right. Cool. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I decided the best thing I could do for now was play along and attempt to sneak away when their backs were turned.

I think Sandy realized this because, as I made to follow Pitch, he grabbed my hand and escorted me to the door, like I was some damn princess. I begrudgingly allowed him to yank me forward. By the time we made it to the steps, Pitch was already ringing the doorbell. I saw him reach into his jacket and run his fingers along the inside absentmindedly. As if to quell my concerns, he pulled out a cigarette, and I felt relieved.

The door opened and reality hit me head-on. Standing there, with an icy gaze and a hand on his hips, was none other than Pitch Black. I shook my head. They must be twins.

"Who the fuck are you?" The Pitch standing in the doorway groaned in confusion.

Long-lost twins, maybe? I watched as Chris-Pitch extended his hand, offering the cigarette to his twin. "Can we come inside?"

"Fuck no." Still, Pitch eyed the cigarette lustily, swiping it out of his twin's hand. Swiper, no swiping. He pulled a lighter from inside his pants pocket, then stood, for what seemed like minutes, in deep contemplation. "That is, not unless you have more smokes."

Chris-Pitch tossed him a full pack of grape-flavored cigarillos, and Pitch caught it gracelessly, stepping aside. Our host grinned, muttering, "I guess these will have to do. . . . Just let me make a quick phone call. Parentals and all that."

Chris-Pitch and Sandy nodded, stepping inside. With any more force, Sandy would have ended up throwing me across the door mat. With his back turned, Pitch started pressing buttons on his cell phone. I looked at Chris and Sandy. Chris was snaking his arm inside his jacket again, this time with an unsettling cautiousness. I heard a faint 'click' and tried to squeal out a warning, but Chris-Pitch whipped out a pistol and blew Pitch's happy 'C' student brains onto the linoleum just as a voice came through on the other line. "Hello?" it repeated over and over. "Pitch, you there? What was that noise?"

Fight-or-flight instinct kicking in, I pointed at the body, then at Chris-Pitch's gun, then back at the corpse. "WHAT THE FUCKING HELL WAS THAT?"

Chris-Pitch ignored me, stepping over his twin, and grabbed the phone out of the pool of crimson. He held the phone to his ear, dropping his accent and dabbing the blood with his jacket. "This is Pitch. Everything's fine. Someone did attack me. Yes, he looks exactly like me. Yes. Okay, I'll wait for your arrival." The murderer flipped the phone shut and sauntered back to the only other living people in the house. "Sandy, you take Frost and go. Tell the others that stage one is a success."

A/N -

I pulled the clones' names out of my ass. Jack will be nicer when he begins understanding what's going on.

IF YOU GUYS HAVE SPECIFIC REQUESTS WHEN IT COMES TO OTHER CLONES, LET ME KNOW. :D

Can't decide if I want to continue the glorious first-person narrative from Frost's view or multiple narrators.

If you guys haven't noticed by now, I love writing cross-over fiction. My other stories are still being written, don't you worry.