A/N: Okay, so I know I should be updating on 'Agoraphobia' but I just can't find the time now that I'm attending boarding school. 'But Gem, why are you making a new story?' Uhm...to appease my writer's tendencies? I dunno, I just need to write something. Welp, ontoward the story!
~Chapter One~
'Jack Frost nipping at your nose' was a saying that only meant innocence and something sort of an enigma.
Half a century later, this was no longer the case. This phrase is now simply an expression holding no greater meaning.
Half a century ago, global warming was the most feared yet controversial concerns of modern times. Now, the only concern was the steadily lowering temperatures of cold taking place globally all over the world.
Half a century ago, a child would have feared the shadows clinging under their beds and closets. Every child's fear in the present are the signs of chills hanging in the air of their bedrooms or the comings of frost steadily covering window panes.
Yes, much has changed in a span of the fifty years Jack Frost disappeared from the face of the earth ever since the defeat of Pitch Black. Even the name Pitch Black no longer brings grimness or resentment from the Guardians themselves, but rather a new threat bringing the cold and darkness. Despite this, the Guardians never stopped searching. They never stop hoping. For the time gap of fifty years was merely a heartbeat to the spirits. But they should be surprised how much time brings change whether for the good or bad.
And so the story goes that half a century later, the Sandman discovered the new threat steadily crawling into the human world.
It was only a simple autumn night in Pennsylvania - a painful reminder to any of the Guardians that it was the death and birthplace of the winter sprite. Only in the month of September, it was already around fifty degrees in temperature. A strange occurrance that should have raised concerns, however this was the normalcy. Unlike the other Guardians' jobs that do not require for themselves to venture out of their territory, for Sandy's job it was a huge factor for himself to be active in his position.
The night air holding a chill that Sandy has grown used to over the past decades, tendrils and spirals of Dreamsand stem from his round body. Silent like a firefly, Sandy floats through the nearly empty streets of New Orleans. Colorful neon yellow posters for the growing organization, Bring Back Our Heat is scattered through the streets like flashing warning signs. Most of the posters tumble forgetfully through the gusts of unforgiving brisk winds. In some shops, posters decorate the windows with the ads, 'Heaters now upped price!' 'Get one heater for 300 dollars and second one 25% off!'
Sandy grimaces at the colorful pages littering the town. It seems that every night he travels all over the world, the fear of the cold grew more in the atmosphere. It was subtle, a bit tense, but it was there, the situation begging to be addressed by society.
Sighing silently and thinking of a quick prayer to Manny and Mother Nature on the side, all Sandy could do was carry on with his task. What good could sweet dreams do for the children? What about the people of the world? Sandy ponders, tight-lipped. Not even the joyful and innocent imageries and projectories of children's dreams lifted up the Guardian's low spirits. With the weight of Jack's disappearance, the strange yet steady increase of fear and coldness spreading through the world, and the slow trickling loss of believers, Sandy wondered if his fellow Guardians could feel the weight of the situation.
Then again, unlike him, the Guardians do not physically see the progress of the world's possible descent into destruction each night.
Watching the daily rounds of Dreamsand travelling into the homes of many children, one of the dreams from Isadora Sanders' house, freezes. Literally. The image of a little girl sitting by the fire happily with her parents is frozen over with creeping frost - dark, dark iciness that looked near the shade of pitch black. Resentment tugs at Sandy's heart for a brief second, a honed instinct - but the Guardians' age old enemy has not appeared in these many decades to the point where they all suspected the current modus operati did not match Pitch's style at all.
In fascination, Sandy watches the black frost travel upwards Isadora's dream, leading to the source of the other dreams. Snapping out of it, Sandy reacts by breaking off the connection to prevent the other dreams from the corruption. Alertness high, Sandy speeds to the direction of the child, Isadora. Easily slipping through the window, Sandy enters the cramped bedroom and - and there was someone there already.
A lanky figure looms over a struggling child worming in discomfort, her little face troubled in fear. A cloak made of wavering shadows cling to the stranger's body. Deathly pale white hands armed with sharp clawed black fingernails grip a spear taller than his height.
Pitch?! Was the first thought that flew through Sandy's mind. No, no, that isn't him...if it were, he would have disappeared off into the shadows in the blink of an eye the moment Sandy made his own presence known. The stranger stands perfectly still, staring down at the child and back facing Sandy. If he did know Sandy was inside the room with him, he made no point to react. Not to mention the stranger's quiet murmuring of nonsense, barely audible. Listening close, Sandy could make out, 'Sorrysorrysorry' 'scaredofthedarkright' 'thatsrightyoushouldbe' and other unintelligble mumurs.
I have never met a spirit that looks like this, Suspicion swells in Sandy's heart, seeing the stranger absolutely emotionless as Isadora plagued with nightmares. Mentally commanding Dreamsand to mold into his hands into the form of his trademark Sand Whips and…
The stranger turns around.
And the Dream Sand collapses into a useless mound of dust from Sandy's sheer shock at the reveal.
For the face of Jack Frost stares down at Sandy blankly, indicating no reaction from seeing Sandy's appearance. At least, the stranger resembles Jack's face. Instead of the icy crisp blue eyes that are worn with smile wrinkles, only cold, empty husks of glowing irises accompanied with black sclera stare flatly into Sandy's. The Jack look alike's skin is an unhealthy shade of pallid that made him look like a bleached skeleton. Inky black hair shadows his forehead instead of the tousled, unbrushed silver Jack wore proudly. And most importantly of all, the absence of a wide, carefree smile.
Despite all of these signs, Sandy takes the chance to reach out his hand, eyes raised with foolish hope. Gathering Dream Sand above his spiky golden hair, Sandy formulates a cursive written message, 'Is that you Jack?'
At last, a form of expression ripples across. Disgust. Disgust tore through the Jack look-alike's flat features, as if someone mentioned that he stepped on vermin. "No we're not Jack and we never were," His skinny shoulders tremble slightly, clawed fingernails raking the wooden material of his spear creating an unpleasant screeching sound. Sandy furrows his brow, looking around the bedroom to see if anyone else was accompanying the look alike. Only two spirits are present from what Sandy knows.
As for the Jack look-alike, a smile spreads on his lips. But it was anything but happiness. Rows of sharp, jagged, and inhuman teeth are flashed at Sandy.
"We knew you would come the moment you see a precious dream corrupted. How stupidly selfless of you."
The Guardian of Sleep couldn't help but flinch. Over the many millenia he has been living on Earth, Sandy witnessed the worse and reacted with a calm serene. Now...just looking at the vaguely familiar stranger move or talk that isn't like Jack yet still wearing his face…
Resolve hardening in Sandy seeing that the other made an aggressive move, he prepares his weapons in hand (even if he was going to attack Jack). Before the whips fully formed in his hands, a bullet made of ice and nightmare sand shot over his shoulder faster than he could even react. A couple of inches to the left more, and the deadly blow could have hit his neck...wide eyed, as if betrayed, Sandy stares at Jack with accusing eyes.
Slow, oozing tar-like substance squeezes out of the look alike's eyes. Is he...crying? Sandy's hesitations are cut short, when another smile stretches on his gaunt face. Too wide of sane standards, twitching uncontrollably at the corners of the 'smile', too many rows of deadly fangs glinting in the dim light Sandy's glowing body softly emits. Through the 'tears' he only grins. Stomping his spear on the ground, it slowly extends in height showing chains under the surface. The chain-spear wraps around Sandy's body, rendering him immobile in a matter of a few seconds.
Struggling under the rusty and freezing metal, Sandy wills the Dreamsand to smack the new threat to serve as distraction. Before he could do so, the look alike, still smiling-crying, raises a single pale finger. "That was your warning shot," He whispers. "Next time, our attack will be the intent to kill. Now, listen closely Sanderson."
His mental orders to command the Dreamsand fades away when Sandy hears the threat. Doing his best to relax in the uncomfortable grip of the chains, Sandy slumps his shoulders to let the other spirit know that he's listening. The strangers smiles even wider, wide enough his too sharp Cheshire grin already is. Yet the black tears are still streaming endlessly out of his natural gold and black colored eyes. Through these tears and maddened smile, impossibly Sandy can somehow see bare traces of Jack through the stranger. The deadly sneer the stranger wears hides that playful-sometimes-smug smile Jack would make when pulling a good prank. The way the stranger holds his chain-spear matches Jack's battle stance all too well.
Jack. That is Jack! Sandy's instincts whisper insistently. But the golden Guardian shakes his head to himself, mute for words. Jack doesn't look like...this…!
Sandy is pulled out of his racing thoughts when the iron grip of the chains only tightens around his small body. Before Sandy could stop himself, he forms a cursive written message above his head. 'Jack?'
Golden and black eyes reading the message, they widen through the thick black tears streaming down the white skin. "nO!" Sandy gasps when the chains wrapped snuggly around his chest constrict him even more. Feeling the healthy yellow glow draining out of his face, Sandy looks pleadingly at the stranger for release. The puzzled expression on the shadow spirit's face only deepens into perplexness "wE ArE nIgHTLoCK!" All at once, thousands of voices hiss out of the husk of Jack's body.
Strained for breath, Sandy grits his teeth, recognizing the multiple voices all too well. Fearlings. Pitch's Fearlings. But the one, Nightlock, who stands before him absolutely isn't Pitch. Afterall, Sandy never sense this much power, darkness, negativity from the Boogeyman ever since the Dark Ages.
Nightlock breathing out shakily, his free hand grabs a fistful of long inky black hair. Pulling in Sandy closer like a captured fish, his soulless eyes bore into Sandy's. "Tell the rest of the guArDIanS this," He breathes, sharp teeth so close to the verge of ripping off Sandy's nose. "That pathetic boogeyman of Pitch Black is no longer here." A half laugh laced with a quiet sob shakes the dark spirit's shoulders. For a moment, Sandy felt pity for Nightlock catching the undeniable sense of tragedy in his voice. This vanishes in the next moment. "As well as that wretched winter sprite you all hold so dear and forgotten about all of these years," Nightlock snarls, voice dripping with every feeling of hate. "Is dead. Absolutely DeAD."
The trickles of the black tears have dried up on his marble white face at this point, giving his expression the look of a weeping angel. An ice cold feeling of dread shoots up and down Sandy's spine, as Nightlock leans in even closer. All Sandy could see are his dreaded dull golden irises trapped in an abyss of endless black.
"There will be no more fear, fun, wonder, dreams, memories, or hope," Nightlock breathes. "There will be only uS."
Against all of the unavoidable information presented in front of Sandy, the Guardian persisted with the feeling rooted inside his heart. Silently commanding for a stream of Dreamsand to form a halo above Nightlock's head, Sandy's closes his eyes getting a feel of the newly forged telepathic connection.
You are Jack Frost.
Gold within deep black pools flashes a pained look, Sandy finds his body flying backwards across Isadora's bedroom. Crashing loudly against the wall, the Sandman crumples to the floor like a lifeless doll.
Nightlock, tearing clumps of stringy black hair off his head and more black tears flowing out, throws his head backwards letting out what sounds like a strangled cry mixed with hysterical laughter. "We should kill you for calling us tHaT," The eldritch horror says, kicking Sandy over. A grimace twists up on Sanderson's face, feeling a hot bubbling pain rush into his injury. Taking a fistful of his wispy gold hair, Nightlock lifts Sandy as if he weighed no more than a stuffed animal.
"But we want you gathered when we can finally kIlL you damned Guardians." Laughing at the mere thought, Nightlock finally releases Sandy, chains and deathly grip entirely.
Coughing with no sound, Sandy struggles to gain his levitation in the air, bearing with his internal injuries.
Before he could react, Nightlock tilts his head backwards, gold irises glowing dully in the minimal presence of light. "Some parting words Sanderson…" Sandy's shoulders tighten, either from his pain or the fact that Jack sounded exactly like Pitch Black. "...There will be no more fun and games next time we all meet. YoU'LL SeE." And then he was gone with the shadows.
A/N: Hmmm...so...I guess in a 50 year span something screwed up happened. What the hell happened to Jack? To Pitch Black? The world? Well, this story doesn't follow chronological events persay, or go in order in time. It's all a jumbled mess of planned one shots, drabbles, or descriptions of what happened between the past, present, and future. So peeps, how do you like this? You like my dark Jack Frost? Please leave me your thoughts!