The man in black had never known fresh air.
They called him an agent, but was that really true? He didn't know. All he knew was this circle of hatred of which he was an integral part - this everlasting war. There was a black army and a white army. He was sick of it all.
They called him Jack. Folks elsewhere called him Spades. He was pretty easy to hate, all in all. He He had a temper like the deepest pits of the furthest planets, a mind sharp as a tack and exactly as painful. And his eyes? As dark as the rest of him. As dark as his soul.
Folks wondered if he just came this way, but nobody really knew the truth. Jack suffered probably more than anyone would guess. Holed up into a basement he sat, pursuing this ultimate war. Hating and loving his queen in equal measure. But if there was a movement that had pushed his fury into the front of his min, it wasn't the quick matter of his birth, but a gradual feeling he'd achieved over the years. No, some have wickedness thrust upon them, and Jack Noir would tell nobody that his evil - and evil one could be proud of, really - was one that came from a reasonable frustration.
After his ascension, he told himself his evil was genuine, and he most definitely acted like it. The blood of his victims, if sentient, would definitely agree. But, there was one more toil of which he would tell absolutely no-one.
He would make a better ruler than that queen. Because, in killing his subjects, he knew they would never feel as he felt. He was saving them.
A/N:: Favourites and reviews = hugs and cookies. Appreciated, but not required.