"more consistent updates" lol i fucking lied I'm sorry. what rly motivated me to get this chapter done was the last couple of reviews omg I felt so terrible after four months of not updating. thank u kindly to the anon who pushed the reviews into the 300s! and thank for all the ppl who review every chapter, no matter how far along i update. bless ur beautiful souls.
this is so awkward bc i thought Pitchiner was the most obvious character ever but apparently no one got it aha ha haaaa.
chapter twelve: funny bone
Jack can smell the sea.
He's always hated the sea. No particular reason why, just that the salt-brine and the waves and the sound of screaming seagulls is one of the most unappealing things to him. The docks that his captives take him through is swarming with workers despite the hour being close to one in the morning. He's not blindfolded or anything, and the state of his bedraggled appearance, stick bones and gaunt cheeks, don't faze any of the men rushing around. A thin, gleaming blade is pressed into the small of his back by one of his captors, hidden by long, thick sleeves.
There are four men flanking him, one in front, one on each side, and the last one with the knife. Jack can tell instantly that he can't overpower them; they're strong and sturdy, and he's days weak from malnutrition and darkness, and even if he could escape their clutches, he doesn't know where Elsa is and he can't leave her behind. The surrounding shipping containers are like a maze and he's been taken through too many twists and turns.
His left arm is aching. Earlier on, his captors had implanted a tracker into him, shooting it into the soft flesh as if it were jelly. Jack had roared and twisted ("I'm not an animal! Don't you dare put that thing in me!") but they'd held him down anyway. ("It's some new technology we bought from the city over," his captors say, "gotta test it on someone, right? We're thinking of selling it to the Ange Noir for their brothels, y'know, 'cause their girls are always running.")
"Pitchiner, did you say?" Jack's voice is raspy. "What does he want with me?"
The one in front turns back to smile at him. His skin is pickled with scars and sunken eyes. He's got a crooked nose and unusually sharp canines, eyes gleaming almost yellow in the moonlight.
"Boss just wants to have a little chat," the man says, lips stretching into an uncomfortably wide grin. "Just a nice little chat."
"Ah, Mr. Fearling," Jack greets him. "I see you've kept that broken nose I gave you, eh? Suits ya."
The Fearling clicks his teeth. "Quiet, Spirit, before I rip your throat out." His pace quickens. "But I'll let the Boss do that, hm? You've caused him a lot of trouble; this chat is years coming."
"Ah," Jack says out loud. His expression clears, and his smile is straight acid from the vial. "So it is about her." A pause. "It's been a long time."
Kozmotis Pitchiner. Ex-police detective. Also known as Pitch Black. Also known as the Nightmare King. Also known as the Boogeyman. Also known as leader of the richest gang of Stella Morta. Also known as the father to Miss Emily Jane Pitchiner, deceased, fifteen years old, gunshot wound to the heart, straight through the right atrium, four suspects arrested–Toothiana Haroom-Rashmi, Bunnymund E. Aster, Sanderson Mansnoozie, Jackson O. Frost–Say, Emily, wanna go out? Come on, please? It'll be fun! I've liked ya for a long while now, Em–My god, they're just kids–Please, I don't know them! I don't know them! I don't know what happened–
His head tilts back as memories rise up from a vault locked dusty and deep in his mind.
"It's been a right long while."
Now, you gotta listen to me. You gotta listen close, otherwise nothing of this will make much sense. The story that surrounds the chance meeting of Jack and the trio Toothiana, Bunnymund and Sandy has been kept under wraps for so long that rumours have run wild and the legends have kept growing taller. But the way they meet is deceptively simple. It involves:
1. A smoking gun
2. Five teenagers
3. And one of them is dead
So you wanna guess? Guess the one holding the gun, and guess the one that's lying in a puddle of blood in a backend street with a powder pink dress spattered in guts and regret, and guess the one cowering, wild eyes and rapid fire heart; guess the one chanting a name like a prayer–
–case closed, detective! Excellent work – You've put so many criminals behind bars–I hereby announce Kozmotis Pitchiner as Chief of Police–Toothiana, put it down, Toothiana, Toothiana, put the gun down–No, sir, I swear I don't know them, I don't know what happened–Her name isn't important, but her old man is–send him a message–he's messed with too many of our own–
So listen close, human. Let me tell you a Story.
The door is a black hole and Jack steps inside willingly. They've entered another shipping container, but this one is clean and dry, a bare bulb illuminating the sallow face of Pitch Black as he rests comfortably on a three-legged stool. The men shove Jack inside (the Fearling gives him an infuriating little small and cocky wave), and then he and Pitch are alone. Jack isn't tied up, and he surveys the small space where he's now standing. The door is closed behind him, but not locked. Pitch doesn't appear to be carrying any weapons, but Jack doesn't trust the deep billowing depths of his coat.
"It's a wonderful evening, isn't it?" Pitch says warmly. The dim light casts a greyish tint to his face; he looks like a shark. Pitch smiles. "Even better considering that I've caught myself a Spirit; I hear they bring good luck."
Jack smiles back, all canine and feral. "Depends on what kind you caught. Now mind telling me what the fuck you want from me?"
"You've always been eloquent," Pitch sneers. He cocks his head, gets up from the stool. "I'd just like to talk, Jack. A little talk, nothing more, about me and you."
"Is this about Emily?" Jack asks softly. Pitch shows no reaction, but his smile grows a little bigger. "She's been dead six years," Jack says calmly, "this is a long time for revenge."
"A father's pain never truly goes away," Pitch replies. The light bulb is swinging and the shadows are dancing oddly across his face. Jack can smell a storm in the air, coming in from the sea. "But that is neither here nor there. I want to talk about your friends the Tooth Fairy and the Sandman."
Jack blinks. "No."
"Come now, Spirit," Pitch croons. He gets up and begins slowly pacing. "I've still got that girl locked up god knows where. Surely you don't want her to lose a limb?"
"She'll live," Jack says, not unfeelingly. "It'll be bad, but I'd rather that than sell out the Tooth Fairy. We protect our own."
Pitch sighs. "As expected of a Red Crown dog." He stops and he leers even wider, teeth white against his face, and says in a hushed voice, "No respect for lives, Mr. Spirit. Not even your mother's."
There's a short silence, and then Jack speaks out of nowhere, voice surprisingly even, "Yes, and your daughter deserved to die."
There's no hesitation in the way Pitch cracks an elbow into Jack's face. Jack gasps, head snapping back before coming forwards again, bright red now streaming from both nostrils.
"That was cruel, Jackson Frost, even for you," Pitch says, chest heaving and grey eyes burning bright with rage.
Jack laughs right into his face, through bloody teeth and a crooked nose. "What, does it hurt to say my name? Does it remind you of your precious Emily Jane? Did–"
He's cut off again by Pitch kicking him right in the stomach, and as he tumbles into the crates by the side, Jack thinks to himself, This is it, you're done for, but he doesn't feel anything. No regret or sadness, just a vindictive pleasure in seeing Pitch lose control.
"Emily Jane was innocent!" Pitch howls, and he prepares to hit Jack again. Jack closes his eyes, waits for new pain to came, but when he opens them again, Pitch had lowered his fist.
It's hard to describe the emotions flickering across the man's face. A mixture of disbelief and fury, and age-old agonising regret.
"It's fine," Pitch says finally, when Jack breaks eye contact first. He's smiling strangely again. "So please, just let me double check. Little Miss Clara Frost. She's usually safe in her bed at this time, right?"
Cold blood runs through Jack's veins. It's gotten hard to breathe.
"Cinderella is an excellent warden, and even better leader, but even she can't protect ten rambling teenagers all at once," Pitch continues. "Particularly with Aurora out of town and Snow White weak with fever. How perfect–"
Jack sees red. He moves in an instant, both hands closing over Pitch's slim throat, feels his trachea collapsing underneath his fingers. But Pitch still smiles and he won't stop smiling–
"What have you done," Jack hisses. Pitch gurgles something, face tinged with blue, and Jack releases his hands minutely in order to hear what he has to say.
"Tell me where the Sandman is and perhaps Clara will leave with her right hand, at least–no promises about her left though," Pitch wheezes, and this time he's the one laughing and laughing and laughing.
Jack releases the man and spins on his heels. He's about to leave right then and there, about to yank open the door and run back towards the main city, when Pitch says, "I can call it off right now. My men have not attacked the house yet. Tell me where the Sandman is, and nothing will happen to your baby sister."
"The Sandman is dead," Jack rasps out. His head is spinning and he feels nauseous. The short exertion has left his malnourished body shaking.
"You and I both know that's a lie," Pitch says. He massages his throat, where bruises are already springing up on his pale flesh.
"Doesn't matter. Even if he's alive, I don't know where he is or what's happened to him," Jack insists, trying to just breathe in and out and calm his heart.
Pitch clicks his tongue as if Jack were a particularly stupid child.
"Then why don't you tell me," and before Jack can react, Pitch has swooped in uncomfortably close and a gun is pressed cold to Jack's temple (Ah, so he was hiding a weapon somewhere, Jack thinks dazedly), "where Mim is, Nightlight?"
STATISTICS
Name: unknown
Alias: Man in Moon, Mim
Title: none
Position: Leader, Don
Affiliations: Red Crowns
Whereabouts: unknown
Last seen: all records deleted
Name: Jackson Overland Frost
Alias: Spirit
Position: second in command
Affiliations: Red Crowns
Special notes: NIGHTLIGHT?, the DON'S BODYGUARD?
Rapunzel hopes for a nice, quick death. She thinks maybe poison, or a bullet right into the head. Certainly not like this, crouching knee-deep in mud, smelling vaguely of dog shit and burritos. This is honestly all Flynn fucking Rider's fault, and she makes sure to tell him that.
"This is all your fucking fault," Rapunzel hisses into the man's ear, causing Flynn to wince at her proximity. "If you'd just listened to me before we'd robbed that McDonald's with your two-dollar razor and a bunch of weed, this wouldn't have fucking happened."
"Now, when you say it like that," Flynn protests weakly, but Rapunzel pinches him hard and he shuts up immediately.
The pair hold their breath as the flashlights come closer. The policemen's footsteps come far too close to their chosen hiding spot, a marshy area just on the city's outskirts with dense bushes and suspicious smelling substances. It wasn't ideal, but they'd been desperate.
Rapunzel knows that if the police find them, it would be shoot first, and ask questions later. The two had already accidentally taken down a detective yesterday (but he'd survived) when he'd recognised them as they'd hurried down the main street, and three hours later they'd been declared armed and dangerous, and Rapunzel knows that that means the police will aim to kill, because they're bastards like that.
"I wish our budget was enough for tracker dogs," one of the policemen mutters under his breath, far too close for their liking, and Flynn almost chokes out a squeak in surprise if Rapunzel hadn't clamped a hand over his mouth. "Fuck the boss and his corruption, honestly."
"Shut up," another man says darkly, "we're not all on the same side here."
They move off, and when the crunching and wet footsteps and lights disappear, Rapunzel lets out a deep sigh of relief, and then blinks slowly when she realises how close Flynn, breath mingling with hers.
"Lucky," Flynn whispers, holding her gaze. Rapunzel only manages a short nod. "Let's get going, then. Gotta get back to the main city. You mentioned you had a safe house? I'll get you near there."
"Right," Rapunzel says quietly, snapping herself out of her daze. He has nice eyes, Rapunzel thinks idly. "What about you?"
"The Angels have their own," Flynn replies, and his familiar cocky smirk is back in place. "Can't tell you where it is, though, otherwise it wouldn't be very safe anymore."
Rapunzel snorts and begins slowly wiggling out of the mud. "Likewise," she retorts, and then adds, just to be bitter, "Damn fucking Angels."
Anna feels her stomach contract again, and the contents of her dinner (a measly bowl of cold pasta) reappears again in its half-digested state in the toilet bowl.
"Are you finished?" Hans asks in a low voice, soothing and calm. Her hair is plastered to her face and he gently brushes the strands away.
"Don't touch me," Anna rasps. She wipes her mouth and stumbles to her feet, fumbling with the tap and rinsing her mouth. Hans sighs behind her and steps back.
"You've been overworking yourself, Anna," Hans says. His eyes sharpen. "You're more stressed than usual."
"I'm fine," Anna says roughly, pushing past him into the bedroom.
They're in Hans' apartment, and its new and clean and spotless. Hans comes from old money, is all Anna has gathered from him, but she hadn't known that it was to this extent. It's not hard to find such a nice place like this in Stella Morta (after all, the rich and the shady mix together easily like wine and caviar), and while it's legions above Anna's own shitty little apartment with its damp walls and stuttering lights, she finds she still dislikes this place. It's too… foreign.
"What's wrong, though?" Hans pushes. Anna grits her teeth. Why won't he just let it go. "There's been nothing of major interest concerning us. The Red Crowns are on a manhunt, but their higher ups know its not us. Our payments have started to come in. There's only small business to attend to. What are you worrying over?"
"Who says I'm worried about anything?" Anna snaps. She rummages in his closet, hoping to find some clothes that she'd left over from previous visits. Hans just watches her with his arms crossed and Anna tries to fight the growing unease in her belly.
It's been one week since Elsa went missing. Anna is no closer to finding her, and there are no clues. No ransom, no note. Just an empty apartment waiting for her when she gets back from work. After the first three days, Anna begins sleeping over at Hans'.
"Anna," Hans murmurs. And then he's right behind her, suddenly, and Anna wishes she didn't jump. "Anna, how long have we been together? Do you think I don't know you?"
He closes his hand over hers and kisses her neck. Once upon a time, Anna would have relished in the warmth, but now she just leans back into his chest, eyes closed, and wonders if she could get away with stabbing him.
"You get sick when you're stressed for too long," Hans says, burrowing his nose into her shoulder. His grip on her hand tightens. "And you started getting sick when the Spirit and the Crown's new medic disappeared. Why? Are you worried about them? Jack Frost and Elsa Queen?"
Anna's eyes open slowly. Hans is rubbing thumb circles into her palm.
It's the quiet before the storm. The silence right before the explosion.
"You say those names again," Anna says, voice barely audible, "and you go the same way Tarzan went."
A body hacked into pieces and tied together with a big red ribbon. The scrunched up note in his mouth.
Anything for the Angels.
Hans draws away from her, and for a second Anna is ready, fingers poised to grab the gun she'd stashed under her clothes as she waits to hear a click.
An eternity passes.
Hans chuckles and Anna turns around, eyes cold. "Alright, alright," Hans says, holding up his hands in surrender. "I won't say anything, promise."
Anna smiles at him. "Thanks, sweetheart," she chimes. She doesn't miss the way his hands slide out of his coat or the faint bulge in his pocket. And she knows that he's watching her hands too, as she grabs a T-shirt and her fingernails clink against the gun underneath.
"I'll go make some coffee," Hans says, and Anna nods, still smiling. As soon as he leaves, it drops, and Anna lets out a shaky breath.
Too close, she tells herself. She's trying to find some moisturiser, opening random drawers, when she notices something sticking out from underneath the wooden floor panels. It's so tiny that she might have missed it if she hadn't stepped on it, and while a layman might have ignored the prick on their foot, Anna, with all her experience and intuition, bends down to check what it is.
At first Anna thinks it's a nail not quite hammered down, but it's too soft for that. It's strange for a place this expensive to have poorly fixed floors, so Anna frowns and picks at it. It's the corner of a sheet of paper, and after careful wrestling, manages to free it from between the panels.
After checking that Hans is still in the kitchen, humming to himself, Anna turns the sheet of paper over in her hands.
It's a police report.
Anna scans it quickly, ears pricked for Hans' return. What she finds is a document detailing a small arrest of a low-tier Olympian gang member. It's nothing really important, but the gears are turning in Anna's brain already, and one million scenarios are flashing in her head.
She folds the paper up and stashes it in her coat pocket.
Hans gives her a cup of coffee when she slinks into the kitchen, and Anna takes it with a mumble of thanks.
It's tense, quiet, and as Anna sips at her drink, thinks that maybe she might have to kill him after all.
"Nightlight," Jack muses, and as he talks the gun moves with his temple. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long, long time."
"I have a lot of connections," Pitch says.
"Was it Hero's 6?" Jack asks. At Pitch's resulting grin, Jack sighs. "I fucking hate the Hamada brothers."
Pitch stares at him for three long seconds. He clicks the safety off his gun.
"Your alias, Nightlight," Pitch says quietly, "who is he?"
Jack stares at Death in the face and says, "Me."
Snarling, Pitch slams the butt of the gun into his nose. There's a loud crack, and Jack is gasping air mixed with blood as he writhes on the ground. "Don't play games with me, Jack Frost. Don't forget that I can still kill your sister."
"I'm not lying, though," Jack laughs painfully, and he doesn't know why he's laughing, just that this is such a bizarre situation to be in. Nightlight. Nightlight. "I am Nightlight. But Nightlight is dead," he tells Pitch gleefully, and Pitch is struck silent by the way Jack's entire body is heaving with giggles.
"What's wrong with you," Pitch says lowly. His lip curls. "Has the darkness finally turned you mad?"
Jack continues to laugh on the floor. Pitch steps a little closer and nudges him with his foot. At the moment of contact, Jack shoots up from his position, quick as lightning, and a second later Pitch's gun is in Jack's hands, and he points it right between Pitch's eyes.
"I could pull the trigger right now," Jack whispers. In this light, he looks deranged. A skeleton with wild silver hair and unsteady eyes and all his teeth revealed with an ugly leer. The capture has taken its toll on him. Emily Jane's ghost hovers by his side. "I could pull it right now and I'd still sleep like a baby."
"I'm quite aware," Pitch says dryly, too calm for someone with a bullet only a few centimetres from entering his skull. "You've done it before."
"Nightlight is me," Jack repeats for the third time. "And Mim is gone. Don't ask me where Mim is. I don't know where Mim is. Do you understand?"
Pitch regards him for a moment. Jack's fingers give the trigger the tiniest of squeezes.
"Yes," says Pitch, because that's all he can say.
"Good," Jack beams. He drops the gun and begins to twirl it in his left hand. "So, are we done here?"
Pitch gives him a look that could freeze Hell over. "I suppose."
"Great! Then call your men off Clara, give me the medic, and we'll be on our way!"
"You're crazy," Pitch says calmly.
Jack switches to twirling the gun in his right hand. And then he stops, look at the weapon, and then looks at Pitch. His eyes flash something feral.
–so if you wanna save yourself, kid, just do as I do–Who are you? Who are you, little boy?–and the other day I caught a huuuuge beetle and it flew straight at me and–What the fuck you can't just come in here drippin' blood like that people will talk–they already talk–The fuck's your name?–Nightlight–I'm Nightlight–I reckon you'll be fine, you'll fit in around these parts–I'm not doing it for myself, I have a little sister–everyone does it for themselves, kid, ain't nothin' wrong with that–My name is Nightlight, and I'm here to–
Jack raises the gun, but he doesn't point it at Pitch. Instead, he holds Pitch's eyes, and then presses the tip into his left arm, right in the middle, between his elbow and his wrist, where there's still swelling and a purple bruise from where the tracker had been implanted in him.
"You have nothing over me," Jack hisses, and Pitch feels a trickle of fear crawl down his spine. "You don't own me. I don't owe you anything, not for Emily Jane, and not for Mim."
"You're crazy," Pitch says again, faintly.
Jack's lips twist, his expression is indecipherable. "So I've been told," he replies easily. He pulls the trigger.
Elsa is slipping in and out of consciousness. There are little dancing figures at the edges of her vision. They've been dancing for a few minutes now.
Jack has been gone a long time. "What if they killed you?" Elsa says aloud to herself. It makes her feel less alone. "What am I supposed to do now?"
Swallowing hurts. Her throat is parched, and when she'd urinated in the corner a little while earlier, the smell had been strong. Dehydrated, Elsa thought to herself. Another problem to add to her growing list.
She's been thinking a lot. That's all she can do. She's too weak now and standing makes her dizzy. She wonders how long she's been missing. She wonders if Anna is alright. In her darker moments, Elsa thinks that this is for the best, really. Anna doesn't need her. Anna is fine by herself. Elsa has just been holding her back this whole time. But the ache in her chest soon drives all the thoughts away, and she thinks that it doesn't matter if Anna doesn't need her, she needs Anna.
She just wants her baby sister.
"Don't cry," Elsa says fiercely to herself. "Crying will cause you to lose moisture that your body needs. Do. Not. Cry."
So Elsa doesn't cry, and she just sits there and she thinks. Elsa supposes a smarter person would look around, try and find something, anything, to stage an escape. But Elsa is tired and starving and tired. She can't do this anymore.
This city was a mistake. She should've taken Anna and left as soon as her parents died.
Elsa's made a lot of mistakes, and they all haunt her to this day.
Vaguely, she thinks she hears something screaming her name.
Another auditory hallucination, Elsa thinks numbly. She's been having a lot of those, but they've been louder than usual these past few minutes.
"Elsa!"
Elsa makes a small sound. "Shut up," she says to herself, driving a knuckle into her temple.
"Elsa! Elsa!"
It sounds a lot like Jack's voice. Elsa relaxes a little. She likes Jack's voice.
"Elsa! Goddammit, Elsa! Where the fuck are you?"
Wait a second.
"Elsa!"
"Jack," Elsa whispers. She staggers to her feet, trips to where she thinks the door is. "Jack! Jack, I'm here!"
Her voice cracks. She begins pounding weakly at the walls. "Jack!"
"Elsa! Keep talking to me! Keep talking, I'm gonna get you!"
"Jack," Elsa cries. Her voice is still too soft, her vocal cords rusty from lack of use. "Over here, Jack!"
His voice gets nearer and nearer. "Hang on, Elsa, I'm coming for you!"
And finally, finally, the doors shriek open, and Elsa squints to adjust to the light for the first time in too long. The first thing she sees is Jack's face, gaunt and hallowed and thin, but it sends a wave of relief through her so huge she all but stumbles into his arms.
"Jack," she gasps. He stinks, and she's sure she doesn't smell much better, but she holds him as tight as she can.
Thank you for not leaving me thank you for not leaving me thank you for not leaving me–
And she doesn't realise she saying these words out loud until Jack wraps his arms around her and embraces her back and says, "Don't worry, don't worry, I wouldn't leave you."
Elsa steps back from him, fighting back her horrible, horrible urge to cry (now's not the time), and notices the man Jack has brought along. Or more like forced along. Even while hugging her, Jack keeps his gun–where did he get his gun from?–trained on a man who'd evidently lead him here.
"Don't worry, just a hostage," Jack grins at her. "Actually, not really a hostage. Just a human GPS, ain't that right, Mr. Fearling?"
The Fearling grits his teeth, but he's wary of the weapon in Jack's hands.
"Now if you'd be so kind as to lead us out of this fucking maze and where the exit from the docks is, you'd have my eternal thanks," Jack sings. "Hurry along now. I shot myself, and I can certainly shoot you."
"You what," Elsa bites out as they begin to follow the unwilling Fearling. It's then she smells the blood, and then she sees the wound.
"I didn't have time to wrap it up," Jack says conversationally.
Elsa takes his arm, swallowing down her nausea at the large hole right in the middle of his left arm, leaking blood and flesh. Her brain short circuits, but only for a second. "You," she barks out to the Fearling, "give me your shirt."
The Fearling stops and looks at her incredulously.
"Do as she says," Jack says. His face is beginning to lose colour, but his command is sharp and strong.
Elsa wraps the shirt around his wound and holds pressure over it. "It's not too tight?" she asks. Jack shakes his head.
It doesn't take long for them to arrive at the exit. Jack thanks the Fearling, and then promptly shoots him in the leg. Elsa turns away just in time, but the sound of the Fearling's screams will follow her for days to come.
"Did you have to shoot him?" Elsa asks, feeling the bile rise up in her throat.
"I didn't hit a major vessel," Jack defends himself, "and it was so he couldn't run back to Pitch."
"You have a lot of explaining to do," Elsa says. Her hands are soaked through and she's almost supporting Jack's full weight. His breathing is ragged, pupils dilated in the moonlight.
"Well, my arm," Jack chuckles painfully, "I just–kind of–wanted to shock Pitch. And there was–a tracker in my arm–"
"Alright, alright, explain later," Elsa says hurriedly. The Fearling had left them on a main road, and she manages to hail a taxi. "Just–stop talking. But don't fall asleep! We're going to the hospital."
"I hate hospitals," Jack grumbles. The taxi slows down and he crawls in.
"Bit of a late night for you kids," the taxi driver says cheerfully as Elsa climbs in after him. "Having a bit of fun out here, four o'clock in the morning?"
"You have no idea," Jack says drowsily. The driver looks at the state of their appearances and presses his lips together.
"I'll pay you double," Elsa says. "Just take me the hospital."
Jack half smiles at her. "You're on your way to becoming one of us, you little scammer," he says, low enough so that the driver doesn't hear.
They don't have any money.
Pitch Black stares up at the moon. He's surrounded by three of his men, all of them shot by Jack after he'd burst out from the container. They were still alive, but useless.
"I can't believe he shot himself just for the tracker," Pitch laughs to himself. He throws his head up to the sky and just laughs. "Jack Frost, you crazy little fucker."
He digs into his pocket and draws out a phone. There's no password. He dials the first number on his contacts list and lets it ring.
"Kill Clara Frost," Pitch says, and then hangs up.
author's note:
idk man they're all fucking weird.
so is this getting really confusing? I know there are a lot of characters that I introduce that u probs won't know and stuff bc they're rly obscure. But a lot of characters are from other disney movies as you probs know, and the others like Emily Jane and Nightlight is from the original guardians of childhood books. I'm sorry it's hard to keep up with, but they're just used for plot devices. Frozen and rotg have too few characters to work with lmao.
Thank u for reading!
updated: 14 march 2016
