While they stand in line for the cash register, "You know Ms. Black—"
"Cynthia sweetie. None of that silly prefix formality." She has such an endearing smile.
"Cynthia then," Jack says, reciprocating. "You already sent that package the first night. You really don't need to go through all this trouble for me."
She frowns curiously, plucking a bottled water from the shelf where it sits chilling. "What package, sweetheart?"
Black Swan is a theory he can relate to more ardently than he cares to admit. Pitch bears it in silence, grievously, his mind mincing fetid food for thought and his stomach rolling at the way Jack sneaks his hand into Adam's grasp. The night drags on like a grueling giant, slaving under the weight of the entire world. He yearns to grind Adam's bones into dust.
They all thank him at the end. He ignores it, all except for Frost.
As Pitch fits his pale hands and long slender digits into his gloves, "Privilege comes with status, Jack. Let us hope you aspire to greatness as well." With a nod, they go their separate ways. Cynthia passes the ride to her residence with the usual mindless chatter. He hardly feels bereft when he opens her door and helps her out onto the curb of her address.
Midnight.
As Pitch eases out of his sleek black Lamborghini inside the walled grounds of his estate house, the vehicle dissolves into a storm of black sand and smog. The seasonal snow in the air falls as ash here, leaving no such white blanket in his immediate territory. Pitch's sands swirl riotously and flank him up the drive. With a wave of his hand, he destroys the wrought iron gate guarding his place of residence. It will rebuild behind him, unblemished. The cycloning sands climb, conjoin, and collect into the shape of a great black horse. His Night Mare follows him. She will follow him to the ends of this earth and the next. She is his only companion. She is all he really has.
The walls of the entry pathway converge into sharp marble stairs, framed by poisonous blooms, fastidious vines, and other virulent plants. He proceeds through the courtyard. His gardens are tended by phantom hands, sewn with the seeds of iniquity. The mare stops to graze. The front door melts and solidifies behind him. The house itself unfolds like an unraveling piece of fabric, as though it too is made of the same black sand - crushed obsidian - dropping the guise of concrete and steel. It reconstructs, spiraling upward in sharp black towers and spires. He enters his home even as it shifts, in which he is utterly and absolutely alone. Solace and solitude and seclusion. Dreary. Desolate. Dark.
Every man is an island.
And his island is treacherous – nigh un-navigable.
(As a side, it is also the biggest.)
He stares vacantly ahead. His suit thaws into a liquefied black mass, bleeding down into a long black robe, his legs and feet wrapped in charcoal. The center slit from the collar exposes a sizable chunk of his pale chest. His amber eyes assume an unholy resonance, a leer that can burn holes into the hearts of men. Thus, he dons his true appearance and it fits him like a glove.
He proceeds towards his bedroom, spreading his arms to drag his fingers tipped in sharp black nails over the walls. The paint blackens in his wake, swallowed by the swirling darkness that leaks from his touch. The patterns snake and swirl, breeding into a solid black.
This world has its advantages.
This world has so many advantages.
To clarify – No, this Pitch Black was not originally magically inclined.
As implied in the term alternate universe, albeit those that tangent through future or past, every universe exists unto its own time continuum, following its own agenda, spinning on its own axis with its own sun, and its own sense of reality. But darkness, one must remember, is pervasive and constant. And, like water, darkness connects each dimension. This Pitch Black is dual consciousness… in one man. The human was born into this word, but the monster bled through its own reality, seeking him out after his defeat, hunting him ravenously for want of vengeance against the wretched Guardians that destroyed and humiliated him. The night Pitch met and merged with his extra-dimensional mirror was dark, but every night since then has been darker. Pitch has vague memories of each of his adversaries, but none more vividly than Jack Frost. Young, vibrant, boisterous Jack Frost.
Cold. Cold and dark. What goes together better than cold… and dark?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
Pitch knows Jack will complete him. Melted, Jack's ice and Pitch's night can genesis into a single profane entity. Pitch can be whole with him, swimming and drowning in eternal blackness together. Perfection. He will rule from a throne of his own making where Jack will worship at his feet. Seeking out each infernal entity in this universe was no easy task, but it was necessary. This is Pitch's world. This ending shall be his, and his alone.
His fate in the opposing reality will never occur here. Here, Pitch is superior. Here, Pitch cannot be defeated. Because in the true human world, good does not prevail. In the truest human world, greed, pride, and evil will always reign triumphant. The Guardians, or in this case, the Guardians of Jack Frost, are weak – malleable like molten lead.
His closet stacks with skeletons. His hands are heavy with dried blood. His heart dies with each passing day he remains unchallenged and stagnant. And in the backyard, gravestones accumulate of those come before… Those who have failed him.
Pitch is losing touch with what it is to be human. Mere spider thin threads connect him to essential emotions. He is lost. He is lost in a way that will never be remedied.
Still… While his wickedness yearns for total destruction, his human shard still hungers for someone to share it with. He wants to infect – to pollute – to contaminate. He must, he must, have another like him, who needs and indulges and praises.
Jack Frost will be, from his perspective, his salvation. Jack Frost has the propensity to evolve into something deliciously impious, a sexual cure that cannot be synthetically brewed. The transformation is already beginning, the impurity germinating in his heart, roosting in his core and spreading roots around what remains.
Soon, the darkest shadowmancer, the primordial thief in the night, will stitch together dusty corners and forgotten silhouettes in order to haunt his prey and nurture that seed. And soon, Adam will die. They all will die. They will all be a distant mirage in an otherwise black, rotting world. Pitch has no reason to seek fame… not anymore. He only wants to be legendary to one person - one young man - one young man he will wound beyond repair - one young man he will seduce and swaddle in lies. And he will be his. Forever. Possession. Promise.
Permanence.
Finally.
Jack drops into bed after the taxi ride home, wishing he could be in Adam's room rather than his own. The man insisted on getting his proper rest the night before the competition. The championship is, strangely, the last thing on Jack's mind. Granted, it is more prominent in his mind now than last night… but still. Jack finds it strange that such a crucial occasion would be put on the backburner.
Is this how all horny teenagers feel?
Jack strips out of his slacks and white-collar before sprawling out in bed on his stomach. He is still chilled from the wintry flurries outside and elects to burrow in under the covers tonight. He hugs the pillow under his cheek sleepily. In the back of his mind, he is beginning to hope that whatever perverse presence has been visiting him "in his sleep" will manifest again.
He is not disappointed.
AN; Stay turned for Kingdom of Welcome Addiction. (Another IAMX song that would make an exceptional trailer tune.)