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If All the Word's a Stage...

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Staring a hole into the ceiling of his lair, somewhere in Los Angelos, he knows it’s night and he doesn’t feel the Sandman yet so he flows out of the new hole in a flood of slithering shadows. It’s quick work to stick to the shadows, out of the ever present annoying child of a man in the moon’s view, to make it inside the filming set. It’s some horror movie he can’t be bothered to remember the name to, but maybe at least it can offer him some small slight of amusement.

Perhaps he can stretch the shadows tall and high in the middle of their acting and draw true screams of terror as they frantically try to figure out if it’s a trick or not. If they should flee the building or not- straight into the dark of the night where Pitch draws more sounds, cracking branches, breaths on the napes of their necks and as he closes in on them and-

A bright and delighted cackle bounces off the walls following the recent more than real yelps and shouts. There’s accusations flying of one person or another being a dick and trying to scare someone and the cackling dies down, right before Pitch feels a brush of magic and there’s more screams.

Intrigued, Pitch melts back into the shadows and scours the large building, through the different sets and tries to find the culprit. There’s a heated argument between the set workers and the actors and Pitch takes to the rafters to get a better view of the building. All the idiotic mortals are condensed into one set, that of an inside dining room, an Ouija board on the table and Pitch’s face splits into two. Ouija boards were one of his favorites...

A breeze snaps past him, coating him in finely melting frost, and slams three separate doors on set in quick succession before icing a small patch behind the director who jerks back in surprise of the doors, slips and comes crashing down as all the shouts begin again.

The laughter comes from behind Pitch, slightly off to his above left, and it’s with wide eyes that Pitch turns to see Jack Frost of all spirits, laughing his ass off.

The idiot boy hasn’t seen him yet and this could be his big chance to pick off one of the guardians and he does so dearly need to pay Jack back for his little acts from that last fight. Pitch is shifting in the shadows, appearing right behind the boy just as the idiot flings himself off the rafters to fall to the set below. Grumbling, Pitch follows down to the ground, determined to wring that pale little neck of the infuriating annoyance while he’s got the chance and what’s that?

He pauses as Jack swipes the Ouija board off the dining room table and it clatters to the ground, gathering the attention of everyone on set. They look at it in an abject horror that Pitch can taste blooming across his tongue and Jack just gives a laugh before hovering right above the board. With pale fingers he starts to move the planchette around the board randomly, the movements jerky at first, as if the spirit’s grip on it was weak and the workers stay rooted to their spots. The terror rising in them like a barely held back tsunami and when no one moves, Jack grins and shoves the whole board over to the nearest actor with his staff. The man jerks back, breath coming out visible on the air, as his chest heaves like he’s just broken the surface of a deep pond and can only now taste oxygen. He sucks it in greedily, his life sustaining force, just as Pitch inhales all the lovely tastes of his fear. There’s fear of the unknown, fear of spirits, of the Ouija board tales he’s been told being true, of being tortured, taken, of being trapped in the board himself, of all these lovely different fears and Jack is grinning when he moves the planchette again.

Transfixed the guy stares at the board at his feet, breath coming out faster, as he watches the planchette move. There’s a stuttering mess of a girl behind him, demanding to know how he’s doing what he’s doing but the man can only shake and mummer “No... No no nononono-” As Jack slowly spells out Y-O-U-R-E-N-E-X-T

He’s shaking, several of the set crew are shouting variations of it’s not funny, but the whole set has dropped in temperature more than a couple degrees and when Jack closes a deadly cold hand around the man’s ankle he screams. His fear smashes through the ceiling of the building, and his scream ratchets the rest of the workers’ fear up with him before they’re all bolting out the door. Only a few bravely stupid people were saying nothing was wrong, that there was nothing here, but Pitch can’t pay attention to anything other than the buffet of fears washing over his tongue, each complementing the last and as he floats back down from his invigorating high, he comes to Jack’s laughter.

The boy’s doubled over on himself, laughing and it’s a minute before he calms down and grins at the door they fled from. He’s still chuckling when he goes about the room, placing the Ouija board and planchette back on the dining room table, perfectly straight, fixes a few chairs knocked over in the mortal’s haste to leave and pretty much spruces the whole place up as if nothing had ever happened.

Pitch lets him leave only to see what will happen next time.