#;;eclipsed

Better to ask forgiveness than permission. Especially when everyone seems to be a little distracted by what is currently going on- and the moon crystal probably runs on moonbeams itself. If they’re gonna contact anybody up there, Jack figures it has to be before the moon goes totally dark.

So he makes a beeline for the Moon Room, only pausing to say where he’s going over his shoulder- and it wouldn’t surprise him if it got lost in the current hubbub.

All phones are basically the same. Enter code, have power, wait for answer. Chances are that North has a redial setting on his crystal- maybe- or he left it the same as when he used it the last time.

So Jack approaches, and takes a deep breath.

“Please don’t break on me,” he asks the crystal, holding up his staff. “That’d be just my luck.”

He taps the end of its crook to the closest facet of the moonbeam Communicator, and focuses on his core. Light. Fun.

Joy.

Not good. Bunnymund would be cranky about this one, especially so close to Easter. But this had to be the work of the Boogeyman. Instinct would spur him to action. The leaver pulled, the Northern Lights released-- their message rang out to those who could hear.

CALLING ALL GUARDIANS.

“Do I, now? Quite right.”

That smile, meeting grimness, is all controlled rage for the doppleganger threatening the beings Kozmotis would nearly dare to call “friend.” It’s knowing the most efficient and ruthless ways to take the lives of adversaries. Monsters, yes, beings who once coated his soul like a suffocating oil slick, but still living beings.

It is the smile of just a man, who will be out there braving the dark so the children of these galaxies can sleep safely. The same man who’s been under their beds, an artisan of dark shadows, gleeful at their misery.

Pitch who is now Kozmotis has a voice that can sing lullabies or narrate nightmares. In this moment he offers it all to the very last Guardian he ever expected to see beyond his past.

“Yes, quite right. I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine.”

He offers the last Pooka his hand to clasp.

Claws flex as they tap out a nervous beat upon the old leather of the Pooka's bandolier and its with a deep sigh that he finally tears his gaze from the bloody moon hanging in the sky. Aster offers a small, weary smile at the general, "S'not your fault, ya old cobber. Might be a tad late and I might have ta lean on Seraphina for a bit of help but Spring will come."