Black loved winter.
The abundance of colour in Chroma City, even with his men working to drain it, always hurt his eyes, gave him piercing headaches on days in summer when the sun beat down and made everything ten times brighter. Those days were the worst, leading exercises in the heat in such a heavy uniform. He wouldn't change to the lighter more standard one for fear of looking too much like his soldiers, to be mistaken for a lower rank would be beyond embarrassing.
(Also, the heavy coat, when thrown off before a fight, looked exceedingly dramatic. And cool.)
But winter spared him of those colour induced headaches. For the most part. When the weather drew in and got colder, it blanketed the vibrant city in pure white snow, almost hiding all colour from view. It was near blissful, looking out over the city coated in crisp white, with his heavy uniform finally coming in handy in the cold. Despite the chill that nipped at his nose and wind that stung his cheeks up on the roof as he looked down, it was extremely enjoyable. The lack of colour, however temporary it may be, felt like victory.
(He never wore gloves. He hated the feel of fabric tight on his hands, hated it. Numbness be damned.)
His breath steamed up in the air in front of him, grey and misty. He rested his hands on the metal railing.
(Cold, that was cold.)
He looked up to the sky, looking at white puffy clouds in various shapes drifting about. Some clouds further off were dark and grey, threatening to split and shower the city with hail that bit at the skin, or maybe sleet or rain that would turn the crisp white to grey slush on the ground, exposing colour once again. Or, preferably, they might bring more snow. All of them, white and grey, hovered in a bright blue sky.
(He didn't mind blue quite as much as other colours. He had a blue pen with black ink deep in one of his pockets. He only used it in his own office.)
He caught a glimpse of new colour out of the corner of his eye. Vibrant blue, too vibrant, where it wasn't supposed to be. His gaze quickly snapped to messy blotches of the colour tainting the snow off to the east. He gritted his teeth.
Blob. It had to be him. It was always him, even just the thought of him, that disturbed these quiet, tranquil moments.
He took one last glance to the west, momentarily calm at the sight of untainted white before he turned away. Angrily adjusting his hat, he tugged it straight after he lifted his hands from the freezing railing. His feet left tracks in the snow as he stomped across the rooftop to the door that he'd take, then he'd race down the stairs to the doors that would take him outside, out where it was cold again, where he could order a group to follow and capture or kill that damned pest.
He put out the order for a battle ready unit with practiced ease. Then waited. Every second that crawled by, he felt anxious he'd lose track of Blob, lose his chance.
(Blot would prefer capturing him. For tests, of course. Black didn't like the idea, he seemed too liable to escape, but he would try anyway. Sometimes it felt like Blot was the one really in control. But he didn't like thinking about it.)
His men were loyal and punctual. It was mere minutes before a group was assembled, ready to fight on his behalf, following him out the gate that heavily swung open in the grid formation taught to them.
(Not marching. Black had never seen the point. Who cares how you walk so long as you get where you need to be?)
Travelling through the snow now made him anxious. There were splashes of colour, red and green and /blue,/ standing out against the white. His eyes flitted about, even though they were still far from where he'd spotted blob; he knew how fast he could move too well. But he wouldn't let his nerves show in front of his men. They would undoubtedly lose morale.
Some might call his knowledge of everything to do with Blob an unhealthy obsession born from a grudge. Black would call it knowing your enemy.
He'd get him this time. This time, he'd be rid of him, all the trouble he cause for INKT in the future and his own doubts of the righteousness of his cause would vanish into thin air like a bad dream in the morning.
(Why was it that seeing Blob and his group happy always had him questioning himself?)
He could already feel the headache beginning to twinge behind his left eye.