Ch1
Road Rage
I don't own frozen or anything that might sneak in from a comic book or whatever... are disclaimers even necessary?
Speaking of unnecessary, it is my opinion that a story should never need a author's note at the beginning to explain it. Stories are art and art should need no introduction so, without further ado...
A battered blue Honda rolls to an abrupt stop, engine growling its complaints as its pale driver waits for the light to turn green. Streaks of rust paint orange arrows up the dented sides, pointing accusingly at the patches of peeling blue and bare iron. She hunches down in her seat as an enormous red pickup roars behind her, doing her best to hide the blue spandex and cheap Partycity hockey mask.
"I really need a better disguise," she mutters, combing silvery-white bangs over her mask with long gloved fingers. Who, exactly, she is talking to, the girl has no idea. "And this is the last time I wear that stupid cape," she finishes menacingly, glaring at the offending bundle lurking in the passenger seat like a skulking puppy.
"It's all your fault," the girl mutters, raising one gloved hand menacingly. The cape does not answer. "I should freeze you solid and stomp you into a hundred pieces," she continues. The light has turned green in the course of her irrational, one sided dialogue though she has entirely failed to notice. A sharp, blaring horn jerks her back to reality.
Guiltily, she adjusts the stick, rams one thigh-high boot down on the accelerator, and is slammed back in her seat as her battered rear bumper crashes into the massive truck behind her.
Its times like these that she wishes she were a super villain, not a hero, but she knows that her parents would not hesitate to put her behind bars. She sighs, and checks the mask in the rearview mirror.
The pickup's driver side door opens and a large man steps out. "You're going to pay for that," he roars, stomping towards the ancient car.
"Bet you I won't," the pale girl calls back as she adjusts the stick, double checking this time that it is in 'drive'.
She checks the man's progress in her mirror. Leather jacket? Goatee? Enormous truck? Elsa hates this poser already. He reaches into his coat with a growl and withdraws something silvery. It glints and flashes in the sun as he brandishes it. A gun? The girl grins. A gun! Yes! She latches onto the excuse with glee.
Thick icicles latch around the man's knees like a pair of frozen hands. Cursing, he levels his gun and squeezes the trigger, but even as the sharp report echoes around the intersection, he freezes solid. A long, glittering spear connects the muzzle of his gun to its thwarted projectile.
Elsa grins in satisfaction and carefully depresses the accelerator.
The latch clicks quietly as its dented white door eases open. Elsa steps carefully through, long black boots held in one hand, sweatpants and a hoodie over her costume. She closes the door behind herself and tiptoes past a teetering tower of empty pizza boxes and around a cluttered table.
The hushed voice of a television makes its way to her pale ears as she sneaks deeper into her apartment. It grows minutely louder as she passes her housemate's open door. The lights are off, the hallway dark, but Elsa knows her way and navigates the unlit apartment with ease. Her long pale fingers close around the cool knob of her door and she sighs with relief. She made it. No tiring social interaction today, not after such a boring, unproductive day. She gives herself a small fist pump of victory as she…
"Elsa!" her housemate's voice is loud- too loud- and too high pitched. Excitement maybe? "Did you get the job?"
The blond hero sighs and releases the handle of her salvation. Social protocol dictates that she has to answer, right? She has to see her neighbor and tell her about her day, right? She can't just ignore the other girl and barricade herself in her room like she planned? Elsa sighs again and turns back down the hall. The blue light of the TV illuminates her face as she leans against the doorpost and gnaws at her lower lip. What lie had she used to get out of the apartment again? What job was she supposed to be interviewing for?
"No," Elsa mutters at last, "what are you watching?" She looks up briefly experimenting with eye contact. Red hair? Check. Freckles? Oh God check. T-shirt riding up, exposing a pale freckled midriff? Maybe this was a bad idea. Basketball shorts? Long pale legs? Abort! Elsa goes back to glaring at the floor as her cheeks flush crimson.
"Just the news," her housemate seems oblivious to Elsa's evasion as she turns up the volume helpfully. "Want to join me?"
"…found frozen to death with a discharged firearm in his hand," the television says enthusiastically. "Police refuse to comment at this time, but it seems clear that Queen Cold is responsible. Did this man really deserve to die though? This is Channel Seven News. We'll be back with more after a short commercial break."
"No. Turn it off," Elsa snaps. Don't forget 'please'; people like 'please'… "Please," she hurriedly amends.
Her housemate shrugs and obliges her. "I'd think you'd be tired of the news, Anna," the hero says, still careful to avoid eye contact. "Don't you get enough of it working for them?"
Anna laughs lightly, and Elsa finds herself grinning, glad to have stumbled upon a positive reaction. "That's Channel Five," the redhead replies, "I gotta make sure the competition doesn't have a story we don't."
"Ah," Elsa nods.
"Besides, Queen Cold makes an interesting story. I'm trying to write an article about her. Here's hoping it gets me a little credibility… And my own desk would be nice…" Anna shrugs nonchalantly, but Elsa decides that the way she wrings her hands means that she cares more than she lets on. People are too complicated, the hero thinks for maybe the hundredth time that week.
"It would probably help if she ditched the dollar store outfit though," Elsa's housemate mutters.
A silvery-white braid bounces as Elsa nods, doing her best to convey her grudging agreement.
"Oh," Anna exclaims suddenly, "you look tired. Are you tired?"
Elsa nods again.
"I'm so sorry," the excitable journalist stands before she has time to realize she does not know what to do once she has. "I know you don't really like being social… should I let you go?" She is answered by a third brief nod.
"Sorry," Elsa mutters as she leaves, wishing she really was tired, but she knows she will be awake for hours yet, obsessing over her conversation, and obsessing over Anna. First though, she feels the pressing need to get out of her makeshift costume and wash away the sweat and grime of a day spent leaping across roofs and dodging through alleys.
AN: I really intended for this to be longer, but... this seemed like a good place to stop this chapter. This is my first fan fiction, but I have some experience with writing so hopefully it came out well. I guess this is the refrain of every author on this site, but review/ favorites are very appreciated.
I tried to pay homage to old silver age comics with the whole "Anna is a reporter" business, but I always wondered why the people in those comics always seem to either be perfectly good or perfectly evil... I guess there is more grey area than I'm giving them credit for in the case of like "the punisher" but I'm having a lot of fun exploring the grey area between "heroes" and "villains". Feedback would be wonderful, and I'll do my best to reply to reviews and PM's, assuming I get any.
