Title: When Hell Freezes Over
Fandom: Reaper
Summary: Is it a new ice age or an escaped soul?
Rating: PG/K+
Word Count: 3294
A/N:Thanks to jellyfrog for the additional inspiration of the phrase that is now the title.
Disclaimer: I don't own Reaper
As a bounty hunter for Hell, Sam Oliver was used to the unexpected. Demons, hellhounds, souls with superpowers – he was convinced nothing could shock him anymore. He recalled the time that all his food, drinks, even his toothpaste turned to bugs in his mouth, but that only became more an annoyance than a freakout by the end of the day. You can get used to almost anything. But when the outrageous became the everyday, sometimes it took something more mundane to get one's attention.
It was snowing in Seattle in July.
The thermostat read forty five degrees in the apartment when Sam, Sock and Ben awoke that morning, none of them having had the forethought to turn on the heat the night before. There was no reason they should have; it had been a balmy seventy eight, and to save money on utilities, they slept with the windows open, waking to find a smooth sheen of frost on the panes. Sam shivered under his thin cotton blanket. It was unexpected all right, it was also freaking cold. Throwing on sweaters and blankets they looked out their balcony to see small white flakes drifting lazily from the sky.
The weather reporter on the news couldn't explain it. To make matters stranger, the bizarre weather pattern seemed to be affecting only the city itself, not the surrounding areas. Everywhere else in the northwest was business as usual, waist deep in midsummer warmth. The weather became the talk of the town, and everyone at the Work Bench was buzzing about it when Sam and his friends punched in for work.
Ted, their boss, got the boys to work right away, hauling the old inventory of shovels and rock salt out of storage, merchandise they normally didn't move even in the worst Seattle winters. Sam was opening the door to the back warehouse when a flash of glaring sunlight hit his face along with a giant snow ball, beaning him right on the head. Cursing and brushing the snow out of his hair, Sam looked around to discover he was no longer in the warehouse but outside, standing on a snow covered mountaintop at what looked like a ski resort. These were the kinds of events that no longer surprised him, so Sam flashed an expression of extreme annoyance at the laughing man in the suit and the red tie packing his second snowball.
"Tell me you're not responsible for all this," said Sam.
"No, sir, not me," said The Devil suddenly turning serious. "It's one great big angry soul, and he's taking it out on the Underworld too. Everything there is frozen solid. Business is at a standstill. Winter wonderlands just aren't frightening. The souls are acting like schoolchildren out on a snow day. So I need this guy captured fast."
Sam rubbed his hands together, swallowed back the joke about hell freezing over and pressed on, the sooner to get back inside the warm warehouse. "Okay, so who is this guy?"
"Remember the Zamboni driver who had that little accident at the hockey rink?" The Devil asked.
Sam couldn't possibly forget. He was the man the Devil had iced right in front of him to make a point shortly after Sam's 21st birthday, back when Sam still thought he could simply refuse to be a bounty hunter for Satan. He had been quickly disabused of that notion. Although according to the Devil the guy had been a drunk and a wife beater, Sam could still see the smear of crimson blood spread across the ice like strawberry sauce on a sundae, and nobody deserved that. He thankfully never saw what the body looked like crushed and mangled under the vehicle.
"Yeah," said Sam.
"Well he's back and coaching youth hockey," said The Devil, handing Sam a file, "and as drunk and violent as ever."
Sam took the file and opened it. The soul's name was Vic Callahan. In his previous life he had a long list of arrests for disorderly behavior, assault and domestic violence. Sam shuddered to think of an animal like this working with kids, and as though the weather were not enough incentive, Sam found he was overcome with the desire to capture Vic as soon as possible.
"Okay, I'll get him," said Sam. "It says he works at the local rink. Where's the vessel?"
There was a frigid blast of wind that knocked Sam backwards off his feet and he was back in the warehouse, alone. He landed on hard concrete floor and groaned, sitting up. Beside him was a large canvas duffel bag with a tag on it bearing Sam's name. Sam unzipped the bag to find what he had almost expected – a hockey stick and puck emblazoned with a bright red cartoon devil. Of course, Sam sighed and hefted the bag onto his shoulder, putting it aside to get to work on his day job, the one that paid.
Sam, Sock and Ben sat in the bleachers of the Seattle Skate America Ice Rink and cringed as they watched Coach Callahan with a team of eight year old hockey players. He was big and broad-shouldered, had a square jaw, wore a flannel shirt and looked like he belonged more on a construction site than coaching youth hockey.
"Man, this guy is like every nightmare gym teacher I ever had rolled into one," said Sock after Callahan started yelling at a little red headed boy for falling on the ice. "I'm having flashbacks."
The cute little kid's face was all screwed up struggling not to cry and Sam could see the look of fear in the eyes of the other kids who were trying not to be noticed. They skated in a line, heads down, taking shots at the goal in turns.
"Sports should be fun," Sam observed. "This doesn't look like fun."
"Sam, can I just take the hockey stick and beat this guy senseless with it?" asked Sock.
After hurling a few insults at the kids who missed the goal, the soul skated to the sidelines and Sam saw him sneak a drink from a can of beer he kept on the other side of the boards. He only grew more boisterous as the hour went on and when time was up, no one looked more relieved than the team. The kids skated off first in the direction of the locker room.
"Let's go," said Ben, "we can catch him when he's alone."
They walked down from the stands to the rink. Callahan finished his beer, crushed the can and started down the hallway after his team. Sam removed the stick and puck from the bag, and flanked by his friends, got halfway down the hall and called, "Hey, Vic!"
Callahan turned, saw Sam, threw his can at him and took off down the hall. Sam, Sock and Ben gave chase, past the locker rooms to a storage area. The soul ducked in and Sam was there seconds later. He grabbed the knob and surprised to find it unlocked, threw the door open and stopped.
The room wasn't big, about closet-sized, but it was full to the brim with penguins --real penguins, the black and white, flightless, cold weather waterfowl – at least a dozen of them or more.
"What the…" Sam said in surprise, taking a step back and bumping into Sock and Ben who stood behind him.
"Where'd he go?" asked Sock.
"Hey, you don't suppose he's one of the…" started Ben, pointing speechless at the squawking birds.
"I don't know," said Sam, watching now as the penguins waddled out into the hall, each one identical, honking and flapping their useless wings, not bothered at all by their strange non-polar environment.
"Use the vessel and find out," said Sock, lifting a leg to avoid stepping on one of them.
"What do I do, whack them over the head?" said Sam, "I don't want to hurt them."
"They're probably not real," said Sock.
"How do you know?" said Ben, worry creeping into his voice.
Sam was immediately reminded of Winston and Ben's affinity for birds, causing Sam to freeze up even further. Just then their argument was cut short and made moot when fifteen second graders emerged from the locker room to investigate the commotion. When they discovered the penguins their faces lit up and they circled them, excited, petting them and laughing.
Sam saw his window of opportunity slam shut. "Well that's it. I'm not gonna traumatize these kids any further by clubbing little penguins in front of them. Let's go. We'll have to come up with another plan."
"Wow Sam, you really are Batman," Sock observed back at the bench. "Going up against the Penguin now? Is every day a comic book with you?"
"Are you gonna help me or not?" said Sam, tossing the vessel back into its bag in the break room. "Be a good sidekick and tell me how we're gonna capture a guy that can change into an entire zoo."
"It would be easier to catch him when he looks human," Ben pointed out. "So maybe next time we should capture him on the ice when he's coaching."
"No, I don't want to do it in front of the kids," said Sam, shaking his head. "You know what happened when Andi saw me capture King, she thought I killed him. I have to get him alone, but you're right that it would be better if we could keep him from changing."
They returned to work after lunch and agreed to keep working on the problem as the snow continued to fall through the evening. When no solution came to them that day Sam went to sleep at night with dreams of capturing an evil snowman wielding an ice blaster. Sam had a blowtorch and melted the frosty bastard while a grateful and helpless crowd hundreds strong cheered him on.
The dream faded and Sam found himself in what looked like the North Pole at night, only with no stars in the pitch black sky, the only light being the reflection of the moon off of the glistening surface of the ice and snow. It was silent as a graveyard, and something beyond frigid on its way to being painful. He was wearing only the boxers and T-shirt he had been sleeping in, and Sam felt his bare fingers and toes tingle and then burn. This wasn't a dream, he thought, it felt too real. He saw nothing around him, and looked down and realized he was standing on a frozen lake. Listening, he heard the unmistakable popping sound of cracks as the ice began to break under his weight. He stiffened, afraid to move, wondering where the hell he was, and then realized the truth before The Devil even appeared.
"Where am I?" asked Sam, though he was sure he knew, holding as still as he could and trying to ignore the sounds of breaking ice, and the spider web of fissures around his feet. The Devil glided across the pond, stopping a short distance away from him. Sam looked down. There was no breaking ice under The Devil's feet.
"This is Hell Sam," said The Devil. "This is what I'm dealing with until you capture the soul. So where's Callahan?"
"I couldn't get him," Sam admitted, his heart skipping a beat at the sound of one large crack. He couldn't feel his feet anymore and he considered that a blessing. "You didn't tell me he could turn into a flock of penguins."
"Don't turn this around on me, you're experienced now. You should be prepared for anything," said The Devil. "Why didn't you capture him?"
"All right," Sam admitted, "I didn't want to hurt them all to find the soul. And there were kids there."
"Well Gandhi, you may have no choice," The Devil replied, "hell is a holiday and it has to stop."
"You call this a holiday?" Sam muttered, angrily, teeth chattering. "Who needs fire when you've got hypothermia?"
Just then The Devil's face darkened and he came closer. "I don't care if you have to club every penguin and baby seal. Just get him."
At his final words the ice finally broke way. Sam fell through to the frozen water with a scream, the shock to his body worse than he had ever imagined and woke up flailing on his bedroom floor.
They had a plan – sort of. They had to keep the soul on the ice -- that much they knew -- so the next time they went to the rink during hockey practice they split up. Ben and Sock each took an exit from the rink while Sam climbed quietly over the far wall as practice came to an end. Callahan didn't even notice Sam in his skates, he was too busy hollering, red-faced, at his team for what he called their shoddy session. Five minutes later he sent them off to the locker room, the kids pouting and unhappy, and hung back like last time to finish his beer.
When the last of the kids passed through, Ben moved into place blocking the open gate. Sam skated closer, placed the puck down quietly on the ice and got ready to take a slapshot while Vic's back was turned. But when Sam spread his legs to balance himself his skates made a scraping sound, causing the soul to turn. Sam took his shot and missed as Callahan noticed Sock and Ben at the exits and started climbing over the rink wall to the bleachers.
"He's getting away!" yelled Sam from the ice to his friends. "Go after him! Don't lose him or he'll change!"
Sock and Ben jumped the benches as Sam skated to the puck to prepare another shot. He wished he was better at this; he hadn't played hockey or been on skates since he was eleven, and his ankles were starting to ache and wobble after only a short time, to say nothing of his crappy aim.
Sam watched as his friends chased the soul through the stands, when Callahan slipped behind a bulkhead at the top and was gone again. Sock and Ben reached his hiding place, searched it and then looked around in confusion.
"Where'd he go?" asked Sam.
His question was answered by the sound of an engine. Sam looked across the rink and saw the Zamboni being driven in – by a penguin. This was no ordinary penguin; his wings held the steering wheel and he cackled a high pitched laugh as he stared Sam down with the machine. Sam stood trapped at center ice, the Zamboni heading for him at top speed.
Sam turned and tried to run but immediately lost his balance and slid hard to the ice. He really was a lousy skater. He slipped again trying to get back up, and in his panic only landed flat as the puck and stick flew out of his hands and out of reach, sailing across the rink. The Zamboni was closer now, and Sam remembered the river of blood when the soul himself got run over. This was no way to die.
Terrified, he gave up trying to stand and instead rolled like a log to the right to stay out of the Zamboni's path. If he could just reach the wall he could climb over. He may be no closer to capturing the soul, but at least he would live to try another day. But rolling was slower than running and the Zamboni only gained on him, closing the gap with too great a distance to the boards. He wasn't going to make it, and the vessel lay further away than before.
The last thing he saw was the maniacal face of the penguin bearing down on him as Sam tensed and closed his eyes, the machine just inches away. He opened them again when he heard a familiar voice.
"I got him Batman! Holy Ice Capades!" shouted Sock as his head popped up behind the penguin.
His friend had at some point climbed up onto the Zamboni with the hockey stick vessel in his hands. Sock slapped the penguin upside the head and knocked it to the ice where it lay stunned.
"Sock! The machine!" Sam yelled, as he crawled backwards.
Sock reached down and turned the key just as the Zamboni's nose brushed up against Sam's skates.
Sam grabbed onto the machine and hauled himself up, breathing heavily. It wasn't over yet; the penguin had regained its senses and was skating on its webbed feet back towards center ice. Sock tossed the stick down to Sam who caught it
"The vessel won't work without the puck," Sam told him. "I need to take a shot at him. Block the exits."
Sock started up the Zamboni again and drove it back to block the one exposed exit with Ben now back in place in front of the path to the locker room. Sam skated to where the puck still sat on the far ice, lined up and fired off a shot at the penguin from over twenty feet away and wasn't surprised when he missed. He knew he had to get closer.
As Sam went to retrieve the puck the bird grew anxious, running in circles, trapped, unable to climb the wall in his penguin form. Sam reached the puck and looked back to see the soul multiplying before his eyes. What began as one penguin turned into two, then three, then ten as they ran about the ice in a panic. The original penguin was now lost in the crowd of flapping, honking birds.
Sam hesitated again, set up to make his shot but waiting, and then he called to Ben. It was time for Plan B.
"Now Ben! Do it!" he yelled.
Ben reached behind his back, pulled out a bucket full of fish and emptied it onto the ice. The real penguins saw the treat and made for the fish like vultures at a roadkill buffet, all except for one. One penguin was left standing alone, a shocked expression on his almost human face. Sam got closer, brought the stick back and took a shot, this time hitting the soul in an explosion of blue light.
"I say we go for the Joker next," said Sock.
They were sitting at the bar in the Brick House, celebrating their victory. As soon as Callahan was captured and returned to Hell, the temperature warmed and everything was back to normal.
"Riddler's good," said Sam. "But I think I prefer Catwoman."
"Yeah," said Sock, eyes drifting off, losing himself in some fantasy, "Catwoman."
"One thing's bothering me though," Sam said.
"What's that?" asked Ben.
"Well we caught the soul like always but now that the ice has melted, The Devil's probably back to torturing people with fire and brimstone. I didn't really want to be a part of that, helping out Hell. I guess the Penguin kind of deserved it but still."
"You're not responsible for that, Sam," said Ben, "you were just doing your job like always, and you did it without hurting a single real penguin."
"Yeah," Sam smiled, "I did do that didn't I? But I can't take credit for that really, the fish was Sock's idea."
"Don't let it get around that I'm an animal lover," said Sock. "It'll damage my badass rep."
"You don't have a badass rep Sock," said Ben.
"No seriously Ben, does Bruce Wayne have a puppy? I don't think so," Sock replied.
"I thought I was Bruce Wayne," said Sam. "You're Robin and he'd definitely have a puppy."
"And maybe some bunnies," said Ben.
Sock picked up his beer. "I hate you guys."