BEST SERVED COLD
CHAPTER 10: DISCOVERIES
Tragedy flowed out of the bar's ventilation system through the frozen intake fan. A dull sense of satisfaction filled her after killing the short, greasy little arsonist. Yet now a million questions buzzed in her mind. Who were those strange men who'd tried to stop her? Tragedy shook her vaporous head, trying to think through an odd sort of mental fog.
Tragedy quickly looked both ways down the alley. It was still dark, but morning was coming fast. For the moment, no one would think she was anything but a cloud of steam venting from the sewers, but when the light increased, she would not be able to hide. Silently, trailing a thin sheen of frost, Tragedy floated down the alley and turned left into a dead-end behind one of the buildings.
The nebulous woman was still for a moment. The ice she had used to barricade the bar would hold the people inside for a while. A curious feeling overcame Tragedy – a faintness, almost like being sleepy after eating a full meal. Fatigue, she decided, but spirits were not supposed to get fatigued. Dully, she looked down at her hands and felt, dimly, a trickle of muted surprise.
I'm glowing. Why am I glowing?
The little dead end alleyway was now suffused with a gentle blue-white light. Tragedy felt somehow as though something was flowing out of her, but she could simply not put her finger on it. Studying her now-radiant fingers, Tragedy realized something else, something that, impossibly, sent a shiver down her frozen, misty spine.
Her temperature was rising. When she had first emerged from the frozen ground of the Hart Island cemetery, her own vaporous body had been solid black to her heat-sensitive gaze. Now, she appeared to herself as a dark gray haze. All around her, the cold brick walls and cement ground mocked her with their quiet chill, still black to her sight. What would happen to her if she warmed too much?
Looking up at the lightening morning sky, Tragedy fought back a stab of pure panic. Before she could feel more than that, an invisible force pulled her gaze back down to the ground. Sitting in front of her, as silent as any ice sculpture, was the white cat, its electric neon-blue eyes boring into her. The start of surprise was more pronounced this time, but again Tragedy fell into those eyes, and the images that spilled from them.
A huge, monolithic skyscraper dominated her thoughts. A voice, as insubstantial as a shadow and as fleeting as a breeze, whispered into mind.
The Omni-Seasons. You'll find him there.
Who?
The Gun Man.
Then she was little Tracy again, trapped inside Aunt Kathy's house as a hail of bullets shredded the kitchen. The hellish rain was a deafening, impossibly fast, never-ending drum rattle.
She was pinned beneath Smoky the arsonist as the Gun Man looked down at her with eyes of brown granite, cradling that huge, large-caliber automatic rifle. He was pure evil, a monster that hid his crimes behind a wall of blandness, with his forgettable face and dead eyes. In her mind, the Gun Man leveled the rifle down at her face, its muzzle large enough to walk down. There came a thunderous KA-CHAK as he slid the bolt back and let it snap home again.
The vision faded from her mind, leaving in its wake newly revived, chilling hatred. Her flagging strength was bolstered by righteous fury, forcing all fear and doubt away. Tragedy felt, with bone-deep certainty, that this was the right thing to do. The arsonist had paid with his life. Now it was the Gun Man's turn. They would all pay. When Tragedy opened her eyes, the white cat, with its too-blue eyes and mental guidance was nowhere to be seen, without a trace to ever prove it had ever been there.
The dawn spilled into an empty alleyway, and no one noticed the thick layer of ice that cemented one particular manhole cover to the ground.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Bobby yelled over the roaring noise of the outboard motor.
This is the only way Professor Xavier could think of to contact her, Jean Grey said clearly into his mind from the wheelhouse. Somehow, her mind has changed. He couldn't get a clear location on her, even with Cerebro. All he was able to tell was that she IS in the Bay, somewhere.
Bobby clung to the railing of Katherine Wister's sport fishing boat. Logan sat in one of the fishing chairs bolted to the deck, his feet propped up on the edge as the chill noon wind whipped through his thick black hair. He looked as though all he needed now was a cigar in one hand and a beer in the other, for all the world like he was on a leisure fishing trip.
"Chill, kid," he called nonchalantly, "If this Wister gal is as good as ya think she is in the water, she'll rise to the sound o' her own boat." Silently, Bobby agreed, but he was not certain that they would find Katherine in time to stop Tracy from killing again.
This should be good enough, Jean told them, throttling down. The sound of the choppy waves slapping against the hull filled the silence. A moment later, Jean stepped out of the wheelhouse, her fiery red hair dancing in the breeze. She joined Bobby at the bow, carefully adjusting her steps to compensate for the rocking of the boat. Logan seemed disinclined to leave his chair.
"I should be able to contact her from here," she said, placing two fingers to her right temple.
"With your level of telepathy, you couldn't have done this from the mansion?" Bobby asked, his irritation showing. Jean awarded him with a cool look.
"I told you, the Professor couldn't even do it, with Cerebro." At Bobby's chagrined look, Jean's tone softened. "Maybe it has something to do with how long she's been in the water, but Ms. Wister's mind has been altered subtly somehow. Professor Xavier said that it 'wasn't quite human anymore', whatever that means." Logan sat up suddenly.
"Red – look for the dolphins." Logan returned both Jean and Bobby's confused looks with a shrug. "Call it a hunch."
"All right," was all Jean said. She turned slowly, her eyes closed, "sweeping" the bay.
Jean did indeed sense the presence of several dolphins in the bay, an unusual thing so late in the season. She did not, however, touch anything even remotely human beneath the water, so she settled on contacting the dolphins instead. Probing further, she found that their quicksilver thoughts kept slipping away from her whenever she tried to establish a firm rapport. It was like trying to get a solid grip on a handful of water. Their mental voices buzzed indistinctly, vaguely tinged with amusement at her efforts. Jean frowned in frustration.
"What is it?" Bobby asked.
"I found the dolphins," Jean said with a touch of surprise, "but I can't establish a link to any of them. They keep, well, 'slipping away' every time I try to get a hold of them." A dry, wheezing chuckle came from Logan's general vicinity. Both Jean and Bobby turned to stare at him.
"Ask 'em, Jean," he said with a wry grin, "Don't force it, just ask." Jean cocked her head to one side in pique, and complied.
We're looking for our friend, she broadcasted to the water, this is her boat. Have you seen her?
Fnriend? Land-person? The voices in Jean's mind finally sharpened into focus. They seemed high-pitched and fast, with odd background whispers, almost as if they were carrying on several other conversations at once.
Yes.
We see her. She swims with us, and plays with us. She is fun, for a land-person. The high, squeaky voices modulated with what Jean could only describe as smugness.
That is very good. We must speak with her. It is about a girl named Tracy.
Land-person calf? The voices were colored with confusion for a moment.
Yes.
We tell her.
"There *click-click* is…no *squeee* need."
Jean, Bobby, and even Logan jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It was definitely a woman's voice, but halting and punctuated with distinctly cetacean clicks and whistles. Floating just off the side of the boat, less than ten feet away, was Katherine Wister. Bobby stared at her in shock. Dimly, he realized what he was doing was rude, but he simply could not look away.
Kathy had once looked perfectly human, and had sounded absolutely normal over phone with Bobby. An entire week beneath the waves had clearly changed her to the point where even those closest to her might have had trouble recognizing her. Her skin was a slick, pale blue-gray, possessing the exact smooth, rubbery texture as a dolphin's. Her red hair floated loosely in a nimbus around her shoulders, contrasting starkly with her new skin tone. Her hairline had receded, to make room for a high, slightly bulging forehead somewhat like a dolphin's melon. As she slowly treaded water, Bobby noticed that her hands, particularly her fingers, had lengthened, and were webbed all the way out to her fingertips. Her eyes, however, presented the most profound change of all. They were a solid, watery black, and through them, Bobby could see, without telepathy, the human intellect struggling to resurface through dolphin-like instincts. Bobby shuddered unconsciously.
"Tracy *squeee* …she's *squeee* alive?" Kathy's round black eyes got wider. "I *click* couldn't get to her, *squeee* to save her."
"Yes," Bobby said quickly, snapping out of his reverie, "and she's got full control of her powers too. Last night, she used them to kill the guy we think torched your house."
Somehow, the pitch and tempo of Kathy's clicks became 'menacing'. Her expression twisted in anger. Bobby knew that Kathy was angry, and that she approved of her young friend's actions. Time to try a new tack.
"Look," Bobby said, "tell us why these guys are after you. You mentioned something over the phone about the new CEO of McKannen industries."
Kathy's expression changed abruptly, and became devoid of all emotion.
"Yesss…Mc*click*Kannen." Kathy held Bobby's gaze for a long moment. "He sent those men after me *squeee* …after us."
"But why?" Jean asked politely. Kathy turned to her.
"Hard to…*click* explain," Kathy said with effort. Her brow furrowed in thought. "The disk *click* …"
"You told me you hid it somewhere," Bobby supplied.
"Yesss *squeee*…under the house…under the ice *squee*," Kathy said.
"No problem," Logan said, rising from his chair at last. When Kathy looked at him, he simply held out his fist. Three razor-sharp blades sprang out with a snick. Kathy nodded in approval.
"Kathy, do you know anything about who Tracy might go after next?" Bobby asked. Kathy shook her head.
"Dunno. There were three *squeee* of them."
"Tell us about them, and try to picture them in your mind," Jean urged.
"The fire – the arsonist…" Kathy's eyes narrowed in concentration.
"He's dead. Tracy killed him." Logan said flatly. Kathy shrugged in the water.
"Gunshots…a sniper," Kathy continued. Jean immediately received the mental impression of sudden fear and bullets flying everywhere inside a small room. A kitchen?
"Did you actually see the gunman?" Jean asked. Again Kathy shook her head. Bobby gritted his teeth in frustration.
"There was a mutant," Kathy said, surprising them all. From Kathy's mind, Jean got the image of a distorted green face, insane yellow eyes and jagged orange teeth. The memory was associated with thunder, lightning, and pain.
"A mutant? Working with McKannen against other mutants?" Bobby asked incredulously.
"Yes," Jean interrupted, "He has some kind of electrical powers."
"He's the one that killed the dog," Logan growled.
"Gunny," Kathy let out a low, mournful whistle, followed threatening train of clicks in a credible imitation of Logan's growl. As their eyes met, an unspoken understanding passed between them. I'll get that bastard for you.
"Anyone else?" Jean asked.
"She *squeee* is sure to go after Mc*click*Kannen when she's done with the others," Kathy said. "The disk*click* proves everything," she went on, as her speech began to improve. "It has all of Mc*click*Kannen's plans on it. Give it to the FBI – that's what Sarah was trying to do."
"We will," Jean promised. "Will you come back with us? I'm certain we can find a place for you at our mansion." Jean smiled with real warmth. "You'd make one hell of a swimming instructor." The comment brought a smile from Kathy as well. It transformed her inhuman features into something almost – beautiful.
"I'd like*click* that…but not yet. Not until this is over." Kathy turned to Bobby once more, her liquid eyes full of emotion.
"Find her, Bobby," she said quietly, "Please. Take care of her. She's all I have left of Sarah now." Her plea was crystal-clear, and for a moment, the look in her eyes was completely human.
"I will. I promise." Bobby said solemnly.
Kathy held his eyes with hers for another moment then nodded. With a backward somersault flip and a flash of fins and webbed feet, Katherine Wister disappeared again beneath the Hudson Bay.
The man called Mike Vickers leaned his head back against the side of the spa-bath, enjoying the relaxing feel of the steaming, bubbling water. The call girl he'd hired for the night sat across from him, sipping champagne from an expensive crystal glass. That last job had paid handsomely, even by his standards.
"Mike Vickers" was not his real name, of course – he'd given that up long ago in exchange for the numerous aliases any professional marker used. He'd come a long way since the beginning, though. Now, any one of his aliases could be synonymous with the phrase "death sentence". His fees were exhorbitant, but Mike Vickers always found his mark, always finished the job.
When Douglas McKannen came to call, describing the mark as an ordinary-as-they-come secretary and her teenage daughter, Mike had almost laughed. He'd been paid to eliminate top-tier assassins, for chrissakes. Such an easy job was almost beneath him, but this McKannen was now the owner of a multibillion-dollar company. Mike had just shrugged and given his price, and McKannen had obligingly written the check. Easy money.
The end result was that Mike could now lie low and enjoy the fruits of his labors in the mega-plush Omni-Seasons Hotel. This particular suite was nearly the size of anyone else's house, taking up nearly half of the space on this floor. He wanted the best, paid for the best, and the Omni-Seasons gave him the best. No doubt.
The call girl swished her way across the spa-bath and sidled up to him.
"Hey handsome," she purred, "I always love it with the bubbles on." Mike smirked lewdly. Taking a handful of her hair just behind the ear, he drew her in close and crushed his lips to hers. She made a startled little mewl in her throat but submitted.
"Why don't you go and get us some more drinks, and I'll consider it," he said. It was not a request.
The call girl swallowed and nodded. Dripping, she carefully stepped out of the tub onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Mike admired the way steam drifted from her naked skin. She shivered, despite the heat of the room and the steam in the air, and headed out the door towards the kitchen. Mike smiled to himself as he reached for the pile of towels on the small table next to the tub. He felt the reassuring solidity of his favorite pistol beneath the towels stacked there. Giving the handgun a fond pat, he once again relaxed against the spa-bath's ceramic side. Life was good.
In the kitchen, the call girl looked for the ice bucket, still shaking from the rich man's kiss. It bothered her how much that kiss had bothered her. She was being paid a lot, sure, and she'd done similar tricks like this, but this guy just screamed 'dangerous'. He might have an average face, but his body was toned and muscular, like an athlete. She shivered again as she took another champagne bottle from the ice bucket. Just thinking about those lips on hers, the look in the rich man's eyes, made her cold all over. The call girl shivered again as another deep chill washed over her. Something was wrong. It was getting cold in here – really cold.
The call girl grew irritated. This was the freakin' Omni-Seasons after all! The heating and AC systems never went out here – the hotel couldn't afford little inconveniences like that, because it would ruin their reputation. As she looked around for the thermostat control, the call girl noticed something like fog crawling down the wall. Following it up the wall, she spotted the wall vent above her pouring out vapor.
As she watched, icicles began to bleed out of the vent, spreading down the wall like drool from a gap-toothed mouth. Even in the dim light, the call girl could see the mist clearly – because it was glowing. Rising fear combined with the dropping temperature, and the naked call girl began trembling uncontrollably. There was…something…in there, in that glowing blue mist, she just knew it, and it was looking at her. A face emerged from the vapor, contorted into an eternal grimace of grief and sorrow. The champagne bottle shattered on the kitchen floor as the call girl screamed.
Tragedy flowed from the vent just like she had in the bar. This time however, her temperature was much higher, relatively speaking. The pale light she'd been leaking all day had eased the feeling of drowsiness, as well as lowering her temperature somewhat. A day beneath New York, wandering the dark, cool sewer tunnels had done her good. She just hoped it would be enough to suck away the last drop of warmth from the Gun Man's body.
Tragedy swept the suite with her thermal vision. It was all the uniform dark gray of room temperature, the surrounding furniture an indistinct blur. The woman before her glowed starkly white, and Tragedy could still see lingering, invisible traces of steam wafting up from her. The woman was nothing. Ignoring the way the call girl shrieked in terror, Tragedy followed the pale gray 'footprints' of residual heat on the floor into the master bedroom, then on to the bathroom, where a larger heat source waited.
The first scream snapped Mike out of his pleasant doze. His body sprang from relaxed to ready alertness in an instant. In the next instant, his hand was wrapped around the .357 magnum Desert Eagle beneath the towels. Movement in the doorway caught his eye and he drew a bead on it automatically. What he saw made his jaded eyes widen in shock.
Floating in the doorway was a luminous figure, wrapped in a white burial shroud. Mike recognized the mask it wore – the Tragedy mask of classical Greek drama. The figure radiated intense cold, causing the invisible steam inside the bathroom to condense into white fog. The apparition advanced into the bathroom, its mask sweeping back and forth, as though looking for something it couldn't quite see. Even through the thickening fog, Mike could see it clearly for the soft blue glow it gave off. It spoke in a raspy, spidery whisper, like a girl's voice gone raw from screaming.
"Mike…"
The mercenary started in surprise, causing a small splash of water against the side of the tub. The Tragedy figure's gaze whipped around to the tub. It began to advance again, vaporous hands outstretched, calling out a challenge in that hoarse whisper.
"Finish the job," she taunted. Mike's eyes narrowed. He always finished a job.
The Desert Eagle reported sharply three times. Each time Mike was rewarded not with blood, but with a small hiss, followed by frozen lead shattering against the far wall. The bullets passed cleanly through her as though she were a cloud.
Tragedy could hear him splashing out of the huge bathtub, but the ambient heat in the room made it hard for her to see. Contrary from the living room and kitchen, the bathroom was a swirl of light grays and soft whites, the largest solid mass being the bathtub. The three gunshots had been brief, bright flashes of light against masses of warm air. A second large white mass separated from the tub. Tragedy reached out for him, but the steam blurred his movements into a barely perceptible ripple. Before she could get a clear fix on him, Mike had fled past her into the master bedroom.
Mike almost slipped on the thin layer of ice that had condensed and frozen onto the bathroom floor. He had to control his breathing to keep from hyperventilating. He'd dealt with mutants before. It was just a matter of finding out how their mutations worked and what hurt them the most. Bullets were clearly useless against this one.
Mike ran to the side of the bed and threw his duffle bag of weapons onto it, unrolling it with practiced efficiency. Guns, mostly, strapped to the inside of the canvas. One survival knife, and a dozen throwing knives. All useless. Mike's hand settled on one of his last resort weapons, a stun gun; the short, blocky handle ended in a pair of straight prongs that would deliver a debilitating electrical shock to the target. Mike didn't know if it would be of any use against the mist-girl, but it was the only thing left he could try.
Mike's thoughts broke off as he registered the cold breeze blowing onto his bare back. Whipping around, he saw the masked apparition advancing on him once more. Arms outstretched, fingers curled into claws, moaning like an angry ghost, it was a sight to terrify a normal man. But Mike Vickers was not a normal man. Snarling, Mike crushed his thumb down on the firing button and viciously stabbed out at it, connecting with its left hand.
The result was more than satisfying. Mike's hand sizzled slightly as the intense cold of Tragedy's touch froze the top layer of skin, but her entire left hand and arm briefly flashed with arcs of blue electricity, then with a flash of light, exploded into ribbons of idly swirling vapor. The thing screeched shrilly in pain and retreated, floating a few feet towards the bathroom.
Tragedy did not know that such pain and agony could exist. For an instant, her arm had burned with fire that not even her frozen state could absorb. Then she had lost control of her own shape, and the arm had simply disintegrated. She clutched her shoulder at the point where her arm had been and glared furiously at the Gun Man in shock and hatred. How dare he – ?!
Tragedy regained her composure quickly. She still had control of the rest of her body. With just a little concentration, mist from the main portion of Tragedy's body flowed back out of her shoulder joint, reforming the arm, even as the Gun Man looked down in astonishment at the puny weapon in his hand. She glanced down at the new hand for a second, flexed it experimentally and returned her gaze to her foe.
Mike barely concealed a smirk of sadistic glee. Oh, this was rich! The least lethal weapon of his entire arsenal would hurt this ghost-bitch even worse than the biggest caliber bullet! Mike settled into a fighting stance, holding the stun gun out in front of him like a large knife. The mist creature tried to circle around him once or twice, but it was clear she did not know how to properly fight hand-to-hand. With a few feints, Mike confirmed that he had hurt her badly, judging by the fear in her jerky responses. Bobbing and weaving, stabbing out again and again like a fencer, Mike maneuvered her back into the bathroom, a dead end with no exits, where he knew she would have trouble tracking him.
For the first time since she had arisen in the cemetery, Tragedy knew a moment of all-encompassing panic. This was not supposed to happen! She was a ghost, an avenging spirit! How was it possible that a normal human could hurt her?! The Gun Man had turned the tables on her, forcing her back again and again, jabbing with his wicked shock weapon. Tragedy realized too late that she had just backed across the threshold of the bathroom, where she would not be able to pinpoint the Gun Man's position, but even worse, where she had no room to dodge aside from the Gun Man's next thrust.
Mike snarled out loud in fury as his next thrust caught Tragedy squarely in the chest. Her scream of agony seemed endless. There was a brilliant explosion of light, so bright Mike could not look directly at it. The mutant's scream ceased.
The only sound in Mike's ears was the steady drip-drip of condensation from the bathroom ceiling falling onto the melting ice of the tile floor. Mike's chest heaved and his heart thundered in his chest. Multicolored dazzle-spots danced before his eyes while he shook his head to clear them away. The mercenary blew a long, rattling breath and almost relaxed. Mike jerked back into his fighting stance as a strangled sob came from the bathroom floor.
Tracy stared at her hand in shock and denial. It was cold, as it always had been, but it was solid. She was alive. It was impossible! She had died in the fire, been buried, and had risen from the grave to avenge herself and her mother! But harsh reality could not be denied. Tracy sat on the hard tile floor, felt the throbbing pain where Mike had shocked her, felt the sheet wrapped about her, felt the mask of ice on her face grow slick as the heat of the room started to melt it. She looked up at Mike, seeing him in actual, normal color, as fear rose up and threatened to consume her with a single, primal thought: she was alive again, solid again, and this man could kill her for good.
As Mike's vision cleared, he saw a small figure huddled on the bathroom floor. She was wrapped head to toe in a white burial sheet, now wet from the water and melting ice on the floor. The Greek Tragedy mask on her face was clearly made of ice, and also beginning to melt. The skin of her hands was as stark white as the sheet swathed around her. When she looked up and saw Mike slowly advancing on her, she scrabbled backwards across the floor, using both hands and feet. The sudden jerking movement caused the ice mask to dislodge from her face and skitter away.
Mike stared at her in shock and denial. It was impossible! But it could not be anyone else. The powder blue eyes staring at him set in that white oval face could belong to no one else. The Gibbens kid. Mike's rage mounted as the pride of his hard-won reputation suddenly washed away his vision in a red haze. It was not fucking possible! Mike Vickers never missed his mark! He always finished to job! There was no way this little fucking bitch could have survived that fire! On top of that outrage, this little mutant bitch had tried to kill him. Him! Mike Vickers, the best of the best!
Tracy's face twisted in abject terror as the Gun Man suddenly threw his stun gun to the floor and rushed at her. Her arm came up in automatic and futile defense, but he just grabbed her wrist and savagely yanked her up to her feet. His other hand struck like a snake, his fingers wrapping around her throat in a vice-like grip. Gagging, Tracy grabbed desperately at his wrist, and he let go of her other hand so he could strangle her with both of his.
"You little fucking bitch! No one gets away from me! NO ONE! I always finish the job!" Mike screamed at her, shaking her back and forth as he squeezed the breath out her. Without realizing it, Mike was slowly turning, turning towards the bathtub. In a ludicrously detached part of her mind, Tracy knew that if he brought her there, he could drown her in it if he didn't just strangle her to death first.
Tracy's vision was beginning to blur, and image of Mike's face, distorted and crimson with rage, went out of focus. As the lights behind his face dimmed from her view, Tracy's mind retreated from the pain and the crushing need for oxygen. Trapped in her own mind, outside of time it seemed, Tracy's life flashed out before her, like a photo album.
Flash. Playing with her mother in the apartment as a child, always at night.
Flash. Playing with Gunny at Aunt Kathy's house.
Flash. Working on schoolwork at home, Mom coming home from work.
Flash. Sitting in Aunt Kathy's basement, falling into the power; falling into the cold, pulling, pulling all the heat from the ground into her body.
Tracy's eyes snapped open, the bursting capillaries staining her blue eyes bloody red. Sensation only partially returned, but it was all she needed. Without entirely knowing how or why, Tracy found the frozen void within her empty of heat energy, a bottomless abyss yearning to be fed. Her slackening grip tightened convulsively around Mike's wrists. Rage and determination merged with terror and pain on her face.
Pull.
Through the mad red haze, Mike noticed something wrong. His victim, so close to dying a second before, suddenly jerked in his grip. That wasn't unusual, and neither were the red eyes. He'd seen both in victims that he'd strangled before, but she wasn't getting weaker. She was getting stronger – and colder. Mike's mind went blank for an instant in confusion. When sense reasserted itself, Mike realized what was happening and frantically tried to pull his hands away. He jerked and twisted, but his hands had already lost all feeling as frosted ice formed over his numb fingers and cemented them in place.
"No –!" Mike screamed as Tracy's body started to shed fine white mist.
With a sudden whoosh, Mike jerked backward as Tragedy regained her incorporeal form. Hellish cold radiated from her, and the slightly wavering outline of her face could not disguise the murder in her eyes. The ambient heat of the steam disappeared from the air, and the melting ice on the tile floor froze over once more.
Mike backpedaled madly, but he had already turned completely around to face the bathroom door. His frozen hands waved before him, but he could not pull them apart to use his arms for balance. He lost his footing on the treacherous ice and fell, tumbling backwards to smash through the thin layer of ice that had formed over the hot tub. Mike's head shot up, splashing stray chunks of ice around, sputtering. He never had the chance to scream, for Tragedy was already upon him.
Without hesitation, Tragedy plunged her gaseous hand into the hot water. Instantly the water ceased to steam. Mike only had time to get his hands out of the water, curled forever into a deathgrip, before the merciless cold closed in on him. A thousand needles, daggers of pain stabbed at every part of his body, penetrating into his very core. Mike's mouth opened to scream, but the frozen water crushed the air from his lungs. Then the very warmth of his body was gone, sucked away suddenly by a void as cold as space. Icicles drooped from Mike's dead fingers and white frost settled over the bathtub before Tragedy pulled her hand away.