A/N: I'm glad to see that I still have some old readers around, and a warm welcome to any newcomers. I'm trying to clean up and edit the chapters when I can, but due to time constraints, there will probably be an upload every other day or so. I still need to work on my other fic as well, but I just haven't gotten around to it yet. Anyway, thanks for sticking with me guys!

Humans are hardwired to survive — it's in our nature.

Ingrained into our very DNA is the will to live, and we are inherently programmed to take whatever steps necessary to prolong our life span for as long as physically possible. Fear — base, raw, mortal fear — is the dividing line in our species, and who we are — our strength of character— is defined by how we acknowledge and ultimately react to that fear.

By definition, the fight-or-flight response is a psychological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived attack, aggressive stimulant, or threat to one's continuity. Most people, when faced with danger or mortal peril, will oftentimes choose the safer route of self-preservation and aim to flee. I, however, am not "most people". Perhaps it's the proud Viking blood that flows through me, or maybe it's even just a redhead thing, but I tend to lean heavily towards the "fight first, ask questions later" mentality. Even when the odds are stacked against me, I'm either too rash, too stubborn, or too stupid to ever back down (or, in many cases, a combination of all three).

It's… kinda my thing? (They don't call me feisty-pants for nothing, after all!)

But, one look into those piercing blue eyes, and suddenly, I am no better — nor more braver — than the seven billion other people that call this planet home. Whatever bravado I may have had hoped to convey is immediately replaced by basic instinct, and currently, that instinct screams at me to run away. My mind urges me to make my escape, but my body refuses to listen, overwhelmed and short-circuited by the rush of panic that floods my veins.

Until this very moment, I was of the impression that horror movies were no more than an overly gory lie, that it was Hollywood's way of building suspense by having a character freeze in terror only moments before they were to be savagely mauled by whatever ghost or demon that haunted them. Unfortunately, it's a lesson I learn far too late, so paralyzed by fear that I am. Seriously, how is it possible for someone to be so completely and utterly incapacitated by terror, that they are left so defenseless when it matters the most?

I mean… really!? This is a HUGE oversight on the part of human evolution…

"Anna." Her voice is low, and she's angry. But why — why, God, why!? — is she angry?

They say ignorance is bliss, but presently, I find that difficult to believe. In all the years that we've been friends, I've only ever seen Elsa angry a small handful of times, and never once was I on the receiving end of it. Sure, she's been annoyed and frustrated with me in the past, but never angry — and certainly not to this degree!

Her face is a motley of crimson, and a thick vein pulsates violently at the corner of her temple, prompting me to momentarily worry that she might burst an artery (or worse). But when she doesn't instantaneously combust, and fails to be consumed in a raging blaze of Hellfire, my main concern returns to my own well-being as I brainstorm solutions to this strange (and frightful!) predicament I now find myself in.

"Anna," she repeats, taking a threatening step forward. Unconsciously, I take one back.

It doesn't even occur to me that I'm twenty something feet in the air, standing safely atop the roof of a house, and she's stuck on solid ground wearing high-heels. My current risk of physical harm is almost zero to none, but even with the odds stacked in my favor, the danger in the air is near palpable, and my body chooses to react accordingly. Discreetly, I break eye-contact just long enough to glance pleadingly at the workers beside me. Regrettably, the group mentality seems to be that I am to be left to fend for myself, as each and every one of them deliberately avoid my gaze.

'I am your boss!' I want to demand, mentally stomping my foot in indignation. 'If I die, NONE of you are getting paid!' I mean, seriously… couldn't they at least act like they're worried for me? Instead, they turn away, continuing to lay new shingles while obstinately ignoring my presence. Bloody traitors…

"Anna," Elsa says for the third time, and this time, it's followed by more, "Get down here. NOW."

I… I want to cry. I don't know why, but I do. I've got a bad feeling about this. Something in my gut just doesn't sit right, and I can practically feel it twist itself into knots. I mean, technically, it could just be the breakfast burrito I had scarfed down this morning, but this doesn't seem like your run-of-the-mill indigestion. It carries a far more foreboding tone, and lacks the distinct aftertaste of refried beans and guacamole.

Suddenly, Kristoff — my business partner and other best friend since high school — steps out through the front door, where he had been spearheading the kitchen cabinet renovations. Frantically, I wave to gain his attention, but he takes one look at me, one look at Elsa, and promptly turns on his heel and marches back inside. The look he gives me before he disappears clearly reads, "Sorry, but you're on your own."

I don't cry — at least, not outright — but this time there is nothing to stop the pitiful whimper that escapes my throat. I've never felt so pathetic in all my life, and yet, I can't find it within me to care. Elsa, for one reason or another, is angry at me, and I really, really, really do not want to know why. By now, she's starting to get impatient; I can see it in the way her stance shifts, arms once crossed now sliding down to place her hands firmly atop her hips, her right foot tapping restlessly.

"I'm going to give you to the count of three," she warns, and I can literally feel myself go cold as the blood drains from my face. Elsa only counts to three when she's truly irritated, and I've learnt on more than one occasion that lack of compliance leads to ugly results.

"One…" she begins, and my stomach sinks.

"Two…" she continues, and I scramble to undo my safety harness while simultaneously gunning for the ladder.

"Thr—" the harness is off, and I'm two steps down the ladder, but in my haste to reach the bottom, I begin to sway. Abruptly, Elsa cries my name, her tone no longer angry but filled with worry as I lose balance and tip backwards. Awkwardly, I cling to the rungs, wondering how and why the house is falling away, listening on in confusion as the others start to yell as well.

Curiosity and confusion get the best of me, and I try to ask what's wrong, but my body is once again frozen. Then it hits me. And when I say it, I mean the cold, hard ground. I'd sigh, but everything hurts.

This year's Darwin Award goes to…

You know that saying? The one where they go, "Oh, it's not as bad as it looks!" You know the one I'm talking about, right? Right. Well, whoever said that first was wrong. They were wrong in so many ways, and on so many levels… they were wrong, wrong, wrong!

This is exactly as bad as it looks! Maybe even worse!

"Oh, shit… Anna!" Elsa gasps, hand held to her mouth in horror as she rushes to my side. Oh shit, Anna, is right.

The ladder, which had fallen atop me, is ripped and thrown carelessly to the side by Kristoff, who had rushed outside see what had caused the commotion. He carefully drags me out of the bushes that had miraculously broken my fall, though the spasms of pain radiating down my spine do little to assure me that I had escaped this ordeal entirely unscathed. They lay me gently in the grass, Elsa cradling my head and neck as she strokes her fingers through my hair, murmuring apologies and soft assurances that everything would be okay.

"Crap, Anna," Kristoff groans, pulling out his phone as he dials for help. "Just stay still and don't move, okay? I'm going to—hello? Yes! I need an ambulance right away. My friend, she fell off the roof and—"

As he continues to speak with the dispatcher, Elsa cups my cheeks and leans over me, resting her forehead atop mine. Staring this closely, it's impossible to miss the tears in her eyes, and despite the obvious pain of falling, nothing hurts me more than seeing Elsa distressed or upset.

"Sorry," I wheeze, offering a cheeky grin as comfort, "I didn't think I could fall so hard for you."

She gives something of a mix between laughter and a sob, and it's just enough to ease the worst of her worry away. "You dork," she sighs, shaking her head ruefully.

"Maybe, but that makes me your dork," I reply, leaning slowly to press a kiss to her cheek. She smiles and gives a soft noise of contentment, and I stare upwards into those icy blues, searching for the answer to a question I was still too hesitant to ask.

Elsa, of course, is far more astute than I give her credit for and easily senses my thoughts. "You wouldn't answer your phone," she explains, somewhat shyly. "I've been trying to get ahold of you since last night, and I must have left at least a dozen voicemails and texts. But you wouldn't respond…"

"Aw, damn. Elsa," I say, grimacing, both in remorse and in pain. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you, honestly! It's just… we're only one week from open house and there's still so much that we haven't gotten done. I stayed here overnight, and only stopped back home for a change of clothes and food. I didn't even think to check my personal phone… I'm really sorry."

Her lips form a faint smile, eyes flickering briefly to take in a more critical view of the house. Kristoff and I were house flippers, and this was our latest project — a two story Colonial that we had snagged at auction for a steal. Occasionally, Elsa had served as a financial backer, and it was common for her to visit us from time to time to inspect our work, though this was the first time she'd been to this particular sight.

"It's nice," she comments, "I like what you did with the color scheme. It really pops out, especially in this neighborhood." My chest swells with the praise, and I release a silent breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. Ever since we were young, I had always secretly vied for Elsa's approval in the things I did, and though I still don't quite understand the motivation behind it, it's a habit carried over well into our adulthood.

"Anyway…" she goes on, "I… uh, I apologize for startling you, and for showing up unannounced as I did. I shouldn't have come at you so aggressively, and I should've waited to approach you with a more level head. But I didn't… and now you're hurt…"

Elsa's smile doesn't fade, but it does falter, and whatever pain I feel at this moment is overridden by a rush of worry. "You're upset," I observe, quietly, "You tried to call me, I didn't respond, and for your own valid reasons, you panicked. I was being a lousy best friend, and it's my fault for not paying attention. You needed me, and I wasn't there. And whatever it is that's got you so—"

I'm cut off as sirens sound in the distance, wailing their arrival, and Kristoff — who had been keen enough to know we needed to talk — runs out onto the street to hail them over. Elsa shushes me, silencing the words in my throat as she orders me to relax, moving aside as the paramedics come in with their gurney and backboard.

She hovers anxiously in the background, never straying too far out of view as they begin their assessment, making sure to stay in my line of sight as they secure a collar around my neck and gently maneuver me onto the board. Only when I'm securely strapped in does she return to my side, slipping her hand between mine as the medics prepare to wheel me away.

"I'm coming with her," she states simply, leaving no room for argument as she follows the crew. They load me into the back of the rig, and Elsa is quick to climb in after, keeping just enough distance to give them room to work.

My eyes remain steadfastly on her throughout the entirety of our journey, using her as a focal point to ground myself against the continuous waves of pain. Her hand squeezes mine reassuringly, and she speaks up for me as much as she can so that I don't have to, though she turns bashful when the medic asks if I had fallen due to accident, or if I had passed out beforehand.

She explains it was an accident, and I grunt in confirmation, feeling tired, sore, and dizzy now that the earlier adrenaline fades. He nods and returns to writing his report, and Elsa sighs softly, mumbling something curious beneath her breath. I can only just catch the phrase, "I guess this makes us even," which only baffles me further.

It repeats in my mind, over and over again like a mantra. I'm perplexed by its meaning, though I'm no longer feeling well enough to speak. Still, I ponder the expression all the way to the hospital.

"I guess this makes us even."

What a strange thing to say…