The plane was taxiing slowly across the snowy runway, breaking to the crossover with the freshly plowed one. The snow wasn’t coming down too thick now, just a little here and there, a break in the storm. The pilot would have to get above the clouds or he’d be risking flying through this soup. Not a good risk, in my opinion, but then, I wasn’t a pilot. Actually, I hadn’t even been on a plane. I hoped my assumptions were correct.
I ran toward the left wing of the plane, staying well clear of the jet engines mounted to the tail. I caught up with it about a hundred yards from the turnaround and leapt onto the wing. I caught my balance and steadied myself as I saw the cabin door begin to open. I pulled a pistol and pointed it toward the closest window, then started to compensate my aim for the movement of the plane.
There was a heavy thump and Old Man Winter was there, only feet away from me. I emptied the whole magazine at his face without hesitation. Most of them hit, but he had effectively iced his entire skin, like armor, and all it succeeded in doing was chipping at it, putting cracks in the sheet that extended all around his nose and cheeks. “So, that’s how it’s gonna be,” I muttered as I tossed the gun aside. He watched it sail off the edge of the wing; I wasn’t concerned, I had two more if I needed them.
I came at him with a rush of anger, his blue eyes barely visible under the ice he’d formed over his body like a protective carapace. I hit him with the palm of my hand and splintering cracks appeared like spiderwebs all across the surface of it. He moved fast but not fast enough, and I dodged his counterpunch by sliding to the side. I punched him again, this time in the side of the head with a blow that had lifetime’s worth of fury behind it, and the ice around his ear cracked, breaking off in a fist-sized chunk. I hit him again, and again, watching the breakage spread. I watched little cubes fall off as I hammered at him. “I bet you’re handy at a party,” I told him as I hit him again and broke loose a three-inch segment of ice. “Y’know, because running out of ice is a persistent concern.”
He tried to backhand me but missed as I dodged out of his reach. The sheet of ice coating his face had begun to slide off, damaged now beyond his ability to repair. He pulled it free, revealing a nose that seeped almost black-red blood down his upper lip. “Yes, I did understand your witticism.”
“It’s hard to tell, with you,” I said, and launched into a kick that caught him in the belly. I felt the blow land and I would have sworn it was the hardest kick I’d ever thrown. I heard the break of ice and he doubled over, but recovered quickly and swiped for me. “You know, because of your disposition.” I punched him in the face and heard the satisfying noise of the cartilage in his nose being radically realigned. More blood flowed out and froze the moment it hit the wing of the plane.
He took a step back from me, right to the edge of the wing as the plane started to make a slow turn onto the clear runway. I glanced for just a second at the windows; I should have shot at least one of them when I had a chance.
“I killed your bodyguards,” I said, taunting him as he stood there, on the edge of the wing, watching me with those fearsome blue eyes. “Every last one of them, from Parks to Bastian.”
“I know,” he said, immovable, staring back at me, and I caught a flicker of something. In spite of the damage, his face wore its usual inscrutable look, but there was a hint of curl at the corner of his mouth; his version of a smile. “I am very proud of you.”
“Oh, you bastard,” I said and made a move for him. He dodged to his left and circled around, positioning himself between me and the fuselage of the plane. “I hope you feel the same sense of pride when I rip your soul screaming from your body.”
“I would,” he said quietly, “if I thought you were capable of such a thing.”
“Oh, I’m capable,” I said. “In case you missed it, I just coldly murdered four people that I hated way less than you, and not one of them didn’t die in screaming pain.”
“Indeed,” he said, almost with amusement. “You have become everything I ever hoped you could be. What I made you to be—”
“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” I charged at him again and this time I connected before he could dodge. I hit him low with my shoulder into his midsection, tackling him schoolboy-style. I got astride his massive frame and scrambled up to his chest, where I proceeded to pummel his face with a punch that—no shit—caused the wing of the plane to dip. I hit him again and again and watched the cold blue eyes lose a little of their luster. “You know what you made me?” I hit him again and felt the satisfying crack of his jaw. “My mother abused and imprisoned me—Wolfe hunted and tortured me—Zack and Fries tried to seduce me for their own different reasons—and Omega and their lackeys have been dogging me every step of the way!” I hit him again. “But you—you—you ass!” I felt a hot tear run down my face as I hit him and broke his cheekbone. “You! You made me a victim.” I sobbed and seethed, all in one, crying in purest fury. “For the first time ever.” I hit him again, but there was no satisfaction in it. I stopped and grew cold and looked down at his face, misshapen from what I had done to him, and I sniffed. “Now I’m gonna repay the favor.”