#fictionalcharacters #fiction #batman #fanfic

Snow fell softly outside the window.
Winter was not back, it had just never left. He stood outside his little porthole in his igloo. And wondered if he would ever be able to stand under the sun again. Feel the warmth seep into his skin, almost like a tingling feeling that was more euphoric than any drug.

He sighed – his breath was so cold that the window didn’t mist over.

He turned and walked over to his bed. Sitting down, he reached over and picked up a framed photo. With surprising delicacy, one of his sausage-like fingers stroked the image of the blonde woman. He missed her so much. The way she laughed, the way she smiled. Most of all, he missed her soft, warm hands. She had the warmest hands ever, a blessing for someone like him.

For a second, he almost expected her soft presence beside him on the bed. Every Sunday, she used to sit right next to him and read the morning papers. She’d make tea and they’d pour at least two cups each, forgetting to sip, and then making faces while gulping their cold tea.

“Hey you. Freak.” The guard was back at the door.
The prisoner turned. He’d gotten used to the names, the abuses, the looks. There was no looking back anymore, no regrets, no “what ifs”.

“You gotta visitor.” The guard stomped away, his footsteps echoing on the cold floor. A figure stood at the barred window in the door. “How are you?”

The man inside the cell sighed. “Why do you keep coming back? Go away.”
The man outside said, “I believe there’s still something inside you that’s good. Something that can get you out of here.”

Mr Freeze stood up in anger. “Nothing can get me out of here, Batman. There is nothing I want to get out of here for.”

Quietly, Batman said, “We saved your wife, Victor. She’s alive. And we’ve found an antidote.”

Mr Freeze sat down again. Heavily. The bed creaked. The taste of cold tea filled his mouth.


The lift pinged.
The doors slid open.
He stood there, coffee cup in hand.
She sauntered in, her bag in one hand and coat in the other.

“New perfume?” He was smiling.
“Maybe.” She was smiling too.
“It’s a little faint,” he said, still looking at the floor numbers.
“Funny. Every time I breathe, I get it,” she replied and took a deep, deep, meaningful breath.

Very slowly, he turned his head back. Stood stock still for a couple of seconds. And then cleared his throat.
“Ah. So its…”
“Yes,” she said, quite simply. Smiling.
“Well. You always did have a flair for…finding the right…niche.” He seemed to be struggling.
She bit her lip to stop from smiling even more broadly. “Really? We’re going to trade pseudo entendres?”
He grinned. “I’m trying not to be indiscreet.”
She grinned too. “Really? Why?”

His grin looked like it would split his face in half. “Good point. By the way, I’d really like to…take in the fragrance…you know?”
“Oh really? Here.” She popped the bottle out of her bag and presented it to him.

He smirked. Took it. And sprayed it on his chest. Her jaw dropped.
“There. We’re even now,” he said.
She started laughing. And the lift doors opened.

Robinson’s choice

I wake up everyday, to blue skies and sunshine. This island doesn’t know the meaning of bad weather.

It helps to wake up to bright light every day, unlike England – dark, gloomy and brooding, always making my moods worse.

Mother must probably be crying her eyes out everyday – I feel a pang of guilt at the thought. I doubt Father cries, though he might feel bad – I think. Selena and Brian too. They must think of me…but I think that their thoughts may be spurred by the way in which I’ve disappeared – and less to do with me, myself.

After all, in all the time that I was there, all I ever heard them do was complain about how shiftless I was or how downcast or how pessimistic. What is that new-fangled saying? My glass is always half empty.

Over the years, I tired of it. It’s hard enough being me, it’s hard enough waking up and going through each day and the cumbersome waltzes human society puts in place – but add to that the crushing expectation of having to be like that Pollyanna woman all that time?

When I heard of the ship’s departure, I knew I had to seize my chance. I boarded, bribed the captain, and told him to tell everyone I was lost in a pirate skirmish. When we landed on this island, his crew helped knock up a house and a garden for fresh vegetables, left me with supplies and a flare kit – and left.

A year later, the captain came by – to check on me. And with him came new books, new supplies and more. I’ve willed my estate in Brazil to him as payment. And his son started the tradition this year.

I’ve been here 14 years. And I haven’t regretted it once.
I wake up, I tend my garden, I read my books, I write. I walk around the island four or five times a day.
No one accuses me of being a fusspot. Or a pessimist. Or unhumourous. Or uncouth.
Here, I am perfect.