Saturday Story: The Ice Queen

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During the summer of 2005, when we were all too poor to do anything and too bright to do nothing, my boyfriend at the time started putting together a world for a roleplay game we were all in love with, called Mutants and Masterminds, a super hero themed game.

He had written his dissertation on comics for his English degree and was well versed in the history and theory of DC, Marvel and various of the smaller comic-verses. The idea was simple and at the same time wonderfully complex – each of us would create a Dynasty, three characters all linked by blood who would pass on the mantel of a superhero identity from the Golden Age (40s-50s) to the Silver Age (60s-early 80) to the Bronze Age (late 80s to modern day).

The project kept us busy for a long time but unfortunately lost a lot of steam when M&M brought out a second edition with a different ruleset. The idea was a good one though, and for my money our superhero universe was one of the finest I’ve encountered.

All being writers and artists, we began to produce bits of fiction about our creations as well as backgrounds. This piece was about my Bronze Age character, Christina De Winterson – American Socialite by day/evening, Superheroine with the power to create and control control ice/water by night. Christina was a joy to write about, although sadly I never got to play her.

Dynastic: Behind The Mask

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

Her high heels trace a pattern around the dance floor, stepping in time with the music which thuds through the walls. Her eyes are sharp behind her shades. The fingers twitch with nervous energy, delicately entwined around the champagne glass stem. The host won’t notice that one glass will last all evening.

Voices call to her across the room. Ringing out with intoxication, delight, desire, requests and requirements. Their eyes flash in the strobe lights, their jewellery glistens through the dry ices and thick atmosphere. The pheremones are intoxicating. Everyone here is on the hunt tonight.

Stares follow her as she threads her way through the crowd, leaving shivers and trickling gasps in her wake. The dress flows, floating like a gentle wave behind her as she parts the seething mass of people, as Moses parted the Red Sea. However, there is no promised land on the other side of the waves for her.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Slice.

The blade swings and finds its mark before the mook had even smelt the steel in the air. She moves swiftly, accurately, dancelike around the factory floor. Arms, hands, feet, torso and legs working in a perfect harmony, balance an art form rather than a chance left to fate. She slits her way through the trouble. The problems before her can all be solved with a sword or a blow. Lazily she flicks a perfect icicle behind her to impale an escapee. With a tiny fraction of her mind, she contemplates the perfection of the creation. Flawless, beautiful, shining, unique. She muses upon how such a thing would, in another world, be considered a work of art rather than an instrument of death.

Slice.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

“Darling, are you having the best time ever? If not let me know and Harvey will fix it for you instantly…”

The only requirement in this life is to have the best time ever. Time after time after time after time.

Do they not realise how hard it is to frame the perfect smile repeatedly? To make the joy sparkle like snowflakes in your eyes, and not to let them turn to ice chips?

So many people here, and all of their nights rely upon her having the best time ever. If she doesn’t, their attempts have failed.

A casual breath re-frosts her lukewarm champagne. The bubbles tingle in her nose.

“Oh darling, it’s divine, I’m having the most wonderful time…”

And she’s off. Still tracing her patterns through the dancefloor. Ever on the watch, ever on the alert, ever mindful of those around her.

She’s surrounded now. A slight miscalculation. A slight error of judgement.

Her eyes close for an instant behind her perfect mask. A sheen of ice covers her skin, deflecting the blows from the swords and knives. A blast of bitter air knocks them all back, and the advantage is hers again. Her way is clear. Her swords resume their task.

Slice.

As if by some pre-arrangement, the hands reaching out in feigned friendship do not touch her. Her frosty perfect veneer is beyond approach. Beyond reproach. The gossip columns snigger in their new name for the beautiful Ms De Winterson. The Ice Queen. She smiles a secret smile. How truly perfect. How truly ironic.

She is the most known and unknown person in the world. The expensive transluscent makeup, which makes her already perfect skin glow with all the health and warmth of a St Tropez tan, is a more effective mask than the one she dons once the revellers sleep.


Behind the cut out eyes, she becomes real. She acts on her own instincts, for her own sake, and for the sake of others around her. Her actions have purpose and meaning. She feels more real behind this artistic mask than she ever does when patrolling the fashionable bars and restaurants of Manhattan.

As ┬áthe sodden air vibrates around her, she wonders. Why not give this up? Why not ‘retire’ from the public life, become a fashionable recluse, and devote her time to her real self. The one who has not aged since 1912.

Because… she thinks. Because.

Money is power. Beauty is power. And these people have money and beauty, however distorted and corrupt it might be.

And one day, a delusion of grandeur will strike, and one of these people who already has everything the world can offer them will want more. Already in possession of money and beauty, they will find that power corrupts. And the most beautiful and rich of all will see that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

She runs a careless hand over her shining hair, refreshes her glass with another crystal breath. With smiles and glances which make the night perfect for so many around her, she carries on walking, patrolling, watching and waiting around the edges of the dance floor. She studies her peers, in preparation for the day when they become her rivals.

She continues walking.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack…

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