Claire Stevens stepped into the shower, unaware of the breathless fate that awaited her. Combing her hand through her fiery red hair, she took a deep breath as she turned the shower on. Her breath stopped as she pulled the shower valve and the cool water splashed across the top of her head and down her back. She shuddered, hating the feeling. But the water quickly became blazing hot and she let out a nice, warm breath.
Being a pyrokinetic, Claire’s aversion to water was somewhat understandable: it was her one time of weakness during the day. It was the one point in time where she was as normal, as defenseless, as every other person on the street. But she knew how foolhardy the fear was: she had what might be seen as one of the best security systems in the world. For the weekend, she was visiting her parents, better known to the outside world as the infamous Black King and Red Queen. Her father could control shadows, and if a man was engulfed in one he might never be seen again. Her mother could control weaponry, and as her name attested, her weapons weren’t always bloodless. Who could possibly get through those two? And even if her parents were compromised, surely their fighting would at least give her the time to towel off.
So she relaxed. Her shoulders drifted downward and her head drifted upward as she allowed the water to caress her face. She smiled. Picking up the bottle, she squeezed shampoo into her hand. Her hand slid across her hair.
Suddenly, she noticed she wasn’t breathing. She grabbed at her neck. Was that a cord she felt? She tried tugging on it, but to no avail. She tried screaming, but was too breathless to do so. She tried elbowing her assailant, who had to be behind her, but couldn’t connect. She tried setting the rope on fire, but her powers refused to work. Thinking back to the self-defense her father had taught her, she thrust herself backwards, onto the shower wall. After that, everything was black, silent.
---
Fenrir sat up against the wall of his cell. Bored with his abode, he took the quarter that was in his hand and flicked it up in the air with the tip of his thumb. Catching it, he repeated the action.
Yeah, he thought to himself, This is all I need in life. A quarter.
His peace was disrupted by the appearance of an old man, who with the swing of his hand caused the cell door to swing open, allowing him to enter. Fenrir spat at the man’s feet, as he looked up and saw the old man’s figure: he was clearly ancient, with long gray hair and wrinkled skin. His age had clearly not made him docile, as he carried with him a spear. Fenrir stared into the man’s glass eye.
“I thought prison was too pleasant,” Fenrir growled. He wanted a bailiff to come in here and see that Odin was breaking in, see that Odin had no respect for human laws. But he knew that would be a moot point. Surely the old god had made himself invisible to the others, an expedient though unnecessary measure to allow him entry into Fenrir’s cell.
Odin let out a hearty laugh, “So you’re enjoying your time spent in this cage?” Odin asked.
“Almost as much as I’m enjoying the thought of killing you,” Fenrir said, allowing himself a smirk. It was made all the more amusing to him by the fact that he knew it would be true. Norse legends had spoken of it for over a millenia: during Ragnorak, the apocalypse, Odin was doomed to die by Fenrir’s hands.
“For a mutt, you’ve a sharp tongue, Fenrir.”
“That’s only in my human form. When I’m in my wolf form, it’s my teeth that do the talking.”
Odin’s smile turned into frustration, as he realized Fenrir’s spirit was not broken, “Do you really think you’re going to get your mongrel paws on me? Me! Odin. God of War. God of Victory. God of Death. Do you really think you can kill the God of Death?”
Fenrir continued flipping the coin, “A prophecy’s a prophecy. And you’re the God of Prophecy. You of all people should know I’m going to kill you.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Odin yelled, angrily.
“You do. In fact, probability’s on your side. What are the chances of me besting the God of War in a battle? But I hate to break it to you, fate’s going to abandon you, and then it’s going to be on my side.” Looking at the quarter, Fenrir threw it at Odin, who caught it in the air as he stared at Fenrir, “In fact, this coin’s more your territory than mine.”
Odin tossed the coin into the prison toilet, flushed it, and then proceeded to leave the jail cell.
“Some guys are just sore losers,” Fenrir said, twiddling his thumbs.
It remained that way for several hours, as he sat there, thinking and twiddling. Finally, he noticed the bailiff opening the door to his cage.
“At least you’re supposed to be here,” Fenrir muttered.
“What was that?” the bailiff asked.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Fenrir replied.
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