“This is what you do for me? Get frozen by your own weapon by a pair of cats. Ones you have faced before but have always gotten the best of you. You know their skills, their weaknesses, you have a dozen foxes spying on them. All we provided to make your attempt successful, and we end up having to call on those… things to get you free. Do you have any idea what that makes me look like?” Dr. Snowstorm, occupied with various beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks, had his back turned to Chillwave. He pretended to be absorbed in his work, yet secretly he felt it would be better to give his admonishment without looking his minion in the eyes. His father once told him the eyes were the gateway to the soul. It was the last thing he said before he left on that train to Siberia. He would never hear his father’s voice again.

“I’m… sorry, Dr. Snowstorm, I appreciate all you have given me, and I… well I know I didn’t do the job as I set out to do… but…” Chillwave stood ten feet behind his benefactor, his arms out in supplication. His brittle and burnt coat cracked in several places; bits of carbonized fabric hung from the formerly blue parka. His goggles, melted on their bottoms, curled up and exposed the stark-white skin underneath.

“But what, Chillwave? What pathetic excuse will you offer me this time?” Snowstorm snapped as he poured the contents of one vial into another. The instant the clear fluids met, they bubbled out of the glass container and flowed over the steel counter of his lab bench. It froze into a solid green crystal, like lava cooling into an emerald. He chuckled at the reaction.

Chillwave hung his head. “I offer no excuse, just a reason.”

Dr. Snowstorm chuckled. “What reason is this?”

“The foxes, Dr. Snowstorm, the information they gave me was… not accurate.” Chillwave’s voice rose at the end of the statement; unsure of the words coming out of his own mouth.

“Not accurate you say?” Snowstorm asked as he wrote in this notebook, penciling in his observations from his latest experiment.

“Yes, sir. The fox told me they were secure in the house, and that as soon as their insipid guardians left, I would have them all to myself. The unsuspecting ferocious felines would be no match for me and my… excuse me, your freeze-pistol.” Chillwave straightened at his explanation, proud of the idea of his words, if not their accuracy.

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“None of this is in dispute. When they thawed the house we found their escape hatch. The cats simply ambushed you from the tree. The fox’s information was accurate.” Snowstorm took his monocle off and put it down on his lab bench next to his notes. He ran his blue-gloved hand over the steel surface, now encrusted with the continuous emerald he’d made. His back still turned to Chillwave.

“But the timing, sir, is the part that was not my fault. The fox told us to strike as soon as Sifu and The Professor left the house. We did that.” Chillwave plucked at the burnt sleeves of his parka, no longer looking at Dr. Snowstorm.

“We?” Snowstorm asked, putting both hands on the solid emerald and leaning in. He sighed as the words cleared his mouth.

“We… uhh… my associates who were… watching the street.” Chillwave plucked harder at the sleeve, nervously casting the burnt fabric to the floor. It crunched as he pulled the pieces off.

“Your associates?” Snowstorm laughed. “Those thugs you got to help you? They are rejects from a punk-rock band. Loiterers at CBGB at three A.M. They are incompetent, and obviously of no help to anyone.”

“But, sir…?” Chillwave dropped his sleeve and looked up.

“BUT NOTHING!” Dr. Snowstorm roared as he spun around from his bench. His ice-blue skin, reflecting the lights from the lab, glowed with an unearthly hue. His crystalline-blue eye focused on Chillwave, the diamond pupil locking onto the subordinate’s face. The other eye, still human in all respects, bore a ring around the socket, red and puffy from wearing the monocle far too long. Chillwave instantly cowered, throwing his arms over his face and turning his head.

“I ought to give you to those infernal monsters as payment for their services. You’re as useful to me as lips on a chicken.” Snowstorm grabbed his monocle from the lab bench and put it back in his eye. “Get out of my sight before I call them back.” Snowstorm waved his hand dismissively and turned to enter the storeroom adjoining the lab.

Chillwave, visibly shaking, squeaked out a response, “Sir, would you like me to find them again? We still have operatives in the area, and one named Kit has had an encounter with them directly.”

Snowstorm stopped in the doorway to the storeroom and rubbed the back of his neck with his still-gloved hand. He paused a moment then answered, “Fine, but don’t fail me again. Every time we need them to come rescue you, they get more powerful and the world gets warmer.” Chillwave fingered his burnt parka again as Snowstorm continued, “My calculations put your usefulness at the very tail of the curve. If you don’t succeed this time, do not return.” With one step Dr. Snowstorm walked into the storeroom and slammed the door behind him. Chillwave winced, shaking more carbonized parka to the marble floor beneath him.

“I won’t fail you… Uncle,” Chillwave whispered, then turned on his heel and walked out of the lab.