Convention Number Two

Your foot taps nervously on the ice, a light crunch sounding from the ever-present frost sucking onto the floor of the Fortress of Solitude. You've spent the last three months of your afterlife inside of this iceberg, but you still haven't gotten used to it and the cold air molests the back of your neck, your wrists, your face, trying to slither its way into your clothes and freeze you to death.

Jonathan's cavernous voice is echoing all throughout the huge ice chamber and even as your back...