Reverse-Flash Task Force - Part 2

Title: Reverse-Flash Task Force
Characters: The Renegades (Simon Slaytor/Mirror Monarch, Lance Allen/Commander Cold, Jim Jefferys/Trixster, Marten Moore/Weather Warlock, Michael Rayner/Heatstroke, Randall Dennison/Top)
Words: 16103
Summary: Reverse-Flash Task Forces have to come from somewhere.
Warnings: Canonical character death

AN: So, I'm not sure how many people actually know who the Renegades are. They're from Professor Zoom's (Eobard Thawne's) time, created to stop him, though they're pretty new at all this when we see them (just before the reboot). I would've liked to see more with them in, but I doubt we're going to get that any time soon, given who the new Reverse-Flash is.
Anyway, I decided to try and explore their characters a little. What kind of people does it take to make a Reverse-Flash Task Force? Are we talking Justice League or Suicide Squad? What are they like out of uniform? I've done my best to avoid other people's views of the Renegades, so as to keep mine as solid and consistent as possible.
Well, anyway, here's my interpretation of one possibility.

Extra AN: We don't get given the names of the Renegades in the Dastardly Death of the Rogues arc, so obviously I've had to make up my own for them. I'm afraid that they're not very 25th century (I couldn't come up with names like Eobard or Simogyn), but as an aid to remember which Rogue they're representing I've tried to keep to similar names.

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Mike arrived at his work building at the same time as Marten. They chatted on the way up to the lab room. It was quite a nice day out and, surprisingly, Marten agreed that it would be nice to spend some time outdoors.

However, their plans for having a team lunch out were put on hold the second they walked into the hectic rush of the lab.

“We've got a mission!” Simon practically sang as he ran by them, “Get your kit on!”

Mike and Marten exchanged a bemused glance before heading to fetch their equipment. Jim was waiting for them, their outfits and weapons in his arms, and looking just as excited as Simon had been.

Once everyone was suited up, Simon stood before them, Lance slightly off to one side. Mike had noticed this before; Simon would put on a show of handling his responsibility as leader then step back and let Lance take over. Sure enough, the moment Simon finished his short speech – to the effect of 'we have a mission' – he passed off the actual mission briefing to Lance.

“We have a meta-human situation downtown,” Lance said, handing out maps to everyone, “Luckily it's not an urgent problem, but it is spreading.” Lance took a while handing Marten his map and, for his part, Marten was giving Lance his complete undivided attention.

Huh, how long had that been going on?

“As only two of us have completed the required number of hours training time for the time-platforms, we’ll be making our way there by standard vehicles,” Lance continued, “Slaytor, Jefferys, you can use the platforms to scout ahead if you wish, but do not engage the enemy until the entire Task Force has arrived at the scene.”

“On it,” Simon said, already moving away and taking Jim with him.

“Everyone got their weapons? Let’s go.” Lance commanded.

The anticipation Mike felt only grew as they got closer and closer to the Links. When they were there it was clear where the disturbance was happening.

The thing was spreading inch by inch over the collection of grassy triangles that made up the park. It put Mike in mind of a lava-flow he'd once seen while travelling. The big difference to any kind of volcano was the fact that the thing was a single blob of greasy black, rather than a continuous stream of molten red.

It also seemed intelligent, globbing around obstructions or attacking them single-mindedly until they burst into flame or melted. The heat was incredible, even at a distance.

“Spread out and contain it,” Lance ordered, “Keeping it in here and civilians out is priority. Only engage when we're all in position. That thing could do a lot of damage around buildings.”

“Like it's done over there?” Jim pointed down a street which had been warped and burnt by the thing creeping through it.

Mike could see Lance's jaw tense and heard him mutter something unsavoury about Precinct One under his breath.

“Spread out,” Lance repeated.

“What the hell is it?” Marten asked over their headsets once they were making their way to hopefully strategic points.

“I'm... I'm not sure if it's relevant...” Randall said quietly.

“Spit it out,” Lance ordered, “Anything that might help is useful.”

“Well, there was an enemy of the Flash,” Randall said, gaining confidence as he dug further into his memory, “Tarpit. I... I can't remember his real name, but he could astrally project himself and got stuck in a pile of flaming tar.”

“Do you think this is the same guy?” Jim asked.

“It's been over four hundred years...” Randall said doubtfully.

“Until proven otherwise, assume that's the case,” Lance said, “Know his weaknesses, Dennison?”

“Um... He's a flaming tar pile,” Randall said, “So... cold? I guess?”

“Anything that hot has to be close to flashpoint,” Jim pointed out, “Depending on how quickly it regenerates, you could probably burn it off. It'd leave a stain, but it wouldn't be mobile anymore.”

“Alright, Moore, see how cold you can get it, I'm going in,” Lance ordered, “Rayner, Jefferys, you keep it from spreading further. Use whatever firepower you can. Slaytor, Dennison, you're on cleanup, keep what structure you can of nearby buildings – any civilians you get them out.”

“On my way,” Simon said.

Mike was extremely glad of the thick insulation on his suit. The icy wind was biting and more than once the headsets picked up chattering teeth from one of the group who had bare skin visible. Marten stood in the middle of it, the brightly glowing wand the only thing distinguishing his green suit from the rest of the park. He was responding tersely whenever Jim tried to ask how he was holding up.

Mike pushed forward. The heatpack on his back was a comfort.

The blobby tar pile gave itself a shake and seemed to grow taller as it pulled itself together and reared up away from where Lance had started blasting ice at it.

Flaming tar splattered near Mike. He unleashed his flamethrower and within seconds there wasn't anything more than a smear of oily soot on the path. Easy.

Over the comms, Lance and Simon were keeping up a steady stream of updates on the situation. Mike would have found it annoying if it hadn't stopped him from walking straight into a hidden piece of tar twice already.

“It's not going away,” Simon called, “We can't keep it contained forever, we need a plan.”

Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from Lance.

“I could try burning it,” Mike suggested, “It's been working so far.”

“Marten'll have to drop the cold weather,” Jim said, “And then things'll get hot.”

“What's the damage likely to be?” Lance asked.

“COLD! I'LL KILL YOU!” roared a gurgling voice.

Lance only avoided the tidal wave of tar tearing into him because of Simon's quick thinking. A mirror-portal opened on the ice beneath Lance's feet and dropped him sideways out of the remains of a fountain by Mike.

“I'm going to wall it in,” Lance shouted over the comms, “Slaytor, keep it contained within the reflections. Moore, get that cold wind surrounding us, but leave us a warm centre – Rayner's going to heat things up.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jim asked.

“You and Dennison, get the hell back to HQ and find something to contain what's left,” Lance ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Jim said, grabbing Randall and flying off on the translucent time-platform.

The winds shifted and soon a snowstorm was spinning around the park and darkening the sky. Mike was seriously impressed.

“I don't know how long I can keep this up for,” Marten admitted shakily.

“As long as you can,” Lance said, “That's all we need. Slaytor, get ready with those reflections.”

BANG!

Mike was lying on his back on the edge of the storm. There was a ringing in his ears and something telling him he had to move. Now.

Mike rolled to the side, a move made difficult by the tank on his back, just in time to avoid a flaming limb of tar slam down next to him. The tar creature had gotten bigger and Mike though he could make out what might be a face.

Ice walled up between them.

“You don't remember that you can't block me in with ice?” the gurgling voice laughed, “No one can hold me. You've gotten old, Cold!”

“Randall's going to be pissed that he missed this,” Simon said, “That's a walking piece of history right there. Well, shuffling piece anyway.”

“Focus, Slaytor.”

“I'm focussed. You ready, Mike?” Simon said, “I'm going to open a portal on your right. It'll take you behind it.”

“Ready,” Mike said, giving his flamethrower a quick squeeze to ensure it was still working. A lick of flame singed the fountain rubble.

The mirror-portal appeared as Simon said it would. Mike was very glad they'd been put through a lot of practise drills as the vertigo caught him when he dove through. The world lurched right way up as Mike landed heavily.

He was behind the creature as far as he could tell. It was alternating between flicking huge chucks of ice and globs of flaming tar at Lance, who was shoring up a barrier of ice to protect himself.

With a twist of the flamethrower's nozzle, Mike set the blast to wide and let rip.

Tarpit roared and twisted around to swat at Mike again. He caught the glistening of a mirror-portal out of the corner of his eye and leapt for it. Mike found himself behind Tarpit again.

The fight continued, much the same. Lance kept up the walls of ice and Simon opened portal after portal for Mike to run through to keep out of Tarpit's reach.

Mike was running for another portal when his foot caught on a lump of ice and he tripped. He broke his fall easily, but it cost him. With a bellow of rage, Tarpit's arm came down and Mike was hit with a pile of flaming tar.

Mike's vision sparked and even with the insulation in his suit he was uncomfortably hot.

“You hurt me! I'll hurt you!”

Mike squeezed the trigger of his flamethrower, raising the temperature further and separating Tarpit's arm from his body with a greasy smear.

“Container on the way,” Jim said, “We've got a big one and Randall swears it'll work.”

“Get Rayner out of there, Slaytor,” Lance ordered, “Moore, how are you holding up?”

The was a grunt from Marten, and though the snow was dying down, the winds were still howling as wildly as ever.

“I can't see him,” Simon shouted, “Mike!”

Tarpit was screaming and flailing about. Mike was still trapped under a layer of tar.

“Rayner! Status update!” Lance yelled, “Someone run distraction!”

“On it,” Jim said, “Bombs.”

A handful of capsules dropped from the sky and exploded around Tarpit. Mike struggled to free himself, slipping his heatpack off his shoulders as he did so.

“I'm fine,” Mike managed to gasp out over the comms, “My ribs are bruised and something's cut my arm, but I'm fine.”

There was another round of explosions and Mike felt his arm burning. Ice and a shimmering metal container were catching the light of the flames and blinding Mike. His vision went black for a moment.

“Come on,” Randall was suddenly there, looking beyond terrified and doing something with his arms to keep the worst of the fumes and smoke away, “Move!”

Something went crack, the container dropped, the winds died, and Mike finally lost consciousness.

--------------------

They waited in the same sterile, windowless room as Simon had before. It still had the sanitary poster up, though the corner of it had been torn by something. Simon felt his mind wander as time dragged on, and he thought up several ridiculous scenarios as to why the corner had been torn.

Lance was pacing, his face darkening with every step. Simon could see the build-up to a rant and wished he’d been allowed to help Mike to the hospital with the rest of the group. However, he was still the main point of contact between Precinct One and the Task Force and he knew enough about pissing off the higher-ups to know that Precinct One would take it badly if Lance was the only one who reported back.

Simon had a feeling that Precinct One would be happier with a written report, or even a call, but Lance had insisted on a face-to-face meeting and had forced Simon to lead him to the building in the middle of the Missouri river.

The door opened on its own. “We will see you now.”

Lance stormed through first and Simon trotted behind him quickly. The earlier he could cut off Lance’s rant, the better. Precinct One had already made a mistake by leaving him to stew for so long and Simon knew it would be ugly. He only hoped he could mitigate the damage.

“What is your request?” the same hooded figure said.

“We’re here to report on today’s mission,” Lance said stiffly.

“As stated in the documents informing you of the mission, I only require you to do your job when asked. A paper report can be filed for your own records, but Precinct One has no need of such memory aids. Do you have a request to make of me?”

Simon hadn’t known that the mission briefing had said that, but Lance likely had. That hadn’t stopped him ordering the entire Task Force to write a report on the fight before the end of the day tomorrow.

“We will be making reports, written for our own records and verbal for you,” Lance said, “A good commander sees to it.”

“I have no need of your reports,” Precinct One said, “I have everything I need to see what I need to in this building. If you do not require anything else, leave.”

“We’ll just –” Simon started.

“I require you to send our mission briefings instantly in a medium that gives us updates immediately,” Lance snapped, “I require you to understand that we are here to protect people to deal justice. I require you to allow us to do our bloody jobs!”

“I will consider what you have said. Please leave.”

Lance was thrown and Simon took the chance to leap in.

“Thanks for your time, we'll get on those reports,” Simon said, adding in an undertone, “C'mon, Lance. This isn't the time.”

Lance looked like he dearly wanted to argue some more, but whatever passed for common sense in his head finally prevailed.

“I'll see you in two days with our reports,” Lance said, with a glare.

And Lance had warned Simon about Precinct One being dangerous. Simon wasn't the one arguing with them!

--------------------

“Go on,” Jim said, giving Marten a nudge, when they were all back in the lab sans Mike, “You've got your excuse: celebratory drinks. Go on.”

“He won't want to,” Marten said.

“Simon said he likes The Bottle and Glass. Go on, ask him out,” Jim pushed.

Marten sighed.

“At least ask, or I'll follow you home and annoy the crap out of you,” Jim threatened, “Or I'll just ask for you.”

“No!” Marten said quickly, “Don't. I'll ask.”

“Good boy,” Jim said patronisingly, patting Marten on the head.

Marten batted his hand away. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, before walking over to where Lance was putting the last of his equipment away.

“Excuse me, Lance?” Marten said.

“You need something?” Lance asked, shutting the drawer and turning to face Marten.

“I was thinking about going for a celebratory drink, since it's our first mission, and a successful one too, and it might be good to get to know the other members of the team a bit better and,” Marten realised he was babbling, “Well, the point is, do you want to get a drink?”

“I could probably use one,” Lance said, “Got anywhere in mind?”

“I overheard Simon saying something about The Bottle and Glass,” Marten said, feeling ridiculously grateful for Jim's interference, “Do you know if it's any good?”

“It does a good house ale,” Lance replied, “I'll get my coat.”

“I'll finish putting away my stuff, shouldn't be two minutes,” Marten said.

He let out a breath when Lance left. So far so good.

However, when Marten got back to his lab bench it was completely clear, except for a note in Jim's handwriting.

I've got Randall out of the way and Simon shouldn't interfere. Good luck ;)

Marten screwed the note up into a ball and chucked it into the incinerator. He was never talking to Jim about wanting romantic company ever again.

“You ready to go?” Lance asked from behind Marten, he was holding out Marten's coat for him, “I spoke to Simon but he's busy and it looks like Randall and Jim have buggered off already. Just you and me by the looks of things.”

...though Marten's own attempts at getting a date had never gone this well before.

“That's fine,” Marten said, pulling on his coat, “Shall we?”

--------------------

If Marten had listened closely, he would have heard sniggering from behind his workbench, where Jim and holding a hand over his own mouth and Randall's. Jim was barely containing his laughter, while Randall looked somewhat indignant, but amused at the event. The equipment that had been on Marten's workbench was scattered on the floor around the two men.

Only when the door shut did Jim let Randall get back to his feet. Jim finally let himself laugh out loud. Randall rolled his eyes and started to clear up the equipment.

“Is it really that funny?” Randall asked.

“I didn't think Lance was that oblivious,” Jim said, “And I've never seen Marten that jumpy.”

“It seems like they could be quite a good match,” Randall observed.

“If one of them actually manages to tell the other,” Jim said, “We'll give them ten minutes to make sure one of them didn't forget something then we can leave.”

Simon picked them moment to return from the cloakroom with Jim and Randall's jackets in his arms.

“Did they go?” Simon asked.

“Yeah,” Jim replied, “Want to make a wager?”

“Tenner says they do,” Simon said, “And another to say that Marten's to one to initiate.”

“I say it'll be Lance,” Jim said.

“I can't believe you're betting on your team mates' romance,” Randall tutted. They both turned to look at him expectantly, “...oh alright,” Randall threw up his hands, “I'll take that they don't and the pinning gets worse from here on in.”

They shook hands and the bet was settled.

--------------------

“Table at the back, get it,” Lance said, pointing at an empty table near the back of the room, “I'll get the drinks.”

Lance was off toward the bar before Marten had a chance to say anything. Shrugging to himself, Marten made a beeline for the table Lance had indicated and was relieved to find it still empty when he reached it. He put his coat over the back of one chair and sank into it.

Marten looked over the Bottle and Glass and found it to be a fairly nice looking old pub. The tables and chairs were mostly a dark stained wood – probably ash the analytical part of Marten's brain offered – while the floor and the bar itself, though made from the same wood by the looks of them, were well worn and much lighter.

The lights were low and the music barely audible below the hum of voices. Though there was still a bit much of an alcohol and body odour smell for his tastes, Marten found it much less offensive than he was used to in the much livelier bars Jim would try and drag him to on occasion.

“Here,” Lance set down a glass in front of Marten and settled himself into the other chair, “Good job being quick on the table.”

Marten took a tentative sip of his drink. It wasn't quite what he would have ordered for himself, but it was tastier than the drinks Jim usually shoved on him at the aforementioned bar trips.

“Sorry if it's not your thing,” Lance said upon seeing Marten's frown, “It's sort of a rule here. First time you visit you've got to try their house ale. After that you can have what you want.”

“It's nice enough,” Marten said, taking another larger gulp, “I wouldn't say no to trying it again sometime.”

That appeared to have been the right thing to say, Lance's mouth tilted up and he raised his own glass.

“To a successful mission?” he offered.

“To a successful mission,” Marten agreed, clinking his glass with Lance's.

There was a somewhat awkward silence. It was probably the worst possible time for Marten to realise that the more talkative of the group had been left behind and he had no idea how to start a conversation with Lance or what it would be about.

“So,” Lance said, “What do you think could've gone better in the mission?”

“I suppose we weren't all using the same terminology,” Marten said, hating that all they could talk about was work, “Jim and I can understand chemical and mechanical terms, but you and Simon have a selection of police codes that you were using. It was all understandable,” Marten added quickly, “But I wasn't expecting it.”

“Communication's one of the first things we should've learnt,” Lance agreed, “I'll get ahold of my old copy of police terminology and work something out.”

“We might need a bit more than police terms,” Marten said after another awkward moment of silence, “Given we're going to be dealing with situations that are specifically outside of police jurisdiction.”

“I'll work something out,” Lance repeated.

“Did the equipment work as expected?” Marten asked, wishing he was doing anything other than parroting his lab reports, but desperately trying to fight off another impending silence.

“Actually, I've been considering a few things,” Lance said, “My gun got knocked out of my hand during the fight and I didn't have a backup. But a backup could be just as easily knocked aside. Do you think there's a way to get... I don't know, my boots or coat to have an emergency ice-blast in them?”

Marten tapped his fingers on the table, ideas starting to form in his head. “How would it be activated?”

“Voice activation,” Lance replied, “In my experience I'm more likely to be able to talk than move if things are going badly. If I can't do either then things are going to hell anyway.”

Marten barely paid attention to the last half of what Lance was saying, scrabbling inside his pockets for a pen. He found one, but no paper. Marten grabbed a napkin and started scribbling down notes.

“Of course it shouldn't get you in the blast too,” Marten mumbled, “Voice activation keyed into – oh blast it all.” His pen had torn through the napkin. Marten just pulled up his sleeve and started making notes on his arm instead. As long as he remembered to copy them out before he showered it'd be fine. It wasn't the first time he'd done it.

Marten looked up when he remembered he had a companion. Lance was looking bemused.

“You looked like you were really getting into that,” Lance said, thankfully not sounding hurtful about it, “You really love R&D, don't you?”

“It's amazing,” was all Marten could say, “Being able to not only build, but also create. To have the chance to think up something no one else has ever done... To be able to bring ideas to life...” Marten broke off and felt himself going red, “Sorry, I get a little carried away sometimes.”

Lance shook his head. “I don't get to see people that passionate about what they do very often, it's good to see in and of itself,” he said, “You look kinda fierce when you were really getting into it.”

Marten tried not to let his grin take over his whole face. “What about you?” Marten asked, “You must have something you really enjoy.”

“Justice,” Lance replied, a determined look taking over his face, “Not just the letter of the law, but the spirit. Doing the right thing and protecting people. There's a reason I joined up with law enforcement.”

“You're right,” Marten said softly, “I don't get to see that a lot either.”

They shared a smile and Marten realised that any awkwardness that had been present initially had completely dissipated.

“Do you want to finish that before you forget?” Lance asked, gesturing at Marten's arm with the hand that wasn't holding his drink.

Marten made to start writing again, but paused before the pen met his arm. “You don't mind? I'm not going to be very good conversation when I get into it,” he warned.

“Go for it,” Lance said, “If you don't mind me watching.”

Marten bent back over his arm and was quickly lost in a world of calculations and notes. He occasionally noticed Lance heading back to the bar in his peripheral vision and was grateful that his glass was always full when he reached for it, but otherwise he was dead to the world.

--------------------

“Don't think this will excuse you from TSE's sixtieth anniversary party next week.”

Mike started out of his doze at the sharp voice. His ribs gave a twinge at the sudden movement. Thengold was stood at the foot of his hospital bed with her arms crossed over a dress with a neckline that Mike had to guiltily force his eyes away from.

“I'm not part of the company anymore,” Mike pointed out.

“You were part of the company when the invitations were handed out,” Thengold said, “We haven't started a policy of removing ex-employees from the list. We'd like you to be there even if we aren't paying you.”

“I'll see if I can still make it,” Mike promised, hastily trying to remember where he'd chucked the invite in his messy flat.

“See that you do.”

Mike couldn't stand the silence. “Are you going somewhere nice?” he hazarded.

“Work, unfortunately,” Thengold replied, “That tar monster of yours wasn't the only one to make off with jewels today. The value of anything sparkly has sky-rocketed and, as such, the rich will be bedecking themselves as heavily as possible to show they aren't afraid. And scum will be trying to take advantage of that.”

“How did you hear about the fight?” Mike asked.

“The same way I knew you were in hospital,” Thengold said, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, “I have excellent sources, Mr Rayner, and I'm smart enough not to tell an employee of Precinct One what they are.”

Thengold looked uncertain for a moment, it was an expression Mike had never seen on her face before. She moved forward and dropped a letter into Mike's lap.

“You're going to need to be more careful,” Thengold said, “You're going to have to keep on top of the press at any rate.”

“I'll try,” Mike said.

“You will, or you'll fail. I didn't train any of my employees to merely try,” Thengold said. She moved again, this time heading for the door, “Goodbye Mr Rayner, I'll see you at the anniversary party.”

Mike shook his head to clear it, already unused to Thengold's brusque attitude. Curious, he opened the envelope and found a hard copy printout of a newspaper page. The date was for tomorrow.

“Bugger,” Mike muttered. The article detailed the entire fight between the Task Force and Tarpit and even had a picture to go with it. They'd been relying on secrecy so far and this was the cat out of the bag.

Another scrap of paper fell out of the envelope, this was covered in Thengold's broad cursive.

This is already on print, next time stop it before it happens. Your police friends should be able to help there.

Michael heard the rest of the team well before he saw them. It still amazed him how stealthy they'd managed to be on the job.

Mike stuffed the article and note back into the envelope then shoved it all under his pillow. It felt wrong to share it with the rest of the Task Force for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint.

Jim was the first to put his head around the door, usual bright smile in place. Michael couldn't recall what the visiting hours were for St Ninian's, but he was pretty sure they were over by now.

“Hey, how're you holding up?” Jim asked, coming into the room bearing a pineapple.

“As well as can be expected,” Michael replied, shifting further up the bed into a sitting position, “I don't think you're supposed to be here.”

“We're working with Precinct One now,” Simon said, following Jim into the room, “We can go wherever the hell we want.”

Michael hadn't considered the possibilities that could be open now he owned a badge from one of the highest government organisations within the twin cities. Simon, having been in law enforcement previously and therefore having had reason to be allowed into restricted areas, would be a little more used to the idea of using such a thing.

Randall trailed in after Simon, holding a much more traditional bunch of grapes.

“Thank you, again,” Randall said quietly, “I owe you my life. We all owe you our lives.”

“Hey, it's what we do,” Mike said, “There's gotta be someone willing to take the fall to protect others.”

“Of course it's better if no one does,” Simon said, trying to get comfortable on the only chair in the room.

Jim interrupted with a snap of shuffling cards. “Game anyone?”

--------------------

The outside air was cold and sharp and Lance found himself pulling his coat tighter. Marten shivered and tucked his hands into his pockets.

“Where are you heading?” Marten asked.

“Down by Tollsbridge,” Lance said, “You?”

“Over Fernsbourgh way,” Marten replied.

“I'll see you to the end of the Walk then?” Lance said and Marten nodded.

The sun had set some time ago, but the city streets were still lit brightly enough to see by. The same couldn't be said for any of the alleys they passed, however, they were both on main roads until they hit the end of the Walk, so it didn't matter for now.

“I'll get started on those ideas tomorrow,” Marten said, “And considering the rest of our equipment's on mending only right now, Jim will probably help without much fuss.”

“Don't put off the mending either,” Lance said, “I'd rather not have to go into the field with untested and broken equipment.”

Marten opened his mouth to reply – probably something scathing to Lance's lack of faith in the R&D guys – but was cut off by a piercing shriek rending the cool night air.

Lance didn't stop to think. He checked that his gun was still in the back of his waistband and ran toward the noise, pulling out his Task Force badge. By the sounds of the footsteps behind him, Marten was following. Good, Lance wasn't sure how he would've handled a member of the Task Force shirking such an obvious duty, but it wouldn't have been pleasant.

Rounding a corner, Lance came face to face with the victim and her muggers. The Stone Brothers, Lance had run into this group before.

“Police! Freeze!” Lance snapped, holding up his badge.

The leader, Jonathan, didn't stop to think, instead he flung the knife he'd been threatening the woman with at Lance in a fluid movement. It was a clumsy throw and telegraphed enough that Lance could sidestep it easily enough.

“Get her out,” Lance ordered to Marten, before changing forward.

--------------------

Get her out? How? Marten thought wildly. He had no weapons, no defence, nothing. And Lance expected him to jump into a fire fight?

It was completely different to the battle they'd had earlier in the day in full gear. Marten was horribly aware of his own mortality as he sidled around the fight toward the woman.

She was quite striking, even with the bruise starting to show on her bare shoulder. By the blood on her hands and the scratches Marten had noticed on the muggers she'd obviously tried fighting back. Not only that, but she was barefoot and there had only been one shoe at the entrance of the alley, so she'd likely ran and only been cornered just before Marten and Lance had arrived.

Marten risked a glance at the fight, just long enough to note that Lance was still standing and none of the three muggers were paying Marten or their victim any attention.

“Come on,” Marten hissed, grabbing her arm and trying to pull her out of the alley.

The woman wrenched out of his grip before Marten even saw her move. “Stop gawping,” she snapped at him, “Tell your friend if he breaks that necklace they have then he's in more trouble than even Precinct One can pay for. Aren't you listening? I said the corner of Twelfth and Morningside!”

“You're... what?” Marten stammered. Then he realised she had aimed the latter half of her tirade at the phone in her hand. Marten raised his voice, “I have to get you out, er, miss.”

“And I need to get that necklace back,” the woman said, still cradling her phone to her ear, “Twelfth and Morningside. Are you going to help your friend or – look out!”

Years of working in a lab alongside Jim had given Marten bloody good reflexes – especially when faced with words like 'look out' – yet, he nearly wasn't fast enough to avoid a vicious punch from one of the muggers.

Marten turned to face his opponent fully. The man was nearly half a foot taller than Marten, with shoulders twice as broad. A sweeping tattoo of flames ran down the man's arms, finishing in smoke-blackened fists.

Everything Lance had tried to pound into his head had vanished. Every trick Simon had shown him, every piece of advice Michael had offered, all of it gone. Marten realised he had no more concept of fighting than Jim had of moderation. He backed away, desperately wishing he had the weather wand for protection.

The man drew back his fist again, but before he could throw another punch at Marten there was a blur of red and the blow Marten had been waiting for never came. For a split-second he wondered if the Flash had appeared to save them.

But there wasn't any superhero from days gone by. Instead, the woman had driven her fist into the man's solar-plexus and driven the wind out of him. The man slumped to his knees, gasping for air, and she jabbed him in the neck. The mugger went down.

“Oh,” was all Marten could say stupidly.

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Lance had gotten one of the Brothers pinned against the brick alley wall when backup arrived. Not police though, instead a handful of men Lance vaguely recognised swarmed the muggers. One of them nearly grabbed Marten too, until the woman ordered him sharply to drop 'the poor boy'.

“I thought I'd seen you before,” Lance realised, “You're head of that security company. TES or something.”

The woman – Thengold – looked bemused. “TSE, Mr Allen,” she acknowledged with a nod, “Are you sure you don't want to accept my offer? I know many clients who would pay handsomely to be protected by one of Precinct One's best. Not to mention someone so famous as I'm sure we'll see in tomorrow's news.”

Lance grimaced. “No thanks.”

“Have it your way,” Thengold shrugged. She plucked a heavy, jewelled necklace from the pocket of Jonathan, “I've got what I wanted. We'll handle the men, gentlemen, if you'd like to be off.”

“I'll radio in for a pickup wagon,” Lance said.

“I've already done that,” Thengold said, “But if you want to check, be my guest. We value honesty and strong ties with the local police at TSE.”

Lance switched his communicator to the police band. The legality of him still having direct access was a bit shaky, given that he wasn't a member of the force any longer, but then Precinct One trumped local law in many places and he wasn't about to give up a weapon.

A quick chat with Officer Brandon showed that Thengold had been telling the truth. Lance gave her a nod and moved away from her and her employees.

Marten was standing alone at the opening of the alley. Lance went over to him, angling himself to be able to keep an eye on Thengold's lot; he wouldn't put brutality past some of them.

“Are you alright?” Marten asked, sounding far more worried than he should.

“Fine. There were only two and one of them had already been pepper-sprayed,” Lance replied. He took a closer look at Marten, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Marten said, with a white face and a fine tremor running through his hands.

“Marten...” Lance had to remind himself that even though they'd faced down a living pile of tar this very afternoon, Marten was still a new recruit, “Deep breaths. We're here. We're alive. Concentrate on your breathing.”

“I froze up,” Marten said quietly.

“It happens,” Lance replied, “In the force we'd never send a rookie off alone or with only other rookies. People freeze up in a fight and the only way to get over that's to train hard and get experience.”

Marten actually shuddered. Lance put his hands on Marten's shoulders and ducked his head down to look at his face.

“Breathe through it, that's the adrenalin getting to you,” Lance said gently, “You did well.”

“You weren't watching,” Marten snorted.

“You're in one piece, that's good enough for me.”

Marten gave a wet huff, but managed a weak smile. “I take it I'm still on the team then?”

“Do you think I'm going to let Jefferys be the only one doing R&D for us?” Lance snorted. Marten relaxed a little further.

Sirens indicated that the police were getting near. Lance gave Thengold and her employees one last nod, before leading Marten away from the alley. Brandon could rage all he wanted about suspects and witnesses, but Lance wanted to let Marten's adrenalin run down first and questioning wasn't going to help that. If they wanted to get answers, Lance could give them everything they needed.

“Are you part of the Perpetuate?” Marten asked, once they were a couple of blocks away and his breathing had steadied out to normal.

“No,” Lance replied.

“Good,” Marten said, “Good. Because I'm going to kiss you now.”

There was plenty of time between him saying that and him cupping Lance's face and leaning forward, but Lance didn't move. Warm, dry lips pressed against Lance's mouth and Marten's body followed suit, leaning against Lance's own.

Lance hesitated, then wrapped his arms around Marten and pulled him closer.


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(Bonus comic by melinie17: http://sta.sh/0e1z74dbtot)

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