useless19

Silver Skies - Part 2

2015-08-17T19:40:38Z

Title: Silver Skies
Words: 13319
Characters: Owen Mercer, Len Snart, Mick Rory, Mark Mardon, Evan McCulloch, Axel Walker
Summary: Owen's had enough trouble taking care of himself over the years, he doesn't need the Rogues' issues too. Unfortunately he's stuck with them. For the RoguesBang'15.
Warnings: References to child abuse.

AN: Sort of during Blackest Night. (All you need to be aware of is that the dead were coming back to life and trying to induce emotions in the living, so they could feed on their hearts).

Part 1 | Part 2
Artist: mashimero (art post)

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The next day, in so much as anything could be called a day here, waking up had been unpleasant for everyone. Most of the Rogues had forgotten what had happened to them overnight and there was a lot of confused shouting, especially from McCulloch. Waking up blind wasn’t something Owen wanted to imagine.

About an hour's walk from their camp had Owen and the Rogues stumbling upon a strange part of the mirror-world that made it very difficult to proceed.

“I'd really like to know who comes up with this nonsense,” Mardon said, surveying the way ahead, “I want to kill them.”

“Probably Scudder. Laughin' at us from beyond the grave,” Cold spat, “Bastard.”

“Naw,” McCulloch's translucent form appeared to be shaking its head, “'Sno' like Scudder were the firs' to go through the lookin' glass. How else've you got an explanation fer Lewis Carroll?”

“Fascinating as this aside is, it was a rhetorical question,” Mardon said, “How the hell are we going to get past?”

“What's it like?” McCulloch asked, “Maybe I'll mind it if I ken wha' it is.”

“It's hurting my brain,” Owen said, “There's steps that go up and around, but they come back to the start of the stairs without ever going down again. I can't see a way around it.”

“It's very... MC Escher,” Mardon supplied, “I suppose that's another person who might've found his way through here.”

“He must've been on some good shit for a rapper if he fixed the mirror-world like this,” Axel snorted.

“He was an artist,” Mardon corrected, with a look that normally would've had lightning sparking out the edges of his eyes, “Bivolo rather liked him. He did a lot of monochrome.”

“Yeah, well, Bivolo tried to pass off colour-blind counterfeits as the real thing, I don't think he knew that much about art,” Axel said, with a sharp laugh.

“Let's keep movin',” Cold said.

“Roy was more of an artist and a Rogue than you'll ever be,” Mardon snarled, suddenly angry and in Axel's face. Maybe the graveyard drinking earlier had affected him more than it looked like and bringing up dead Rogues wasn't helping.

“I'm the one standing here and where's he? Oh yeah, dead,” Axel hissed right back.

“Break it up!” Cold shouted, trying to push them apart.

Without even glancing, Axel shoved Cold out of the way and onto the ground. Cold's blue glasses fell off and the terror on his face was visible to everyone. Owen took a step forward, instinctively reaching out to help, but Cold pushed himself to his feet furiously and shot a wall of ice between Mardon and Axel, just before they came to blows.

“Argue on your own time,” Cold snarled, “If you've not got anythin' to say about how to get across this shitty nightmare, keep your trap shut.”

“Like you've been the picture of calm during every scenario!” Mark turned on Cold viciously, “Summer '96, ring any bells?”

“Shut the fuck up, Mardon,” Cold snarled right back, “It's not like you've got any problems here, so shut. The fuck. Up.”

Mardon laughed. There was a cracked edge to it that felt soul-destroying. Yet another reminder to Owen that there was something seriously wrong with everyone here. You didn't become a villain because you were successful at life.

“I'll try the stairs,” Axel announced suddenly. His mask was still firmly in place and Owen couldn't tell if Mardon's laugh had unnerved him too.

“Be careful,” Owen said, when it was clear no one else was going to.

Axel grinned a terrifying smile. “Piece of cake,” he said cockily.

Mardon was watching Axel saunter over the the steps and gingerly test the closest. McCulloch's glassy form was stood next to the Weather Wizard and he had a translucent hand on Mick's shoulder. Owen figured he wouldn't get a better chance to ask what was on his mind.

“Hey, Cold. Can I talk to you?”

Cold had been watching Axel's attempt carefully, but followed Owen until they were far enough away that Owen was unconcerned about eavesdropping, yet they were still within sight.

“What d'you want?” Cold asked, keeping half an eye on the other Rogues.

Owen couldn't think of a tactful way to put it, so he just blurted it out.

“Why're you scared of Axel?” Owen asked, he kept his voice quiet, but Cold still gave him an icy glare.

“I'm not!” Cold snapped predictably.

“You're acting like it,” Owen said.

“I don't come across many people who can knock me around without superspeed,” Cold tried to deflect.

That didn't seem quite right. Owen trusted his gut instinct. “It's not just when he's hit you. And you just stood up to Mardon fine. What's so scary about Axel?”

“I keep forgettin' that we've switched,” Cold said grudgingly, “I remember what it was like bein' a teenager...”

“And?” Owen pushed

Cold gave a bone-weary sigh and looked away. “And I look more like my father than I like to think about.”

“So, you're having flashbacks?” Owen confirmed.

“Not entirely, but you've got the idea,” Cold sighed again and stared at something that wasn't there, “He wasn't someone who had any right bein' a parent. I keep thinkin' I'm gonna get my arm broken again. I don't mean to... I keep forgettin' I'm not a kid anymore.”

Owen looked over the rest of the Rogues. McCulloch and Mardon were still talking something over, while Mick watched Axel try going up the steps for the forth time. Something that Owen had wondered for a long time came back to him.

“Do you ever think that Axel thinks that about you?” Owen asked.

“What are you tryin' to say?” Cold said defensively.

“You're the one in charge here,” Owen said, avoiding eye-contact, “Axel looks up to you, but you're bigger and stronger than he is and you aren't afraid to knock him around.”

“Never said I had any business bein' a parent either,” Cold said, but he was looking uncomfortable.

“Yeah, but you are one, so suck it up,” Owen said, feeling stupidly grateful that Cold wasn't in his usual body. There was being brave, and then there was being suicidal.

Cold gave a sudden, short laugh. “This your round about way of tellin' me half the reason you stayed away was because I wasn't a good father after Digger died?”

That hit closer to home than Owen wanted to consider and his mouth moved before his brain could censor it. “You didn't even try!”

“Are you gonna stay if I say I'll try to be a better father?” Cold asked. He looked up at Owen consideringly, even going so far as to remove his glasses.

“It really doesn't work coming from Axel's mouth,” Owen said.

“Doesn't matter,” Cold shrugged, “I'll say it again when I'm back to rights if you want. Are you gonna stay?”

“I... I don't know,” Owen admitted.

“I suppose you could always run off and join the circus as a proper bearded lady if you don't get fixed.”

“Fuck you.”

“Kid Boomerang!” McCulloch called, “The wean wants you.”

Mick was pulling against McCulloch's invisible grip, trying to get away from them and back to Owen. Feeling wrung out as a dishtowel, Owen walked over, ignoring Cold's stare.

“Hey, Mick. You want something?” Owen asked, as Mick finally squirmed out of McCulloch's grasp and ran into Owen.

“'m not feeling well again,” Mick mumbled into Owen's stomach.

“Should you be running around then?” Owen asked, totally channelling his old elementary school teacher.

“...No,” Mick said, “But I really don't feel well an' they don't believe me.”

“When we get out of here we'll all feel better, ok?” Owen said, “Can you be brave until we find a way out?”

“I want to go home!” Mick wailed, tears puddling in his eyes, “I want my mom an' dad an' soup.”

“I know, Mick, I know,” Owen said, “Can you stop crying until we get out of here? I swear we'll get you some soup as soon as we're out.”

“Chicken noodle?” Mick sniffed, thankfully not getting any more hysterical.

“Yes, Mick, chicken noodle soup,” Owen sighed, “But you've got to be brave, ok?”

“'k,” Mick sniffled.

“Got anywhere with those stairs, McCulloch?” Cold asked.

“I've no' been this way in th' mirrors before,” McCulloch said, “Should be safe though, the brat hasnae been ate so far. Try closin' your eyes.”

“That's your brilliant idea?” Owen said, voice full of disbelief.

“There's naebody ken mirrors better'n me,” McCulloch said, a possible smile stretching over his invisible face, “It's all a trick o' the light.”

“Do what he says,” Cold ordered, “Hey! Trickster!”

“Yo!” Axel called back, giving them a wave.

“Try closin' your eyes,” Cold shouted.

“That's such a dumb idea,” Axel called, but nonetheless he slapped a hand over his eyes and started climbing the stairs again.

“Easy way to get rid of him?” Owen asked out the corner of his mouth.

“Hell no!” Cold seemed affronted at the idea, “That's my body he's clownin' around in. And Rogues stick together.”

“Yeah, right,” Owen scoffed, turning away from Cold. He eyed up the brain-melting staircase and stepped forward, “I'll try it next.”

“At least wait fer Walker to git to the other side,” McCulloch said, stopping Owen with a glassy arm.

“Fine,” Owen huffed, keeping his back to Cold. He wouldn't have been comfortable doing that if Cold was in his own body. That thought made Owen shiver and pull his jacket tight over his chest. He had to get out of here.

There was a yelp from Axel. Owen looked up sharply to see Axel sprawled on the ground on the other side of the staircase. Somehow, he'd made it over.

“Some warning would've been nice!” Axel shouted, getting to his feet with a groan.

“You made it, aye?” McCulloch called back. His translucent body shimmered as he turn to Owen, “Go on, Boomerang, if you're so keen. Git.”

Owen flipped him the bird, then realised it was useless against a blind man, and walked over to the drop. It wasn't really a drop, more an empty, sucking hole of nothing, but Owen felt much better thinking about it that way.

The closest corner step was a short jump away – even Mick might be able to do it alone – and it didn't try any weird mirror-world tricks when Owen leapt for it. The step was an opaque block of white glass, slightly slippery underfoot, but covered in the same gritty dust that was everywhere in the mirror-world.

Owen looked up. The stairs ahead went on forever. He looked back. The stairs trailed behind him to infinity.

Well shit.

With a gulp, Owen closed his eyes and cautiously put his foot forward. The toe of his boot hit the next step. Owen started climbing the staircase, one slow step at a time.

Five steps later, Mardon's voice echoed over to him. “In your own time, Mercer. It's not like the rest of us want to get out of here this decade.”

“Fuck you!” Owen shouted. Then he was tripping over something and falling. He was falling into the abyss and he'd never get laid again.

“Hey! Stop thrashing,” Axel said, shaking Owen.

Owen opened his eyes to Axel's mask. Axel grinned and sat back on his heels. Then he grimaced and stood up properly with a dark mutter.

“I'm alive?” Owen said, then felt stupid when Axel cackled at him, “Shut up.”

“The look on your face,” Axel giggled.

“Shut up,” Owen repeated, staring at the silvery-grey pseudo-sky above.

He continued to lie there, until Mardon landed on him heavily. There ensued a lot of flailing and Axel laughed until he broke into another coughing fit.

McCulloch followed, with Mick in his arms, and avoided the fight far too gracefully for a blind man. Cold took the rear and snapped at Owen and Mark to stop pushing each other, so they could keep moving.

“Owen,” Cold said, getting Owen's attention as they set off, “Just so we're clear, we did look for you.”

“What? When?” Owen asked.

“After you'd got separated durin' that mission for the Society.”

“When you left me,” Owen corrected darkly.

“I wasn't the one callin' the shots,” Cold shrugged.

Owen wasn't going to let it go that easily. “You still left me.”

“You want me to say I'm sorry, is that it kid?” Cold snorted, “'Cause that's not gonna happen. I don't do apologies.”

“Because it's weak to admit you were wrong? That's bullshit you know.”

“We did look for you,” Cold repeated, “And even if we left you, you captured Mardon and McCulloch to put them on Salvation. Fair's fair.”

“I was doing my job!” Owen protested.

“So you weren't the one callin' the shots?”

“Yeah!” Owen said, “...Shit.”

There was something wrong with the logic there, but Owen was too tired, too emotionally drained to focus on it. He hated arguing with people who were this pushy.

“Your spot's still open, Captain Boomerang,” Cold said.

“Go bother someone else,” Owen snapped. He lengthened his stride to put some distance and the other Rogues between him and Cold, who couldn't keep up without jogging and therefore stayed away.

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

“Hello, Mark.”

It was an unfamiliar voice and that, more than the malice contained in the two words, made Owen whip around as fast as he could. Mardon made an inarticulate sound and staggered backwards, away from the man who had appeared.

“The hell?” Cold pushed past Axel and levelled his cold-gun at the stranger, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Mark, don't you want to see me again?” the stranger hissed, “I can live again, if you help me.”

“Clyde...” it was barely more than a breath from Mardon.

“Jesus Christ, we don't have time for this,” Cold muttered, then louder, “Mardon, it's just the mirror-world messin' with you. Close your eyes if you have to, we're movin' on.”

Mardon was shaking like a leaf. His face so white that Owen would've put good money on him fainting in the next ten seconds.

“Mark. Help me. Please.”

Cold shot at the stranger and coated him in a solid layer of ice. “Mark, get it together.”

“Clyde died to make the Weather Wizard,” Mark's voice was still quiet enough that Owen was having trouble hearing him.

“And? You're still the Weather Wizard, whether or not...” an unpleasant thought appeared to have struck Cold. He yanked Mardon down to eye-level, though he probably only succeeded because Mardon let him, “You are still the Weather Wizard, right?”

Mardon gave him a sickly smile.

“Fuckin' hell, Mardon!”

“Mark!”

There was a crunch like glass underfoot and the ice around the stranger shattered. He looked unhurt, rather the ice hadn't done anything to his already-decaying body.

“Mark, please. I want to live. You want me to live,” the stranger lurched forward and Mardon made a noise that sounded like he wanted to be screaming, but couldn't quite manage it.

Cold tried to blast the stranger in ice again, but the stranger knocked him aside with a gesture that produced a sudden gust of wind.

“You can't,” Mardon whimpered.

“Of course I can,” the stranger hissed, “Do you think I made that wand for you? It was to be mine! But you came and stole it after I died. Now, little brother, now I have my power back!”

“There's naebody there,” McCulloch whispered frantically to Owen, “I cannae see, but I ken where everythin' is a wee bit. An' there's naebody there.”

“You mean this isn't a mirror-trick?”

“I dinnae ken.”

“Shit,” Owen sighed.

Axel placed himself in front of Mardon, glaring at the apparition through his mask. “Weather Wizard's killed you once already, he can do it again!” he declared cockily.

“Can you, Mark?” the stranger seemed to find that funny, “Can you kill your only brother again? No. You want me to live.”

“I didn't kill you,” Mardon said, “It – the wand –”

“The wand only does what you want it to. I wouldn't be dead if you hadn't wanted it.”

There was something wrong with that sentence, but Owen couldn't put his finger on it.

“But that doesn't matter, does it? I can live again. We can share the power. You just have to help me.”

“...How?” Mardon breathed.

“Kill them.”

The fact that Mardon didn't dismiss that right out of hand was scarier than the shambling remains of his brother. Each and every one of the Rogues was a fucked up nightmare. Maybe that even included Owen by now.

“Mardon...” Owen said, as a realisation struck him, sure as lightning, “Mark, it's lying.”

“I know,” Mardon said, not taking his eyes off the stranger, “But what if it isn't?”

“If your brother could control the weather wand, why did he let it zap him?” Owen asked.

“Because...” Mardon faltered.

“Mark, brother,” the stranger pleaded, taking another step forward and reaching for Mardon.

“Stay back!” Axel shouted, he shot a blast of fire at the stranger, but misjudged his aim and was knocked aside by another gust of wind.

“Don't you love me, Mark?”

“Because... my brother had never used the weather wand,” Mardon said, his voice was still quiet, but it was as strong as it had been before they'd entered the mirror-world, “Clyde had never known what it was to be a god.”

“Rage. Avarice. Fear. Will. Hope.” the stranger hissed, “That will do.”

He lunged forward and clawed at empty air, as Owen yanked Mardon away in a burst of superspeed.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Owen yelped. Even with one arm clamping his breasts down it still hurt.

“Come back, Mark. Come back, little boomerang. Don't you want to see your father again?” the stranger hissed after them.

Owen tripped. The tumbling skid he fell into across the gritty floor was going to leave a mark. Mardon slid off in another direction, but Owen didn't stop to check, his attention entirely on the stranger.

“My father?” Owen gasped.

“I can bring him here. You can help him live again, just like I offered Mark,” the stranger hissed, lurching after Owen.

If Dad came back then Owen would finally be able to find his place in the world. No more flitting between teams. No more trying to be something he wasn't, whether it was a hero or villain, Owen wasn't trusted, didn't fit in anywhere.

Just him and Dad, as a family.

“Avarice. Fear. Hope. Love.”

“Move, kid!” Cold shouted, jolting Owen out of his thoughts just in time to jump backwards out of the stranger's clawed reach.

“You're lying,” Owen said, barely staying out of the stranger's grasp, “You... you're lying.”

“But what if I'm not?”

It shouldn't have been so persuasive, it shouldn't, not with two attempts on their lives so far, but Owen felt his resolve slipping. Something was pulling at his feelings, and after an unrestful sleep and too many heavy talks, his mind was an emotional turmoil. He couldn't think straight and a seed of doubt was worming its way into his heart.

“Owen?” it was Mick's voice.

But he couldn't leave a kid like Mick – who just wanted to go home – to a twisted, undead monstrosity. He couldn't leave Cold afraid when he was the only one to see it. Axel was keenly aware of his own mortality and scared. McCulloch was terrified without his sight. They needed his help.

And Mardon knew what Owen was going through.

And no matter how much Owen's dad returning would give him a family, maybe he already had one here.

Owen stepped away from the stranger deliberately. It gave a snarl, making its already decomposed face look inhuman.

“I should show you. I can bring him here. I can bring them all here,” the stranger hissed, a new metallic twang infecting its voice.

“Argh!” McCulloch collapsed. It was difficult to tell on a translucent body, was he holding his hands over his face? No, he was trying to cover his ears.

“What are you doing?” Owen demanded.

“I'm bringing them here.”

“No' in my mirror-world! I'm th' one who says who comes an' goes here!” McCulloch shouted.

There was a dull whumph and it felt like something physically landed on Owen for a split-second. McCulloch was now entirely invisible, no trace of a glassy body remained.

“Weather Wizard, keep the kid out of the way. Captain Boomerang, Trickster, we're takin' him down,” Cold said, levelling his cold-gun at the stranger, “If you're still around, Mirror Master, keep any others away.”

“Wha' d'you think I'm doin'?” McCulloch's voice echoed around them, filled with frustration.

“Go!” Cold shouted, opening fire on the stranger.

Owen chucked a couple of razor'rangs at the stranger.

“What am I supposed to do without my tricks?” Axel complained.

“Hell if I know!” Cold shouted at him, “Either think of somethin', or get out of the way.”

Axel's face lit up, the scariest grin on his face that Owen had seen yet. The Trickster immediately threw off the heat pack on his back and started dismantling it. Owen couldn't justify splitting his attention between the weather-controlling undead and his sociopathic teammate, but it was hardly the first time he'd had to keep an eye on someone he was meant to be working with.

And yet, Cold didn't so much as glance back. Whatever Axel was doing, Cold trusted him to do it right. Maybe Owen should try having a little more faith in the Rogues and concentrate on the fight in front of him.

“I'll take your hearts!” the threat was punctuated with a vicious sting of hail. Stormclouds were beginning to grow dark overhead and Owen didn't need Mardon's shout of warning to know that lightning was coming next.

Mardon had said that the Flash could outrun lightning, maybe Owen could too.

“Two minutes!” Axel shouted.

“We don't have that long!” Owen shouted back. No matter if the boomerangs that hit the stranger were razor-sharp or explosive, it kept coming. Shaking off ice and regenerating limbs with barely a pause

“I said two fucking minutes, alright! I can't go any faster,” Axel snapped.

The hail was coming down hard and fast now. The lumps of ice were getting larger and it was difficult to see the stranger in the midst of it all, nevermind sending a boomerang through it all. Lightning struck right in front of Cold. He jumped back with a curse that Owen couldn't hear because the thunder crashed at the same time that Cold opened his mouth.

The Flash could outrun lightning? I was amazing Owen had ever tagged him.

“Whatever you've got had better be good enough to put him down for good!” Cold yelled over the ringing in Owen's ears.

“Relax. I've got this, old man,” Axel called, a grin in his voice, “Fifty seconds.”

Owen didn't see the bolt of lightning, but every nerve in his body lit up and then he couldn't see. White fire raced through him. Owen staggered. His eyes felt like they were burning for a second, then his vision returned. Chunks of ice hung suspended in the air in front of him. The hail slowed down to a crawl.

The sliver of speed he'd always struggled to catch wasn't so tiny anymore.

Holy fuck.

Beside him, Cold had his gun raised and the trigger pulled, yet the ice-white beam had only gone about a yard into the storm and was getting longer at a snail's pace as Owen watched. Behind him, Axel was halfway through turning the heatpack over, his hands covered in oily fluid.

In the storm, the zombie of Mardon's brother was easy to pick out amidst the drifting hail. Owen grinned, time for a Flash trick he'd never been able to pull off before. As fast as he could, Owen started running in circles around the stranger.

It was difficult to tell if it was working, but Owen could see the air distorting on either side of himself as he pushed his legs faster and faster. Loop by loop, a twister started to grow around the stranger.

Owen slowed to a halt and watched the anger and disgust start to flicker onto the stranger's face. The whirlwind was beginning to form, blurring the stranger from view. There had to be something else Owen could do to –

“Argh!”

Cold. Icy, burning cold hit Owen like a sledgehammer. His left shoulder went numb and had could feel his speed draining away with a sudden lash of hailstones on top of his body as time caught up. Owen staggered, tripping over his own feet, fighting to keep his footing on the uneven, icy, gritty ground.

A whumph of displaced air caught the stranger and tossed him haphazardly upwards. The hail died down and the clouds above lightened as the stranger lost his grip on them. At least Owen had managed to do that before stupidly standing in front of the cold-beam Cold had shot.

“Owen! Move!”

Owen turned his head to see Axel hefting the heatpack, ready to toss it into the storm. Surly he hadn't been numb to time long enough for Axel to finish up his preparations? Shaking the thought off, Owen stumbled away from the stranger at a walking pace, unable to reach even the sliver of speed he used to rely on.

Axel knew what he'd been doing – the explosion was deafening. Owen was thrown forward, getting a faceful of slush and grit for his troubles. There was a scream of outrage from the stranger that cut through even the ringing in Owen's ears.

“Owen!” despite half-deaf ears, Mick's cry was agonising.

Owen pushed himself up. If you can't run, walk. If you can't walk, crawl. If you can't crawl, inch forward. Keep moving, that's what Owen had been taught, keep looking forward and taking one step at a time or you would die. Even with the new ache in his chest and legs like lead, Owen staggered forward, watering eyes fixed on his friends.

Pressure slid over Owen, then a glassy wall shimmered into being between him and the stranger. It stretched and rose, until the rebuilding zombie was completely surrounded. When Owen reached the Rogues, McCulloch was back in his transparent form.

“I got 'im, aye?” McCulloch was asking. Still blind then.

“Looks like,” Axel replied, peering at the storm trapped in the prism.

“Owen!” Mick squirmed out of Cold's grip and barrelled into Owen, making him hiss at the painful contact. Owen returned the hug, desperate for some stability. “Owen! Your shoulder's cold!”

“Yeah, I think I'm ok though,” Owen hissed, letting go of the kid to pat down his shoulder. It was cold and numb, but he could move his arm with some effort and when he looked beneath his jacket, the skin was only reddened, not black with frostbite.

“Didn't know you could move that fast, kid,” Cold said, with no trace of apology in his voice.

“It's not going to happen again soon,” Owen said.

“Do you think there's going to be anyone else? He's not the only one that could've come back, right?” Axel asked. There was a oily smear on his nose where he must have rubbed it with greasy hands.

“Aw, shite,” McCulloch groaned, “It's bloody obvious, ain't it?”

“Spell it out. I'm not in the mood for riddles,” Cold snapped.

“We're all trapped in the mirror-world, an' I've been havin' trouble getting' things to work the way they should,” McCulloch said, “An' we've jus' had Mardon's brother back from the dead. Who else's go' a good enough grasp on the mirror-world to do summet like this?”

“You're sayin' it's Scudder?” Cold confirmed.

“Aye. I cannae see an' naebody else could take a Mirror Master on their own turf, 'sides the Flash,” McCulloch said, “If Scudder's gone the way o' Mardon's brother, we should be leggin' it.”

“I could use a rest,” Owen said.

“There's no' enough time,” McCulloch said, “No' if Scudder kens we go' it figured oot.”

McCulloch sounded desperate, moreso than Owen had ever heard before. Owen had seen some crazy shit via McCulloch's interaction with the mirror-world, and the thought of that power in the hands of someone better than McCulloch and out for death sent a trickle of fear down Owen's spine.

“Let's go then,” Cold ordered. He grabbed McCulloch's arm and pulled him along, asking questions in a low voice that Owen couldn't quite make out.

Owen ignored his tired legs and obediently tagged along after – it was something he was used to doing – but then he noticed that they were a person down. Only Mick and Axel were following, Mick holding Owen's hand and Axel practically skipping without the heat pack weighing him down.

Mark was stood where they'd left him, staring at the stormcloud beyond the glassy prism walls.

“Go with Axel, Mick,” Owen said, “I've got to go back a sec.”

He'd expected more of an argument – Mick had never taken to Axel, showing surprisingly sensible caution for a child – but Mick trotted over happily and started chattering excitedly about the explosion and if it was possible to make it even bigger.

Must be a pyromaniac thing.

“Hey, Mardon,” Owen snapped his fingers in front of Mardon's face when his words didn't do anything. Only the barest flinch showed that Mardon was paying any kind of attention.

Owen looked over his shoulder. The other Rogues were making steady progress and would probably get out of sight soon. Owen didn't want to end up lost and stuck as a girl forever.

“C'mon, Mardon,” Owen pulled him along by his elbow, “We need to catch up with the others.”

Mardon let himself be steered without protest. The dull look in his eyes was way creepier than the lightning that usually filled them outside the mirror-world. Owen tried not to look and lengthened his stride to catch up to the others.

“Aren't you going to leave me again?” Mardon said, voice as dead as his eyes, “You did it before. Me and Mick. Shipped us off to that hellhole of a planet.”

“I haven't got orders to this time,” Owen replied.

“Orders,” Mardon snorted. He fell silent, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. Owen didn't let him go, worried that Mardon would stop walking again.

Up ahead, Mick was still happily chattering at Axel, who must have been in a very good mood after blowing up Clyde, because he hadn't tried to run Mick off yet. Or he just liked the attention and was enjoying having a fan. Further ahead, Cold was nodding along to something McCulloch was saying as well as scanning their surroundings.

“Hurry up,” Owen said, trying to pull Mardon a bit faster, “I don't want to lose sight of the others.”

“What does it matter? We're not getting out of here,” Mardon said, looking back at the storm again.

“For fuck's sake,” Owen grumbled, “Stop getting hung up on the dead when we need to move.”

“Fuck the dead,” Mardon said.

“Then what the hell are you angsting about?” Owen snapped.

“You tasted it back there, didn't you?” Mardon said, fixing Owen with a look that Owen still expected to have a crackle of lightning accompany it, “True power.”

“I just went a bit faster,” Owen said. The pure speed and adrenalin rush that went with it was more than that, but Owen didn't want to think about how un-fucking-fair it was that the Flash got to experience that all the time. If he started to think about it, Owen would stop like Mardon had.

“It's not like it matters,” Mardon said, as though he hadn't heard Owen, “Real superspeed or a pale imitation, we're stuck here. The blind leading the blind.”

“We're going to get out,” Owen said decisively.

“Are we?” Mardon asked, his voice hollow, “We're going to die. There'll be no one left to bury our remains in Avernus and we're going to die. I'm never going to feel the wind again. I should've let Clyde kill me,” dead eyes focussed accusingly on Owen, “You should've let Clyde kill me.”

“I'm not going to let anyone die if I can stop it,” Owen said.

“Hero,” Mark snorted.

“You know, my dad left a message on my phone just before he died,” Owen said, “I'd give up my superspeed to have him say it to my face so I could talk him out of the job.”

Mardon gave his broken laugh. “I'd bury Clyde again with my own two hands for my rightful power.”

“So it's not about friends and family dying, you're having a nervous breakdown because the weather wand doesn't work for you right now?” Owen clarified. Somehow he'd expected to be more surprised.

“Its... complicated,” Mardon said softly, “My power comes from death. My power causes death. I am unto a god, but what is a god without being able to smite? What is a god that cannot give and take? Clyde. Roy. Lisa. Your father... Even James. I couldn't... I...”

“You killed your brother,” Owen said.

“That was never my intent.”

“No justifying it with godhood?” Owen sighed, “You can't even get your story straight. Pick something and stick with it.”

Mardon shook his head and looked away. The dismissal left Owen feeling wanting. He gave Mardon a harsh jerk forward.

“If you fall behind I'm leaving you,” Owen threatened.

“Rogue,” Mardon said, albeit with a fond tone.

“Shut up.”

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

The first shimmer hanging in the air didn't get a second glance from Owen, until Axel yelped.

“Hey! I know that shop!” Axel jogged over to the shimmer and tried to put his hand through it, only making the shimmer wobble further. “Lame.”

Owen looked closer. Through the shimmer he could see a street. It was vaguely familiar, it certainly was a street that looked like it belonged to Central City in Owen's mind.

“Is this what unset mirrors look like?” Owen asked.

“We would've seen a lot more if that's the case,” Cold said, nevertheless dragging McCulloch closer to have a feel of the shimmer, “There's a lot more mirrors around that you'd think.”

“I might've used this one before,” McCulloch said, blindly groping at the shimmer, “It's nae any use noo.”

“Can we use it to work out which direction to go?” Owen asked.

Cold studied the image through the shimmer, frowning behind his glasses. Eventually he pointed a little off the way they came.

“That's the way I'd get back to the safehouse,” Cold said, “But we're in the mirror-world, so fuck if I know.”

“It's not just... backwards?” Owen felt stupid even suggesting it.

“Aye, sometimes,” McCulloch said with a short laugh, “If it were consistent, anybody'd be usin' it.”

“Just once. Just once I'd like something to be easy,” Owen muttered. Then, louder, “So which way do we go?”

McCulloch gave a transparent shrug. “Further oot from Scudder'd be best. Let's no' go back tha' way.” Despite his easy manner, Owen could hear an undercurrent of fear.

As they set off again, Owen glanced back over his shoulder and maybe it was just his tired eyes, but it looked like the silvery-grey sky behind them was darkening. Owen stepped up his pace, keeping his grip on Mardon to hurry him along. If that was Scudder's doing, Owen didn't want to be anywhere near it.

Thankfully, more shimmers started to appear before them. They looked so natural in the gritty-grey mirror-world that it nearly felt like they'd been there the whole time and it was only just now that Owen was noticing them.

Using the shimmers, and Cold and Axel's knowledge of Central City, it wasn't long before Owen started catching glimpses of the Flash museum and recognising more and more of the streets they passed.

A structure of grit and silver rose up out of the ground, suddenly there without obviously appearing when Owen could've sworn there was nothing ahead of them. The structure held a shimmer trapped on its surface and, between cracks and grit that looked like it had come from what passed as the floor of the mirror-world, there was a wonderfully familiar sight.

The safehouse.

Even though Owen's memories pulled up the smell of stale beer, mouldy walls, and dusty mattresses, that was heaven compare to the neverending silver-grey mirror-world.

“Alright, Boomerang, you first,” Cold ordered.

“What? Why me?” Owen protested. The mirror looked even more unpleasant close-up, the cracks surrounded by an oil-slick rainbow of colours. Owen's faint reflection was warped to near unrecognisable.

“Because we don't know what's on the other side, or how long it'll take us to get fixed,” Cold said, “You can still run.”

“What a vote of confidence,” Owen muttered, but nonetheless stepped forward.

Getting through the mirror was like pushing through a wall of semi-hardened molasses. The parts that weren't solid were gooey and clung to Owen's clothes and face unpleasantly.

“Keep goin',” McCulloch said, when Owen grimaced and stopped moving, “The sooner you git it o'er wi', the better.”

Owen decided that opening his mouth to shoot back a comment would be a bad idea when he had a faceful of crystallised mirror-substance. He pushed forward, shuddering at the gritty scrape against his skin.

Stale, cold air washed over Owen as he pulled himself through the rest of the the mirror and fell out of it into a heap on the dirty warehouse floor.

“Owen!” Mick yelped.

“I'm ok,” Owen said. He gave himself a quick once-over, then did it again to make sure.

Sweet merciful heavens, he had his balls back.

“Awright, I'm gonna go,” McCulloch said, “Git.”

Owen jumped to his feet and got out of the way, revelling in the fact that his chest didn't hurt and his pants were no longer digging into his hips.

“Ah!” McCulloch flinched away from the light as he dropped out of the mirror and covered his eyes with his hands, “Feck.”

“Are you alright?” Owen asked, trying to rein in his enthusiasm at being fixed and failing miserably.

“I’m no’ complainin’,” McCulloch said, “It’s jus’ bright.”

“So you...”

“Aye, I can see,” McCulloch squinted through his fingers up at Owen, making eye contact for the first time since Avernus.

Owen whooped and punched the air. It felt like the most euphoric moment of his life.

“Me next!” Axel said. He hit the mirror solidly, “Hey! What's the deal?”

“Wheesht, you wee ned. You'll have to go with Snart at the same time, else who knows who's gonna end up where, you ken?” McCulloch said.

Axel groaned and thudded his head against the mirror. Mardon stepped up to a grimy part of the mirror next to him and cautiously put his hand against the surface. After a second, Mardon's hand slid through the gritty silver and grasped at the empty air beyond.

Owen realised that he'd braced himself for a sudden change in the weather, but nothing happened. Mardon continued to push through the mirror, much slower than Owen or McCulloch, almost as though he was afraid of what he might find on the other side.

The second Mardon bodily staggered out of the mirror a harsh wind whipped up then calmed within seconds. Mardon looked very emotion. Owen kept his eyes focussed on the mirror to give him some privacy.

That was probably the only reason Owen noticed the black shadow appearing behind the others still in the mirror.

“Shit! Get out quick!”

Cold glanced back, swore, then chevied Mick toward the mirror first. The kid flinched away from the grimy mirror with a look of childish disgust.

“Come on, Mick,” Owen cajoled, reaching his hands forward to help, “It's not as bad as it looks.” It was much worse, but even though Owen wasn't good with kids, even he knew that saying that outright wasn't a good idea.

Mick put his hand against the glass then quickly yanked it away. “It's sticky,” he complained.

“It's not that bad,” Owen insisted. Was the dark shadow growing tendrils now? Owen tried to keep his face neutral, but felt apprehension creep into his tone, “Come on. Look at me and push through.”

Mick tried again, but couldn't sum up the courage. “I can't, Owen.”

“For fuck's sake.” Cold grabbed Mick by the scruff of his neck and chucked him at the mirror. Mick cried out and hit the glass, but bounced off like it was solid. Thankfully Axel's body didn't have much strength behind it, so Mick wasn't injured, though he was starting to tear up.

“Come on,” Owen said, reaching his hand back through the cracked mirror. A tingling, burning sensation ran over his fingers and up his arm, changing him back into a girl. Owen tried to ignore it and focus purely on Mick, “Come on, Mick. I'll help you through.”

Even with Owen's reassurances, he wasn't sure if Mick would've taken his hand if Cold hadn't been quite so threatening. Mick gripped Owen's hand tight and let Owen pull him through the mirror with only a few whimpers.

Once Mick was on the other side, Owen had to take a hasty (non-speedy) step back to avoid Mick's sudden change into adulthood.

Mick staggered. Completely off-balance and totally bewildered for several seconds, until his brain processed what his eyes were seeing. Owen put a hand on his arm reassuringly.

“Where's my flamethrower?” Mick rasped, his voice freakishly deep to Owen's ears after so long listening to a child's version.

“Fuck your flamethrower,” McCulloch said, still too cheery at being able to see to put any real heat into the words, “Oot the way.”

Mick stumbled again, not entirely away from the mirror. Owen took pity on him and pulled him out the way entirely, so McCulloch could focus on getting Axel and Cold out of the mirror-world.

Shadows were thickening deep in the mirror. Owen's eyes kept being drawn back, seeing peculiar shapes in the darkness that was approaching unrelentingly. Even though he was still high on finally being male again, the urge to make a stand or flee was prickling at the back of Owen's neck.

Owen was distracted from staring at the shadows, not by Cold and Axel's attempt to get out, but by Mick cursing loudly as he rummaged through a couple of singed crates.

“Bastards!” Mick ripped open another crate, but whatever he was looking for wasn't inside, “They took my stuff!”

The irrational part of Owen's brain that got him into trouble in serious situations considered chiding Mick for swearing.

“Who?” Mardon asked. He was trying to sound disinterested, but lightning licked the corners of his eyes eagerly.

“What do I know?” Mick snapped, “It's not like they left a calling card. All I know is my flamethrowers are gone.”

“Could be some kids,” Owen offered.

“Naw, kids'd be messier,” Mick said, “Could've been a cop raid. They sometimes do that.”

There was a heavy thud behind them, followed by several yelps from Axel in a voice that worked for him. Sure enough, both Axel and Cold had emerged and were acting like they were in the right bodies. However, there was a sticky tar-like substance caught on them like a thick cobweb and it was trying to pull them both back into the mirror, if their struggle was anything to go by.

“McCulloch!” Cold shouted, “Get the fucking thing closed. Trickster, give me my gun!”

“It's gotten stuck!” Axel yelped, trying to gain traction on the dusty warehouse floor in bare feet.

A flash of light blinded Owen and a bone-rattling BOOM nearly knocked him off his feet. When his eyes cleared, he saw McCulloch frantically doing something to the large mirror, while Cold and Axel shook off the last of the tar substance, which was slowly turning into the silver grit of the mirror-world.

“I missed that,” Mardon said softly.

They really were free of the mirror-world. Owen gave a tired laugh. He was looking forward to a takeout and a bed. And spending some time alone.

“Quiet,” Cold was halfway through peeling Axel's mask off his face and stock still.

Owen cocked his head and heard faint... “Sirens,” he sighed, “Does it ever end?”

“They must've been watching the place,” Mick said, “Set up cameras when they took my flamethrowers.”

“I'm looking forward to this,” Mardon was already moving toward the door.

Actually, doing some damage sounded really therapeutic right now. Owen ran a hand over his boomerangs to count them. He was doing alright for general numbers, but he could do with stocking up on razor'rangs.

“Ready to go?” Cold asked Owen, shrugging his coat on and grinning that scary, paternal smile, “Rogue?”

“Whenever you're ready, Captain.”

Silver Skies - Part 1

2015-08-17T19:36:45Z

Part 1 | Part 2

Artist: mashimero (art post)

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

Owen swirled the dregs left in his cheap plastic cup and looked up at the statue of his father from his place seated on the ground. It didn't look anything like the man he'd met. If not for the boomerang in its hand and the nameplate, Owen wouldn't have been able to pick his father out of all the statues of people buried here.

Here, Avernus, where he'd only been once before for his father's funeral. Maybe it was because there were only five costumed weirdos in the place, rather it than near-overflowing with them, but it looked completely different to Owen's eyes.

The Rogues were in the middle of telling drunken stories about the dead. Owen was only half paying attention. He'd listened to some of the earlier ones about his dad, but everything from the earlier years just sounded ridiculous and Owen wasn't drunk enough to find them funny.

He really shouldn't have been there. He wasn't a Rogue. He was just someone who wanted to remember his dad, and these villains were the only ones who would oblige him.

McCulloch took Owen's cup to do a round of refills. “You dinnae have to look so gloomy.”

Owen waved a hand at his dad's grave with a snort. If he wanted to be gloomy, he could fucking well be gloomy.

“You're jus' bringin' the party doon,” McCulloch said, “An' you're no' even pished enough to justify it.”

“I shouldn't be here,” Owen said, “I should head home.”

McCulloch shrugged and handed Owen a full cup, “Awright. We're doon to the last nip anyway, then we'll be headin' back to the safehoose. You can go then.”

Owen made a noise of agreement and focused on his cup. It was better than joining in with the Rogues. The beer was poor quality, the sort Dad had liked before he'd died. Owen sniffed, feeling morose to his core, and poured the rest of his cup onto his father's grave.

True to his word, McCulloch staggered upright and opened a mirror-portal not ten minutes later. Owen got up, stretching out his stiff legs, and went over to go home.

The sky opened to a blackness that was the complete absence of light. Even in Avernus, Owen could feel down to his bones that something was very, very wrong. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but the light from the mirror-portal washed over them and pulled them hurriedly – haphazardly – into the mirror-world, as thought it was trying to escape the strange dark above.

Owen landed badly. His shoulder impacted the ground first and the rest of his body followed in the worst sequence possible. He lay there, panting, trying to summon the energy to move. His head was throbbing already and he really didn't feel up to opening his eyes.

It was a child's crying that finally got Owen to take in his surroundings. He might be a bit of a bastard, but he wasn't cruel enough to leave a kid sobbing like that. With great effort, Owen sat up.

The kid was sitting with his knees drawn up to hide his face (at least Owen assumed it was a boy, it was difficult to tell from this distance). Owen pushed himself to his feet with much swearing and limped over. He was walking on a beyond reflective surface and couldn't see the horizon, that meant he'd made it to the mirror-world. Great.

The Rogues were lying around, presumably unconscious for the time being. Owen decided to leave them where they were and carry on to the kid.

“Hey there, little guy,” Owen tried, “You ok?”

The kid looked up at Owen, face red and covered in snot and tears. His lip was trembling and he looked like he was about to burst into tears again.

“I'm Owen,” Owen said quickly, “What's your name?”

“M-Mick,” the boy choked out.

“That's cool. I know someone called Mick,” Owen said, “You want to be friends?”

“Not s'posed to talk to strangers,” Mick snuffled, but he was starting to look calmer.

“Well, you can just stay with me until we get you back to your parents, ok?” Owen offered. He hoped that was how you were supposed to talk to kids. He'd never really spent much time around anyone this much younger than himself for any real length of time. Even teenagers didn't end up with Owen for very long – Axel didn't really count and Kara was another thing entirely.

Mick gave him a smile and wiped his nose on his sleeve. It was a bit big for him and Owen realised that Mick was sitting in adult's clothes.

“Fuck!”

Owen and Mick jumped as Axel jerked upright with a loud curse. Mick tried to get to his feet, but tripped over the over-large clothes and Owen had to grab him to keep him steady.

“Shut up, Axel,” Owen snapped, “There's a kid here.”

“What the hell did you call me?” Axel snarled. Owen stared at him in disbelief and Axel paled behind his mask at the sound of his own voice.

“Axel?” Owen said.

“I'm not Axel,” Axel snapped, patting himself down with one hand and feeling his face with the other, “Shit.”

Well, it was the mirror-world. Owen helped Mick stand up and came to the sinking realisation that the kid was swimming in Heat Wave's gear. This wasn't looking good.

“If you're not Axel, who are you?” Owen asked, dreading the answer.

“Captain Cold,” Axel replied, staring at the other unconscious Rogues with horror clear on his face.

Owen just managed to turn his laugh into a quick cough. It still earned him a glare from Cold. It didn't work coming from Axel's face and Owen had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop from laughing hysterically.

“Wake the others up,” Cold ordered, yanking off Axel's domino mask. It didn't help in the slightest, making him look even younger.

“I've got a kid here,” Owen repeated, trying to help Mick stand up in his too-big clothes.

“I said –” Cold cut himself off and stared at Owen.

“What?” Owen started to pat himself down and ran into what Cold was staring at pretty quickly. “Fuck.”

Owen had attributed his general soreness from his earlier landing and being off balance down to still being a bit drunk. Obviously he should have checked himself better before, as he would've noticed the curving of his chest and hips. Now he was listening for it, his voice was also sounding higher pitched too. Or maybe that was just him panicking.

“Lose the beard and you'd make a pretty girl, Boomerang,” Cold said, with a leer that looked all wrong on Axel's face.

Owen couldn't deal with this.

“Owen?” Mick interrupted, tugging on Owen's sleeve, “Can we find my parents now?”

“That's Heat Wave isn't it?” Cold said, eyeing up the kid.

“I think so,” Owen said, helping Mick out of the flame-retardant suit until he was dressed just in a shirt and boxers. Owen had to roll up the sleeves and tie off the boxers to make them even close to fitting. Mick still looked ridiculous.

Meanwhile, Cold had gone over to his body and tried to relieve it of his cold-gun. There was a thump and a yelp and Owen glanced over just in time to see naked fear on Cold's face as his freshly-split lip began to bleed.

Cold's body gave a low groan, then quickly twisted over and threw up.

“Eww,” Mick said with a child's gusto at gross things.

“Trickster,” Cold barked, or tried to anyway. Axel's voice wasn't made for giving orders.

“Aw, shit,” Axel – since it looked like he was in charge of Cold's body for now – groaned, “What the hell was I drinking, man?”

Owen wished he had a camera to record Axel's reaction as he noticed his own body standing in front of him. Axel gaped, then quickly patted himself down, then made a strangled noise and started to choke.

“I'm old!” Axel moaned, once he'd gotten his breath back, “That's so not cool.”

“Give me my gun,” Cold demanded.

Axel started to unclip the holster, then stopped. “Why?”

“Why?” Cold repeated incredulously, “It's my gun. Hand it over.”

“So what, I can just be unarmed?” Axle snorted, “Where's my tricks?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Axel stood up and Cold took a step back, looking ready to run at any second. The wrongness of the situation triggered the part of Owen's brain that had forced him to get up and look for Mick when he'd been crying.

“Give him the gun, Axel,” Owen said.

Axel took one look at Owen and burst into an obnoxious laugh that didn't fit his new voice in the slightest. Owen could feel his face heating up bright red, one of the disadvantages of being ginger.

“Fine, man,” Axel tossed the cold-gun to Cold. The smile Axel was wearing on Cold's face honestly made Owen feel like he was about to have his throat slit at any second. “You can have these too. Can't see a fucking thing,” he added as he chucked the eskimo glasses over too.

Cold quickly put the glasses on and it helped to cover up the open expression on his face. Owen looked away when Cold glared at him, feeling sorry for reasons he couldn't place.

“Nice look, Boomerang,” Weather Wizard said. He was standing behind Owen without any hint of how long he'd been there.

“Cram it,” Owen said, “What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Mardon said, a smug smile firmly in place. And it looked like he was telling the truth, a quick scan showed he was still adult and male – Owen pulled his jacket tighter – and there wasn't any of the confusion that Cold and Axel had been through.

“There's gotta be something,” Owen insisted.

“You're welcome to search me if you want. I'm sure I'll enjoy it,” Mardon said, with a sly look. Owen was getting really sick of being leered at.

“I'll pass.”

“Where the hell's McCulloch?” Cold snapped.

Mardon snorted, earning himself a glare that promised a slow and painful death from Cold. Owen wondered what the chances of them all getting out alive were. Probably slim to none.

“McCulloch!” Cold cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. An odd, not quite echo reverberated around them, it made Owen's eyes water and Mick started whimpering.

“Wheesht!” McCulloch hissed – though from where, Owen couldn't tell, “You'll no' go anywhere wi' tha' kinda noise.”

“Get us out of here and fix this,” Cold snapped, apparently fine communication with a disembodied voice.

“Ah, that'll be... a wee bit gnarly,” McCulloch said, “Me gun's fucked an' I've lost me sight.”

“You can't see?” Owen asked.

“Aye, hen,” McCulloch's voice sounded amused, “I didnae ken we'd found us a lassie.”

“I'm not a girl!” Owen snarled.

“Doing a good job of pretending to be,” Axel said, his unsettling grin still on Cold's face.

“Shut up!” Cold shouted, “How the hell do we fix this, McCulloch?”

“Gi' us a second,” there was an odd shimmer and a glassy, transparent version of McCulloch appeared next to Mardon, “Still cannae see. Feck.”

Mick tugged on Owen's hand and whispered, “Is that a ghost?”

“There's summet wrong wi' th' mirror-world though, I ken tha' much,” McCulloch continued, “It's... huh, it kinda feels like hate.”

“Hate,” Cold said flatly.

“Tha's what it feels like,” McCulloch said defensively.

“Fuckin' brilliant,” Cold hissed.

“It seems to me that we should be looking for an exit,” Mardon said, the corners of his mouth still pulling up in a smile that Owen wanted to punch off his face, “Mirror-world effects don't usually last long in the real world.”

“Me pistol isnae workin',” McCulloch repeated, “We cannae jus' stroll oot.”

“I've seen you use mirrors without it,” Owen said.

“Aye, pre-set ones,” McCulloch sighed.

Axel's head perked up. “Like the one in the hideout? Didn't you leave that ready for us to come back?”

“It's worth a shot, right guys?” Owen pushed.

“Might work,” McCulloch agreed.

“And which way's that then?” Cold scoffed, gesturing to the vast and unusual mirror-world landscape.

There was an awkward pause as those with working eyes surveyed the area. Sometimes the mirror-world actively mirrored the real world and you could navigate by landmarks. The part they'd tumbled into was one of the messes of silver and white with no real substance.

“If we pick a direction and start going, we'll reach something recognisable eventually,” Mardon suggested.

It was difficult to tell with a translucent face, but Owen thought McCulloch looked a little wary at that idea. He didn't say anything though.

“Fine,” Cold snapped, “Weather Wizard, scout ahead. We'll follow.”

“Ah, about that,” Mardon said, a drop of hesitation in his voice, “We're in the mirror-world. There isn't any weather here. Not without McCulloch's portals to the real world.”

“That's nae –” McCulloch's mostly-invisible form jerked away from Mardon, as Mardon shifted his weight, “...Aye. He's got the right o' it.”

“There you go,” Mardon said brightly.

Cold peered at them both suspiciously. Again however, it just didn't have the same effect coming from a body half as wide and a foot shorter than Cold's usual. You couldn't glare someone down if you had to look up to meet their eye-line.

“Right then,” Cold said, obviously still displeased, but not doing anything about it. Yet. “Boomerang, take a run about. See what you can find.”

“On it,” Owen couldn't hide his relief at having something to do. He shook his hand where Mick was still gripping it, “I've got to go, kid. Stay here.”

Mick just clung on tighter. Owen couldn't really blame him for being worried about the other Rogues. He tried to picture leaving Mick with one of them and it turning out alright, but he couldn't.

“Fine. You can come with me, but you've got to hold on tight,” Owen said, crouching down to let Mick scramble onto his back.

“For fuck's sake, kid, leave the brat with us,” Cold said

“No!” Mick appeared to have gained confidence now he was eye-level with most of them.

“There's no harm,” Owen said, trying to shrug with Mick's arms pressed tight around his neck, “I can run with him like this.”

Cold exhaled harshly and muttered something undoubtedly nasty under his breath. He pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes, Owen felt another stab of pity and looked away.

“Dinnae go too far, ken,” McCulloch advised, “If you git lost... dinnae git lost.”

“Good to know,” Owen mumbled.

There wasn't a way that stood out particularly, so Owen started jogging in the direction he was already facing. Once he had established the right rhythm to move to with Mick on his back, he kicked into top-speed, intent on letting his speed take him as far as it was able to and take a look around where it got him.

That was the intent.

“FUCK!”

Owen skidded to a halt and grabbed his chest, letting Mick drop in the process. The pain he'd assumed was due to Mick's tight grip on his shoulders had intensified dramatically when he'd tried to run fast.

Looked like running without breast-support was a bad idea.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Owen hissed. He felt around his breasts and winced whenever his fingers poked the connecting tissue.

Axel's wrong-voiced, obnoxious laughter filtered over from the Rogues.

“That hurt,” Mick said accusingly.

“Sorry,” Owen said reflexively, even though in his experience you didn't count as hurt until you had more blood outside your body than inside.

With one arm carefully clamped over his breasts, Owen led Mick back to the Rogues, hissing everytime he stepped too heavily and jolted his chest. Mick watched Owen with worried brown eyes, but the other Rogues were still laughing when Owen reached them. He scowled at them.

“Let's have a look, kid,” Cold ordered, still smirking.

“Like hell!” Owen flinched away and winced again as his chest gave a throb.

“Everyone needs to be fighting fit and I know what I'm looking for. You're really not my type, I like my women clean-shaven,” Cold added, keeping up an unfairly reasonable voice. He'd always been a stickler for making sure all the Rogues went through the first-aid kit whenever they got back from a heist, or so Owen remembered.

“What'd you do to your women that they ended up injured like this?” Owen hissed, still not trusting.

Cold's face darkened. The flat stare on Axel's face gave Owen the creeps. “I had a sister. One who fought the Flash far more than you ever did,” Cold spat.

Mardon sobered right up and elbowed Axel in the side, hard. Owen was only partially aware of the Golden Glider, but even he knew she was a touchy subject around Cold.

“Even so, I don't think she got you to help her,” Owen said.

“I kept up to date on her medical records.”

“...Alright,” Owen said carefully. He had a feeling that disagreeing would cross a line he wasn't entirely sure was there.

“Shirt off, let's see the damage,” Cold ordered, then pointed a threatening finger at the other Rogues, “Look and I'll have your eyes.”

“No fun,” Axel pouted.

“Wipe that look off your face. I'm a grown man, not a sulking teenager,” Cold snapped.

“Not from where I'm standing you're not,” Axel said cockily.

Cold gestured rudely at Axel. The distance between them must have been helping with whatever wariness he'd felt before.

Owen turned his back on the Rogues and stripped out of his jacket and tshirt. It was the first time he'd seen himself since they'd gotten into the mirror-world and all this crazy shit had gone down. Given that his active life-style had lead him to be pretty lean, Owen wasn't entirely surprised that his currently-female body hadn't managed to scrounge up much fat for a pair of breasts.

Or maybe he was perfectly proportional and just used to over-developed superheroines.

Along the sides and top of each breast there was a swollen, reddish mark. It hurt when Owen poked at it. Owen had gotten cuts, bruises, broken bones, and all manner of injuries before – it was inevitable in his line of work and he'd been a clumsy child – but this was freaky on a level that seeing his dislocated fingers bent out of shape hadn't come close to.

Amazingly, there was no leer on Cold's face as he hissed through his teeth. “That's gonna leave a nasty bruise.”

“No shit,” Owen said.

“That's ligament damage,” Cold continued, “With any luck you ain't torn anythin' and some bindin'll let you run again.”

“I'm not running again like this,” Owen said.

“You might not have a choice,” Cold said, “I'll see if we've got anythin' for bandages.”

“Well that was useful,” Owen muttered.

Cold gave Owen a glare that didn't look the slightest bit intimidating. “Your scarf'll do.”

“What for?”

“Bandages. Keep up, kid,” Cold said. He gave Owen's scarf a yank and choked him for a moment before Owen knocked his hands away and unwound his scarf himself.

Getting his breasts wrapped up was one of the more awkward moments of Owen's life. Cold was rough, but businesslike, and Owen didn't know what to do with his hands.

Owen had a stray wish for a sports bra, but clamped down on the thought quick, in case the mirror-world tried something freaky with it. He'd only spent a short time with the Rogues and working through mirrors on the job, but he remembered all the warnings McCulloch had given back then. The crazy shit he'd seen the Mirror Master do was still unbelievable.

“Let's go,” Cold said, gesturing at the others as Owen pulled his tshirt back on, “I want to get out of here before something else happens.”

Owen hitched his jacket on over his shoulders, absentmindedly running a hand over all his boomerangs out of habit, to make sure they were still all there. He left the jacket open, not wanting it to press against his sore chest.

Cold started walking in the same direction Owen had been running in. He nearly tripped over by taking too long a stride, obviously used to longer legs than Axel's. Owen bit his tongue and avoided catching Cold's eye as he overtook, dragging Mick into the lead. Owen didn't feel safe trusting the Rogues to keep a lookout for danger.

“What's got your boomerangs in a twist?” Axel asked, catching up to Owen easily. He'd picked up Heat Wave's flamethrower and kept adjusting the shoulder straps of the fuel tank as he walked, “Tits really that bad?”

“I'm fine,” Owen snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and hating the way it was awkward.

“What's it like being a girl?” Axel asked, cocking his head.

“I don't know. What's it like suddenly gaining thirty years?” Owen snapped. Everything felt tender and he just wanted to get away from everyone.

“A nightmare,” Axel rubbed the back of his neck and then rolled his shoulders, only to stop it with a groan. “Old man's got a crick in his neck I can't do shit about.”

“What'll you do if we don't change back?” Owen asked.

“What? Be an old man for good? Fuck that,” Axel said, trying to fix his neck again and failing.

“Everyone grows up sometime,” Owen snorted.

“Totally not worth it,” Axel groused.

“Goddammit!”

Owen looked back to see Cold sprawled on the ground, glaring at his feet. Axel started to laugh again, but this time it cut off into coughing for a good minute.

“Fuckin' shoes,” Cold snarled, ripping the air-walkers off his feet.

“Can't you just switch them off?,” Owen asked, trying not to laugh himself.

“Damned if I know,” Cold said, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little to test the floor through his socks, “Don't care. Walkin' without them's easier.”

“What the hell's wrong with your lungs, Cap? I can't breathe properly” Axel choked, barely over his coughing fit.

“That's what smoking will do to you,” Mardon said, smugly. Owen was starting to wonder if he was ever not smug.

“Remind me to avoid it,” Axel said, rubbing his chest, “Hey! You can't just leave my shoes there! That's not cool.”

“I'm not wearin' them,” Cold said.

“So? I'm gonna wear them when we're fixed,” Axel said, storming back to pick them up, “How'd you like it if I just left your coat here, old man?”

“Do that and I'll make you regret it,” Cold said.

“Oh yeah? How?” Axel said, standing in front of Cold and using every bit of his new height to be intimidating.

Cold stepped back and clenched his jaw. There was a tremor running though his clenched fists and Owen's protective instinct kicked in.

“Axel,” Owen said warningly.

“Get off my back,” Axel snapped, whirling on Owen, who flinched instinctively after years of being hit during costumed work.

“Stop fighting over petty things!” Owen snapped right back, angry at himself for being intimidated, “We've probably got a long way to go and it won't go any faster with you two bitching at each other!”

Cold snorted and Mardon gave a little chuckle. The serial-killer smile was back on Axel's face. Owen had the feeling he'd missed a joke.

“Whatever,” Owen sighed. At least the tension was broken for now.

“Why don't you just swap?” Mick asked, poking his head out from where he was hidden behind Owen, “If he doesn't want to carry his shoes and he doesn't want to carry his coat, why don't they just swap, Owen?”

“Because they're not as smart as you,” Owen replied.

“Hey! I'm totally smarter than a five-year-old,” Axel said.

“I'm not five!” Mick said indignantly, as Owen muttered, “Not that you act it.”

“Let's keep movin',” Cold said. He wasn't paying attention to Axel and nearly fell over again when his heavy, blue coat was dumped unceremoniously on his head.

There was a moment when Owen thought Cold would start shouting again, but with a wary look at Axel, he swallowed his tongue and moved on.

“You don't see that everyday,” Mardon murmured.

“See what?” McCulloch asked from right behind Owen, making him jump.

“Don't sneak up on me,” Owen said.

“If I wasnae blind I'd give it a shot,” McCulloch said. The cheer in his voice sounded forced.

Owen sighed. He had to remember he wasn't the worst off by far. “Sorry.”

“C'mon,” McCulloch said, “You can be me guide-dug.”

Owen looped his arm through McCulloch's and pulled him after the others.

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

The mirror-world wasn't consistent. The horizon kept shifting without drawing attention to itself and Owen found himself frowning every five minutes or so to try and figure out if it had been at that angle before. The ground was gritty beneath their feet, like fine sand, and sparked if Owen kicked his steel-capped boots against it hard enough. Yet Mick's feet weren't any worse off for being bare on it.

Owen had led McCulloch along for an hour or so, then Mardon took over and Owen was relegated to keeping ahold of Mick, as the kid had a habit of wandering off on his own if unsupervised.

“I want soup,” Mick whined, tugging pathetically on Owen's hand.

“We don't have any soup,” Owen said, distracted, “And I thought you weren't hungry.”

“I feel sick. I want soup,” Mick insisted, “Mom always makes me soup when I'm sick and it makes me feel better.”

Owen put a hand to Mick's forehead. “You don't feel warm. Are you sure you're sick?”

“Yes,” Mick said stubbornly.

“Hey, McCulloch,” Owen called, “Are there any bugs in the mirror-world that this little guy could've caught?”

“None tha' I ken,” McCulloch replied, with a glassy movement that might have been a shrug, “'Course I didnae make a habit o' pullin' weans through.”

“I'm cold and I want soup,” Mick complained.

Cold looked over at his name and frowned at Mick with a puzzled look on his face.

“Maybe Heat Wave was sick before all this,” Mardon offered, “I can't recall him showing any symptoms, but a virus might've hit a child harder than an adult.”

“Best if we just fix it quick,” Owen said, “C'mon, Mick, I'll carry you if you want.”

“You not gonna drop me again, are you?” Mick said suspiciously.

“Promise,” Owen knelt down and let Mick scramble onto his back, “Here we go!”

“Can I be the blind one?” Mardon said, disgusted.

“Mark,” Cold said, with a tone Owen couldn't recognise.

Mardon scoffed. “Don't try that, Len. Not in the kid's body.”

To Owen's surprise, Cold dropped the subject. Owen hoisted Mick further up on his back and set off again, though not without several glances back.

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

Owen couldn't keep up the piggyback for more than half an hour and soon Mick was trotting alongside him again, hand firmly grasped in Owen's. Mick's skin was warm, but not to the point that Owen was ready to believe him about being sick.

“How long's it been since we started walking?” Axel complained, shrugging the heat pack uncomfortably on his shoulders. Cold had only been wearing a wifebeater under his coat and raw marks were beginning to show on Axel's shoulders, “Are we nearly there yet?”

“Shut up, Axel,” Mardon said reflexively.

“C'mon. We must've been walking for hours!” Axel huffed, “Nothing's changed. We might as well be on a treadmill.”

“He's right,” Owen said, before someone could start shouting at Axel again.

“Can you figure anythin' out, Mirror Master?” Cold asked.

“I cannae see. Mirrors dinnae work wi' no light.,” McCulloch said defensively. He was currently being shepherded by Axel, which, along with the heavy flamethrower, might have been the reason the Trickster was being particularly whiny.

“There's plenty of light,” Cold said, “Doesn't matter if you can see it or not, it's there. Do somethin' with it.”

“Tha's no' how it works,” McCulloch said stubbornly.

Cold made a fist, but then looked at his hands and let out a sharp, annoyed breath.

“Why don't we have a rest?” Owen suggested, “Things'll look better in the... well, there's not really a morning, but things should be better after some sleep.”

Mardon snorted and gave Owen a pitying look. “When have things ever looked better in the morning?”

“I'm just trying to be optimistic.”

Mardon shook his head with a sigh.

“Well fuck you too,” Owen said angrily.

“Owen?” Mick said tugging on Owen's hand again, “You'll get in trouble if you keep using bad words.”

The non-sequitur threw Owen and he found himself replying without conscious thought. “In trouble with who?”

Mick had to think for a moment. “My mom,” he decided gravely.

Cold's mouth pulled in a tight line that Owen somehow recognised as sorrow. He'd worn that same look when he was eulogising Owen's dad.

Mick's mom was probably dead.

“I'll...” Owen swallowed, throat dry, “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Let's get some sleep,” Cold decided.

“I'm not tired,” Axel said, “We should keep going.”

“Tha'll be the mirror-world,” McCulloch said, “There's no food or drink an' we dinnae need them, but you can git worn oot.”

“So we'll get some sleep,” Cold said, trying for a tone that brooked no argument, but mostly came across as whiny in Axel's voice.

“If we’re not getting tired we should keep going,” Axel argued, “The faster we get out of here the faster I can be back in my own body.”

“I agree,” Mark said.

“I think we should rest,” Owen said.

“Two for and two against,” Mardon said, sounding amused, “Want to be the tie-breaker, McCulloch?”

“This isn’t a vote,” Cold growled, before McCulloch could say anything, “We’re restin’ and that’s final.”

“You’re not in charge in here,” Mardon said airily, “I’m much more inclined to listen to the blind man or the tranny. At least they can look me in the eye.”

Owen flinched and crossed his arms over his chest self-consciously. Mick hid behind Owen’s legs, peering out at the arguing pair fearfully.

“Like you ever got off your cloud to look anyone in the eye,” Cold snarled, “Why don’t you go back up? At least you didn’t backtalk there.”

Fury crossed Mardon’s face. “There isn’t any weather in the mirror-world!”

The force of the words made Owen take a step back and he nearly tripped over Mick. For a second, Owen wondered if he should intervene, but Cold didn't so much as flinch.

“Do I fuckin’ look like I care about that? Get over it,” Cold snapped, “Rogues look out for each other and right now that means gettin’ some rest so we’re sharp as ice for whatever this shithole’s gonna throw at us and we’re not at each others’ throats.”

“It won’t help,” Mardon said, his voice and eyes suddenly dead, “Sleep won’t change anything.”

“Mark,” Cold started to say, relatively gently, but then glanced at his gloved hands and grimaced. When he continued to speak it was in a firm voice, “We need rest.”

“It won’t change anything,” Mardon repeated quietly. He gave a shudder and turned away from the other Rogues.

Owen didn’t know what to do. Once upon a time he’d thought that the Rogues were simple criminals. Dangerous and untrustworthy, sure, but pretty straightforward as criminals go. They weren’t supposed to have more issues than the Suicide Squad and the Outsiders put together.

“A bit o’ kip’ll do us good, aye,” McCulloch said into the silence.

“Fine,” Axel threw himself to the ground and yelped when he landed heavier than he expected to.

“I’m not tired, Owen,” Mick said.

“Well I am,” Owen lied, “You might feel less sick if you get some sleep.”

“...Ok,” Mick sighed, as though it was a huge imposition for him to take a nap.

Owen chuckled and put his head down.

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

Owen wasn't sure what had woken him – maybe his subconscious recognised the hiss of phosphorous igniting – but he wasn't the only one stirring groggily. Axel, no Cold, was already upright and looking over the sleepers.

“Fuck's sake,” Cold grumbled, scrambling over Mardon to get to Mick. The kid was holding a lit match and staring at it, enraptured.

Mick gave a heartbroken cry when Cold snuffed the flame. Tears were welling up in his eyes as Cold searched for every last match and lighter that Mick had somehow accumulated.

Owen went over to give Mick a hug when he wouldn't stop hiccuping wetly. The kid had stark black circles under his eyes and was drawn and pale to the point of looking sickly.

“You doing ok, kid?” Owen murmured, rubbing Mick's back.

“No,” Mick sniffed.

Despite the fact that they hadn't needed food or water since getting stuck in the mirror-world, Owen wondered if Mick was suffering for it – being a child it was natural that he'd get hit first.

“Are you hungry?” Owen asked.

“I don't know!” Mick wailed, “I just want the fire!”

“You're not gettin' fire until you can control it,” Cold snapped. He'd gone to sleep without his glasses on, but wrapped up in his heavy blue coat, which he had to keep pushing the sleeves up when he wanted to use his hands.

Mick sobbed into Owen's jacket, pressing uncomfortably tight against Owen's tender chest.

“How'd he get it under control the first time 'round?” Owen asked.

Cold shrugged, then had to irritably yank his coat back over his shoulders again. “He didn't half the time.”

“Then what are we going to do?” Owen asked, more to the universe than Cold specifically. He was tired.

Cold didn't reply. Owen looked over to see Cold smiling fondly at him. Like he used to do when Owen started running with the Rogues just after his dad had died.

“What?” Owen snapped, somewhat more irritably than he meant to.

“Nice to have you back,” Cold said, still smiling. On Cold's face it had looked paternal – scary, but paternal – on Axel's face the grin put Owen in mind of a kid pleased with his prize fighting dog.

“Don't get used to it, I'm leaving the second we get out of here,” Owen warned.

“To do what?”

Owen opened his mouth, but no immediate answer came to mind. Mick shifted his grip, probably in response to the increasing tension, and made Owen flinch.

“Careful there, little guy,” Owen said, glad of a distraction from his conversation with Cold.

“Sorry,” Mick got out between sobs.

“Your spot's still open,” Cold said, turning away and wrapping his coat tightly around himself to settle down for some sleep again, “Keep it in mind.”

“I won't,” Owen whispered to himself in promise. He'd spent a long time boomeranging between teams, trying to find a place in life, and he knew that the Rogues were the last thing anyone should look for in a team.

Yet, as he tried to soothe Mick and absently noted the trust between the group that allowed them to sleep near each other without fear of being backstabbed, Owen tried to remember the last time anyone had felt this much like family.

Part 2

Rehabilitation

2015-05-18T16:53:52Z

Title: Rehabilitation
Words: 2571
Characters: Mark Mardon, Leonard Snart, Roy Bivolo
Summary: Mark readjusts to life outside the Pipeline.

AN: Set after Rogue Air. Not related to my other tv'verse piece.

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

The bar was dingy and there was something sticky on the table next to Mark's elbow. He didn't like it. Something about the low ceiling and the cramped corners was claustrophobic.

A tornado in the middle of the room was looking more and more appealing.

“I like this bar,” Leonard Snart said as he slid into the seat opposite Mark. His glass held too much ice for any normal person's taste. “If you destroy it I'll be upset.”

“You're late,” Mark said.

“You're early,” Snart countered, “I'm never late. It's not good for business.”

Mark gave him a dark look. Snart gave him a flat stare in response.

“So, how do you like being free?” Snart asked.

“I'm not here to make small talk,” Mark said, “I don't like owing people. What do you want to clean my slate?”

“If that's all you want, there's a job I've got in mind. A pair of meta-human hands will make things go much easier,” Snart said.

“If that's all I want?” Mark echoed, “What else have you got planned?”

“That would be telling,” Snart said, smirking, “You do this one job for me, I'll call us even.”

Mark didn't like it. A lifetime of being screwed over and trying to stop his little brother being screwed over was making his hackles rise.

“It's too easy. I don't think that's what you want,” Mark said.

“What I want is Central City. Unmolested, except where I chose to do my business,” Snart said, “The Flash mentioned something about a tsunami and out of all the meta-humans in that container, you're the only one with the powers to do that.”

“I never created a tsunami,” Mark said, though there was a stab of pride that he couldn't quite bury.

“But you could.”

“If I wanted to,” Mark said, “You don't appreciate how powerful I am.”

“Anyone who can hit the Flash when he's moving has my appreciation,” Snart said, “But I've been up against the Flash four times and walked away after each and every encounter. You had what, one kill? Then you were locked away before you could do anything more.”

Sharp memories of an enclosed box. Knockout gas pouring from the ceiling. Poor food. Not being able to lie down straight. Mark fought to keep himself in the present.

“What do you want?” Mark asked, forcing down a shudder.

“I have a team,” Snart said, the expression on his face not changing at Mark's discomfort, “We all take shares from the score and we watch each others' backs.”

“And you're offering me a place?” Mark confirmed, “Bigger team means less payout.”

“A bigger team means a bigger score,” Snart argued.

“Funny, it sounds like you're trying to get me further in your debt,” Mark said.

“Friends aren't indebted to friends,” Snart said, “Join and I'll wipe your slate.”

“And if I don't join?”

“Then you still owe me.”

Mark drummed his fingers on the table, avoiding the sticky patch. Whatever he ended up deciding, it wasn't going to be good. This was why he hated owing people favours. Working with Clyde had been much easier, brothers were always there for each other, without any notion of debt.

“What's to stop me from killing you now and taking back that favour?” Mark asked.

“You see that woman over there?” Snart looked over to the snooker tables, where the woman who had held Bivolo at gunpoint was flirting with a couple of bikers, “The second you start whipping up a tornado or calling down lightning, she'll kill you.”

“She won't get here quick enough to save you,” Mark said.

There was a faint whirr from beneath the table and Mark felt something ice cold press against his knee.

“You came armed,” Mark said grudgingly.

“I'm careful that way,” Snart said, “It's kept me alive and out of Flash's prison so far.”

Flashbacks attempted to grip Mark again. He tried to cover his shaking hands by clasping them together around his still-untouched drink.

“Do you keep your... your Rogues out of Flash's prison too?” Mark asked, his voice too tight to be casual.

“No one's gone there yet.”

“If they did,” Mark pressed.

“Then I'd find a way to get them out,” Snart said, “I take care of my own.”

Mark had heard of Snart's reputation before the breakout. A little research after things had calmed down had only confirmed it. If Snart promised a jailbreak, then a jailbreak would happen.

“I'll take the job,” Mark decided. It was so tempting to say 'yes' to the rest too, purely to have that safety net, but he hadn't survived this long in his career without exercising caution.

“You don't want to be on my team? I'm hurt,” Snart said with mock disappointment.

“I want to know that your team's worth it,” Mark said, “You might be good at keeping out of the Flash's hands, but that doesn't tell me shit about the quality of your heists.”

“My generous offer might have expired by then,” Snart said lightly.

“You're not going to find someone else with my skills,” Mark said confidently.

“So we'll call this job a trial run,” Snart said, “See how well you fit in.”

“And I don't owe you after it.”

“Deal,” Snart raised his glass, “To clean slates.”

Mark gave a silent toast and finally sipped his drink.

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

“I'm not sure I get it,” Roy Bivolo said, charcoal scratching softly over his pad, “Why didn't you just agree to be on Snart's team?”

Mark was currently lying on his back in the middle of a park, tossing a ball over his head. Roy was sat next to him, hunched over a sketch pad. There was a smudge of black on Roy's nose.

“Because I would've looked desperate,” Mark said, “This way Snart acknowledges that I don't owe him anything. He's not going to forget the favour otherwise.”

Roy sighed. “When do you think he'll call mine in?”

“Dammed if I know,” Mark said. He threw the ball too far to the right, but a gust of wind blew it back toward his hand.

Roy licked his thumb and smudged something on the page in front of him. It was peaceful. Open. Everything the prison hadn't been. The only thing that was the same was Roy, yet Mark found that having someone who understood was better than being alone.

“She's moving again,” Roy said.

Mark twisted his neck to watch a woman in a bikini glare at the solitary cloud in the sky then move her blanket several feet until she was once again in the sun. Mark chuckled and gave the cloud another tug to make it follow her again, for the third time in the past twenty minutes.

“Do you know what the job is yet?” Roy asked.

“No,” Mark replied.

“And you're not worried about it?”

“The jobs take care of themselves,” Mark shrugged, “Once I know my part I'll work it out. At least this time I don't have to care about anyone else.”

If Roy noticed his forced cheer, he didn't say anything. There was now a smudge of charcoal on his chin too. Whatever he was drawing was making him frown.

“Would you join up with Snart if you could?” Mark asked.

“It's a bigger league than I was working in,” Roy said carefully.

“You're not answering the question.”

“Maybe there's a reason for that.”

“Come on, you've got me curious now.”

“Yes. Yes I would,” Roy said, rolling his eyes, “I don't want to be stuck in there for months again.”

They both shivered at the mention of the prison. Mark hated how much it was still affecting him.

“But I don't think they'd take me,” Roy continued, “I only started on the big banks when I got my powers. I've never gone after anything famous.”

“You gotta start somewhere,” Mark said, “Hey. Give me sixty percent of your cut for the next year and I'll put in a good word.”

Roy just snorted and ran a careful finger over his picture. Mark twisted over onto his front and scanned the park. A gaggle of children were screaming and running around a couple of harassed-looking adults.

“Think you can get one of those kids from here?” Mark asked.

Roy looked up and focussed. His eyes glowed red for several long seconds before a child's angry shout echoed over the park. It wasn't long before a full brawl had broken out, making the adults look even more worse for wear as they tried to separate the kids.

“Stupid brats. They don't stay still long enough to get a full dose,” Roy said, rubbing his left eye and smudging charcoal over that too.

“Can you do anything other than anger?” Mark asked.

Roy shrugged. “I haven't tried. It's easy to focus on anger.”

“Try something else,” Mark urged, full of sudden curiosity.

Roy grimaced, but relented when Mark chucked his ball at him.

Roy looked around the park for a good victim. Black veins started to spread from his eyes, then finally a flicker of colour appeared. The next moment Roy's eyes glowed yellow and a scream ripped across the park.

“Not bad,” Mark said, watching the affected man flee for his life. He realised Roy was shaking, “Shit, was that too much?”

“Just...” Roy closed his eyes and gulped down several breaths, “Had to think about fear to make it work.”

And fear at the moment meant a box with no space and primitive living conditions. Mark gripped Roy's knee and waited for him to snap out of it.

“Successful, though,” Roy said, voice only a little wobbly.

“Not bad,” Mark repeated.

“Make it ten percent and six months and I'm in,” Roy said.

Mark laughed. “Not worth it.”

“I could make you,” Roy threatened, but there was little heat to the words.

“You want to see what the weather does if I'm angry?”

Roy huffed an amused breath and gently put his stick of charcoal back in the soft leather case it came from.

“Finished?” Mark asked, sitting up to see.

“It's not my best work,” Roy said apologetically, turning the pad around so Mark could see the portrait of himself rendered in black and white. For not being Roy's 'best work', it was pretty damn impressive.

“Let's go haggle over a drink,” Mark suggested.

As soon as the pair left the park, a downpour started, drenching everything.

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

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Mark looked up sharply and Roy choked on his drink at the sound of Leonard Snart's drawl. Snart was holding another drink with too much ice in it and grinning at the pair of them. Mark bit back a sigh and gestured at a chair.

“Have a seat.”

“Very kind of you, Mardon,” Snart said, drooping into the chair then nodding to Roy, “Bivolo.”

“Do you want something, or is this a chance meeting?” Mark asked.

“Do you ever make small talk?” Snart asked mildly.

“I don't see the point if it's about business,” Mark said.

“But what else do we have in common?” Snart said. He was enjoying himself, the bastard.

“How did you sabotage the transport?” Roy asked.

“That? That was easy,” Snart said, “The Flash asked for my help and their security is terrible.”

Mark and Roy shared an uncertain look.

“Flash asked for your help?” Roy said, “Why?”

“He was desperate.”

“He's not going to do that again,” Mark said.

“We'll see,” Snart said easily.

It was frustrating how relaxed Snart was. Mark had scanned the bar twice, but found no sign of anyone who could be Snart's ally, yet the man was comfortable talking with two people who were not only successful criminals, but ones with powers. All Snart had was a gun. A futuristic ice-gun, true, but it was still just a gun.

“I heard you were captured by a joint effort. The Arrow as well as the Flash,” Snart said, leaning toward Roy, “What can you tell me about him?”

If it had been Clyde sitting there, Mark would've kicked him to shut him up. His little brother had a big mouth sometimes. The urge to make Roy be quiet was oddly similar.

“He doesn't have any powers,” Roy said, “But he's not worried about hurting people like the Flash is. Here,” Roy rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a jagged red scar an inch from his elbow, “That's where he got me.”

“What did he use to fight with?” Snart asked.

“Arrows,” Roy said flatly.

Mark resisted the urge to kick him again. Roy was older than him, dammit.

“I take it they didn't need to spend much time taking you down?” Snart said.

“Gee, I didn't think to time it,” Roy said sourly.

“You think you'll run into the Arrow?” Mark asked.

“I find it always helps to be prepared,” Snart said, “The Flash has been upping his game and I need to keep up.”

“It'd be a lot simpler if you'd killed him,” Mark said, “Or let one of us do it if you didn't have the stomach.”

“Rule number two, killing brings unnecessary heat. If you're part of my Rogues you'll learn to avoid it,” Snart said.

“No killing? Is this a kid's show?” Mark scoffed, “No, I have vengeance I need to take. I won't be bound by rules that allow my brother's killer to go free.”

“Deal with revenge on your own time then. If you're on the job then the score comes first. If you can't agree to that you can't be on the team,” Snart said, the barest inflection of threat in his voice, “We don't have many rules, but you will follow them.”

Mark shook his head. He had to get to know people who weren't criminals.

“What are the other rules?” Roy asked.

“One: focus on the score. Two: no unnecessary killing – if you're not good enough to avoid it then I should look elsewhere. Three: look out for one another – that includes prison breaks,” Snart counted off on his fingers as he went, “Four: no drugs – it only makes things messy.”

“That's all?” Roy said.

“To be updated and refined as need be,” Snart said, “Of course it should go without question that you do exactly what I say.”

Mark and Roy shared another glance. Roy obviously wanted to agree to be on the team, but Mark felt that there was an invisible trap waiting to spring.

“What if we want out?” Mark asked.

“Then you leave Central City and I leave you alone,” Snart replied, with an easy smile on his face, “Make no mistake, this is my city. Anyone who tries to destroy it will be met with a chilly reception.”

That last bit was aimed at Mark, who smiled. Whatever the consequences of the unseen trap were, the rest of the job was going to be a hell of a ride. This was why he worked with criminals.

“I'm still not agreeing to any rules until I've done my trial run. Roy too,” Mark added, deciding to give into his protective instincts.

Roy opened his mouth to speak, but Mark kicked him under the table and he glared at Mark instead.

“Let's talk business, shall we?” Snart said, leaning forward and pulling a roll of blueprints out of his jacket.

It wasn't like working with Clyde, but it might just work out after all.

Deals

2015-03-30T15:03:20Z

Title: Deals
Words: 1216
Characters: Cisco Ramon, Leonard Snart, Dante Ramon
Summary: Cisco's chat with Snart goes a little differently. Set during episode 16.

AN: Because I didn't like several moments in the last episode, chief of those being Barry's conversation with Len at the end. Barry had no leverage and was generally acting like he knew Len the way we do (ie. from the comics). Plus I really enjoyed the interactions between Len and Cisco and I'm disappointed no one appears to be shipping them so far.

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

“I like you, kid,” Snart says and Cisco wonders how many people heard that before they died, “You're smart. Pulled yourself up from humble beginnings. You seem like a good brother.”

“You too,” Cisco replies, because if there's one thing that he knows about Snart at this point it's his willingness to play the game. Snart hadn't hurt him for attempting to pass off a dodgy gun as the real deal, therefore Snart would leave them alone if Cisco played along and answered his questions.

“Debatable,” Snart says, “I'm sure you're a much better role model, but then given that you made weapons to stop the city's hero and you're still working for an organisation that killed so many people a year ago... Maybe you're just as debatable.”

“Accidents happen in science,” Cisco's voice shakes and he hopes it can be put down to having just been beaten, the wetness in his eyes certainly is, “At least we don't make a point of murdering people just because we can.”

“You know, I looked into the Flash,” Snart stresses the word Flash like it's something ridiculous, “What would he have done with Clyde Mardon if that cop hadn't put two bullets in his chest?”

“What do you care about Clyde Mardon?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cisco sees Dante stir. He dearly hopes his brother stays down.

“The Mardon brothers and I ran together once,” Snart says, “Call it professional interest.”

“We've got a specially built prison,” Cisco replies, then feels confident enough to follow with, “And you'll end up there.”

“For killing people?” Snart shakes his head condescendingly, “The cops weren't going to leave me in solitary for it. It doesn't matter if I've killed or not.”

“If it doesn't matter then why do you do it?” Cisco says quickly, heart beating fast as a desperate plan crosses his mind, “Are you not good enough to leave everyone alive?”

Snart huffs a laugh and crouches down so his face is on level with Cisco's. There's a moment when Cisco considers trying to fight again, but his face gives a throb of agony at the thought and he stays where he is.

“You've got guts, kid,” Snart says, he's got an ice-sharp smile and it's terrifying, “You want to make a wager then?”

“On if you can pull a job without killing anyone?” Cisco guesses and gets a nod in reply, “If you kill someone you've got to let us go.”

“And if I don't, you're going to tell me who the Flash really is.”

Cisco swears his heart stops beating for a moment there. “That's not fair,” he croaks.

“Two lives for one name? You're right, maybe I should ask for something else.”

“That's not what I meant,” Cisco can feel his fear balling in his chest, he's about ten seconds away from breaking down and he can't, “Killing us would be more work than letting us go. You don't have to watch us all the time if we're not here.”

“You're definitely toeing the line of how much trouble you're worth,” Snart agrees and Cisco experiences another jolt of fear because Snart doesn't agree with anyone, “I want to know who's under the crimson cowl and I don't particularly care how I find out. If you prefer I can just freeze your brother bit by bit until you tell me now. Your choice, Cisco.”

“...If your sister or Mick Rory kill anyone that means you lose too,” Cisco says. He's seen what that cold-gun does to Barry and Dante doesn't have superspeed healing to get over it.

“For better or worse, they're my responsibility,” Snart says, standing up, “If you try to escape again –”

He's cut off by Dante tackling him. Cisco hadn't noticed his brother doing anything and Snart had been paying all his attention to Cisco, so it takes them both by surprise.

Snart goes down in an ungraceful heap, barely missing the table. Cisco's adrenal glands have been trying to make him fight or flight since Dante took the leg off the table to begin with. He leaps into the fray, horribly away that his hands are still tied and even with two of them, Snart's probably still got the advantage.

Cisco can't hear running footsteps, which hopefully means that the other two aren't going to help. Then he can't hear anything but buzzing as Snart's elbow collides viciously with Cisco's ear. It's enough to make Cisco pause until his vision rights itself.

By then Snart has Dante pinned and whimpering. The cold-gun is pressed into the back of Dante's neck and even though Snart hasn't pulled the trigger, the gun's ready to fire and the nozzle must be like a lamppost in winter.

“Please don't kill him,” Cisco whispers, he can't find his voice to do anything more.

“And lose our wager before it begins? No. What your brother here hasn't realised is that when I wanted you to cooperate, Cisco, I threatened him. What did you imagine would happen when you didn't do what I wanted, Dante?”

Even though Cisco sees it coming, the pain still surprises him. He screams as the blast from the cold-gun hits him in the side of his chest. It hurts to breathe and the burn from the ice is unbearable.

“That's first-degree frostbite. You could recover with proper treatment, if not all your muscles, nerves, and blood vessels will freeze and you'll find it very hard to catch your breath,” Snart's voice is deliberately clear and Cisco concentrates on every word to stop himself from focussing on the pain, “To put it another way, if I got my sister to kiss you again, you'd pass out.”

“Leave him alone!” Dante shouts.

“I will, if you do what I want,” Snart says calmly, “Pick up your brother and follow me.”

Cisco nods quickly when Dante looks to him for help. Getting Cisco to his feet with their hands still bound and Cisco's ribs screaming whenever he tries to twist his body is barely doable. Snart watches them with a casual air that implies he could wait for them forever if need be.

Snart takes them to a smaller room and ties them to a rail that happens to be sticking out of the wall. Given that Cisco overheard them mention that the house used to belong to the Santini family, he has a nasty feeling that the rail isn't for disabled access.

“You'd better hope I'm the next person to walk into this room,” Snart says as he strings up a trap around the door. Exactly like the one that had nearly gotten Caitlin killed, “And you'd better hope I'm not delayed,” he adds, with a pointed look to Cisco's frostbite.

“We'll be praying for you,” Cisco snarls.

Snart gives a short laugh. “Remember, no deaths, one name.”

Then the door's closed behind him.

The room must be soundproofed, as Cisco can't hear any footsteps or other doors in the rest of the house. He really, really doesn't want to know why the room would need to be soundproofed.

“That was the bravest thing I've ever seen,” Dante says.

“Wait until I tell you about the time I bluffed him with a vacuum cleaner,” Cisco replies, “Let's find a way out of here.”

Of Injuries and Interviews

2015-01-27T17:01:52Z

Title: Of Injuries and Interviews
Characters: Wally West, Iris West, Captain Cold
Word count: 7759
Summary: Wally's holiday in Central City with Iris is interrupted by an unconscious villain. Set in the New 52, after Of Children, Ice, and Baseball Caps.

AN: The bulk of this was written not long after my previous fic (Of Children, Ice, and Baseball Caps), which means that it's not following canon after issue #6 or so. Most importantly, this means that Wally isn't new52!Wally, as him being a fan of the Flash and into science was key to his character pre-boot and that's what I based this on (not to mention his parental situation is different too). I might try writing new52!Wally at some point, but not for this.
Thanks to melinie17 over on livejournal for giving me a kick to finish this.

Jeez, I used to be very itallics happy.

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Wally's fairly certain he knows who the man his aunt is fussing over actually is. You can't be as big a fan of the Flash as Wally is without being able to recognise one of the major players in the Gem City's rogues gallery. New look and powers or not.

Said powers had actually come as a bit of a surprise. Reports can end up a bit convoluted even when they're only travelling to Blue Valley and Iris has been remarkable close-mouthed on the subject.

Anyway, none of that tells Wally what to do.

He's been helping Iris by fetching bandages and discarding tissues of the bloody slush that's seeping out of Captain Cold's wounds. With all the blood and ice, it looks like Iris is going to have to buy a new settee. Despite himself, Wally's fascinated by the science behind the change from human to meta-human. Rumour has it that's how the Flash came about after all.

Iris stands up and wipes her bloody hands on a towel Wally passes her. She gestures and leads them into the kitchen where she can give her hands a proper clean in the sink.

“I know you're not comfortable with this, Wally,” Iris says, “If you want to leave for the afternoon that's fine. You could catch a movie or something.”

“I'm not leaving you alone with him,” Wally says firmly, folding his arms.

“My hero,” Iris says indulgently, ruffling Wally's hair with a wet hand.

Wally backs off, protecting his hair. Iris chuckles and dries her hands on a spare towel.

“He's a criminal,” Wally says, “He hurts people.”

“I know,” Iris says and there's a bit of a sigh in her voice, “Trust me, Wally, please.”

“I do,” Wally says immediately, “I don't trust him. We still don't know how he got injured.”

“If it had been against the police or the Flash, I would've heard about it by now,” Iris says, “So that means there's an interesting story about it.”

Now it's Wally's turn to sigh. “Aunt Iris...”

“I know, I know,” Iris says breezily, “I'm taking a huge risk for my story, it's what reporters do, Wally. You'll understand when you find something you love to do.”

Wally can't help grumbling, but he can't stay mad at Iris. She's his best friend, as sad as that sounds. Wally had been ecstatic when she'd offered to let him stay for the summer. Getting to stay in the Flash's home town and being promised at least one visit to a crime lab was just icing on the cake.

There's a knock at the door and a thrill of dread runs through Wally as he thinks of the villain in the living room. Judging by the look on Iris' face, he's not the only one.

“I'll get that,” Iris says decisively, “You keep an eye on Cold.”

Wally nods, though he keeps an ear on Iris and the front door. From the sounds of it, it's just a delivery which Iris has to sign for. The relief makes Wally sink to the floor and let out a shaky breath.

On his knees, Wally considers Cold's prone form. He's still breathing, which Wally supposes is a good thing, and his eyes are shifting under his lids. Iris' bandages are a little on the sloppy side, but they're holding Cold's wounds together, which is all that's being asked of them.

Wally reaches forward and picks up Cold's wrist from where his arm had fallen off the sofa. The skin is cold and slightly damp. Wally presses his fingers in to find Cold's pulse. Huh, it's regular. Wally had hypothesised that it would be greatly slowed, due to the general drop in temperature that is the obvious indicator of Cold's meta-human physiology.

There is a slightly confused noise and Wally looks up to see Cold's eyes flicker open. They stare at each other for a moment, then Cold launches himself off the sofa and at Wally with a snarl.

Wally finds himself pinned to the ground and ice is beginning to coat his shoulders where Cold's hands are gripping him. There is no way Wally is going to be able to squirm out of a grasp that tight, so he does the only thing he could think of.

Wally's knee comes up sharply and hits Cold squarely in one of the bandages on his abdomen. Cold gives a hiss and moves back, curling in on himself. Wally scrambles backward and only just manages to yank a sofa cushion between him and a blast of ice Cold shoots at him. The ice doesn't pierce the cushion, which gives Wally some hope for surviving a blast without protection.

Wally throws the cushion at Cold and ducks behind the couch. He knew bringing home one of the Flash's enemies was a bad idea. Wally can't see anything to use as a weapon and yelps as ice coats the sofa against his back and makes him spend precious seconds pulling his hoodie free.

Wally makes a break for the closet where he's fairly certain the mop and broom are stored – better a silly weapon than none at all.

A blast of ice seals the closet door before Wally can reach it and Cold catches up with him. Cold grabs Wally by the scruff of his neck then shoves him against the iced-over door. Ice has made its way up Cold's arms and is spreading to the front of Wally's hoodie.

“Where am I?” Cold snarls, “Who the hell are you?”

Wally kicks out, but this time Cold's anticipating it and Wally only gets in a glancing blow. It's enough to make Cold grimace, but not enough to make him loosen his grip. It's now freezing. Wally does the only thing he can and jerks his head forward into Cold's face.

Ow.

They should really mention how much that hurts.

It does the trick though, as Cold lets go of Wally to clutch at his now-bloody nose. Wally blinks away tears as his holds his own aching forehead. He stumbles backward picks up the first thing he can get his hands on.

Of course, this would be the point that Iris walks in.

“Wallace! Leonard!” Iris scolds the pair of them like children.

Cold has the grace to look a little sheepish, while Wally tries to discretely drop Iris' handbag that he'd picked up as a last ditch attempt at defence. It makes a loud thump when it hits the floor. Iris frowns at it and Wally.

“Iris,” Cold starts, but falters when Iris turns her scowl on him.

“Not even five minutes,” Iris says, “And I had to make an excuse for that mailman to stop him investigating further.”

Both Wally and Cold start blaming the other for the fight.

“He started it –”

“– hit me when I'm injured –”

“– tried to ice me –”

“– broke my nose –”

“– didn't provoke him –”

“– wouldn't explain –”

“Enough,” Iris interrupts, “Wally, go fetch some towels and my hair-dryer. Unless you can get the ice off the walls...” she asks Cold pointedly.

He shakes his head.

“Then you're going to help,” Iris says, “After I've made sure your scrap didn't re-open any of your wounds.”

This is about the point where Cold remembers that he's actually a villain and doesn't have to put up with Iris' orders.

“I'm fine,” Cold snaps. It would be a lot more convincing if his voice hadn't been coming out all funny ever since his nose had taken the brunt of Wally's headbutt. The wince when he folds his arms isn't quite hidden enough either. Iris points at the sofa.

“Fix it and sit down,” she orders.

The stare down lasts for some time longer, during which Wally is almost afraid to breathe lest it upset the balance. Eventually Cold rolls his eyes and makes a move toward the sofa. Wally, convinced Iris has the situation in hand, goes to the bathroom for towels and a hair-dryer. When he returns to the living room, Cold is letting Iris set his nose straight.

Wally plugs in the hair-dryer and starts blasting the ice with hot air. It's not all that thick, except at the point where the door meets frame. Wally concentrates on getting it off the wallpaper first, since that's the most likely to suffer water damage.

There's a few grunts and hisses from behind Wally, but any time he glances over his shoulder Cold's staying still and letting Iris poke and prod at his injuries.

“What did you do?” Iris asks, “Get shot?”

“Fell down some stairs,” Cold says, “Really,” he adds when Iris raises an eyebrow at him, “It's pretty nasty I'll have you know.”

“Did these 'stairs' happen to end with a box of knives?” Iris says.

“I was knifed before the stairs,” Cold says, “They were just an unfortunate way out.”

Wally's got most of the ice and melt-water cleared off the wall and door by the time Iris is finished with Cold. Cold gets sent over to help Wally with the last bit that's holding the door closed. He grumbles, but does actually come over.

Cold manages to get his fingers under the edge of the ice and yanks most of it off cleanly. Wally runs a towel over the excess, while Cold gets directed to put the ice in the sink to melt.

Iris has a particular look on her face when Wally finishes up his part of the cleaning and he starts getting worried. That look has never boded well. It's the look Iris uses on the rare occasions she pulls rank and actually reminds Wally that she's his aunt as well as best friend. Apparently Cold recognises it too, because he's looking defensive when Iris frowns at him.

“I expected better,” Iris finally says, “Though frankly, I don't know why I did.”

Wally's feeling awful. He hates it when Iris is disappointed in him. It doesn't happen very often, but that just makes the occasions when it does feel ever worse.

“Wally,” Iris says, turning her attention to him, “I can hardly believe you got into a fight with an injured man. You didn't even try to explain what was going on. I could hear you,” she pre-emptively cuts off Wally's protest, “And you didn't say a word.”

Wally hates the guilt that is bubbling in his stomach. Thankfully, Iris shifts her attention to Cold.

“Leonard,” she starts and Wally's surprised at the disappointment in her voice, he'd expected more venom to be honest, “You attacked – and kept attacking – my fifteen year old nephew. I thought you didn't hurt children.”

“I'm not a child,” Wally blurts before he can stop himself. He shuts his mouth tightly when Iris gives him a look.

“Kid got in some good hits himself,” Cold says, touching his nose where an impressive bruise is starting to form. Wally can't help the stab of pride at seeing it.

“That isn't the point,” Iris snaps.

“Then what is?” Cold snaps back, “When I wake up feeling like I've been several rounds against Superman and there's someone I don't know leaning over me, I'm not going to fucking sit there and let them mess with me.”

There's something in his voice that makes Wally wonder if that has happened before. He can see the reporter-cogs turning in Iris' head too.

Finally, Iris sighs and shakes her head. “Alright, you two, shake hands and make up.”

“What?” the question comes from both of them.

“Apologise,” Iris says, “Go on.”

Neither Wally nor Cold move.

“What's wrong?” Iris huffs, “It's not hard.”

“He's Flash's enemy,” Wally says, at the same time Cold says, “I don't apologise.”

“Right now that doesn't matter,” Iris says, “Shake hands or you –” she points at Cold, “– can just leave right now. And you –” she points at Wally, “– can forget about visiting the forensics lab tomorrow.”

Wally immediately sticks his hand out toward Cold. It was worth swallowing his pride for a moment to keep the promise of a lab visit while he was here in Central. There's mention that the Flash sometimes visits, alongside the obvious chance of seeing scientists at work.

“You want a story, don't you?” Cold says, not making a move to take Wally's hand.

“I always want a story,” Iris says.

Something passes between them, then Cold takes Wally's hand with a smirk. His grip is cool and strong, even though the actual shake lasts less than a second.

Someday, Wally's going to look back at all this and... well, he's not sure 'laugh' is appropriate. Maybe he'll look back and see this as the first sign of his aunt's descent into madness. He hopes it isn't.

“So what's my incentive?” Cold asks. There's a leer on his face that gets Wally's hackles up.

“Dinner,” Iris replies.

“And nothing else,” Wally says firmly.

Cold chuckles and it makes Wally more than a little uncomfortable. Iris doesn't seem to care, but Wally doesn't want his aunt to end up with someone unworthy of her, and you can't get more unworthy than one of Flash's foes.

“Alright,” Cold says, though the leer's still in his voice, “I'm not feeling up to much more right now.”

Wally grabs a book he'd been meaning to read and takes a seat on the far side of the sofa. That's the side closest to the armchair. Unless Iris squeezes onto the sofa too, she'll be as far away from Cold as it's possible to be while still on the living room furniture.

Iris gives Wally an indulgent smile as she sits on the armchair. Her notepad and pen are at the ready. The sofa cushions shift as Cold takes a seat, Wally doesn't look up from his book to see how Flash's most tenacious Rogue is looking at him or his aunt.

“So, Leonard –” another thing that Wally will never get used to, Iris calling Cold by his real name, “– maybe we can start with how you ended up in that alley in such a state.”

“There's a lot more than Rogues versus Flash as far as crime goes in the Gem Cities,” Cold replies.

“The Flash does stop less... colourful robberies and muggings everyday,” Iris agrees, “As well as other crimes.”

“I'm not talking about those ones,” Cold says, “I mean the organised stuff. I mean the ones that try to get a foothold whenever it looks like the Rogues might not be around to stop them.”

“Is the competition really that much of a problem?” Iris asks.

“The more time we spend fighting each other, the more likely it is that Flash'll catch us unawares,” Cold says, “And... I don't like drugs. There are easier ways to make money.”

The admission surprises Wally, as badly covered up as it is. He glances sideways and sees Iris pause for a second in her note-taking.

“So you... confronted these drug-dealers and...” Iris prompts.

“They didn't take it well,” Cold replies, shifting with a wince, “Introduced me to that flight of stairs we mentioned earlier.”

“No backup?” Iris asks, “There have been rumoured sightings of other Rogues around the cities, but they have yet to do something dangerous enough to get the Flash involved.”

“The Rogues are... trying a more independent route to gain better practise with newer powers,” Cold says.

“You had a fight and broke up,” Iris states.

Wally glances up to see Cold scowling heavily. “You make us sound like a group of teenage girls,” Cold grouches.

“If the shoe fits,” Wally mutters under his breath. It earns him a glare from Cold, but either Iris' earlier comments got to him or Cold's feeling his injuries, because he doesn't do anything more.

“The other Rogues don't have anything to do with this,” Cold says, “Don't you have any better questions to ask?”

“I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me the names and location of the group that did this to you,” Iris says, though it's clear in her voice that she already knows the answer.

“I'm not a snitch,” Cold says. He pauses and when Wally checks, there's a certain smirk on his face, “Not sure how far I could've pulled myself in that state though.”

Iris' smile has something of Cold's smirk in it. “Of course,” she says, “Speaking of, could I bring the questions around to how your new powers reacted to your injuries?”

“What?”

“Ice literally in your veins,” Iris says.

Cold touches his fingers to the blood still seeping out of his nose. It's liquid and nothing like the injuries Iris treated earlier. Cold then peels back one of the bandages and looks surprised when he sees that it's iced over. He prods it and gets bloody slush on his fingers.

“Huh,” Cold says, putting the bandage back in place, “Weird.”

“I take it you didn't know about that then,” Iris comments.

“Not as such,” Cold says, “Good to find out in a safe place though.”

“Ice can trap the blood in quicker than it clots,” Wally says. He looks up when there's silence to see Iris and Cold both looking at him, “What? It makes sense.”

“It does,” Iris agrees, “I just hadn't considered...”

“I was bleeding out earlier,” Cold says, “It only iced over when I made it.”

“Instinctive defence,” Wally corrects, “Your body knows what to do and does it best when unconscious.”

Cold turns to Iris and opens his mouth, but she beats him to it.

“No,” Iris says firmly.

“It wouldn't be for –” Cold starts.

“He's younger than Trickster,” Iris says, “Isn't that what you said?”

“I'm not wanting to take him on heists,” Cold says, “Just for research purposes.”

“He is sitting right here,” Wally interrupts, annoyed that they're talking about him like he isn't even there. He gets enough of that from home, thank you very much.

“Sorry, Wally,” Iris says, though she's still frowning at Cold.

“I'm not going to help the Rogues,” Wally continues, “I'm on Flash's side.”

“I hadn't guessed,” Cold says, with a pointed look at Wally's Flash hoodie.

Wally brings his knees up to defend the lightning-bolt insignia. “You're just jealous you don't have any fans.”

“Play nice, boys,” Iris warns them.

Wally already knows the rest of the day isn't going to go very well. Him and Cold just aren't going to get along, no matter what Iris tries.

“Would you like to say anything else, Leonard?” Iris asks.

“You know the cops aren't going to do anything with this, don't you?” Cold says.

“You've just got to find the right cops,” Iris says sweetly.

“They don't exist,” Cold says with a hrmphf.

“You just have to know where to look,” Iris says.

“On about your lab-rat, I suppose,” Cold says.

“He's not my lab-rat,” Iris says, “And he has a name.”

Wally's almost feeling like he's at a tennis match. His book is open on his knees, but he's not paying it any attention.

“Iris?” Wally says and he hopes it didn't come out quite as squeaky as it sounded to him.

“Barry. You'll see him tomorrow, Wally,” Iris says, “He's the one who offered to show you around the lab.”

“Why don't you like cops?” Wally wants to know.

“Would you like them in my position, kid?” Cold asks, “When all that's keeping them out of lock-up is the fact that they've got a badge.”

“The whole 'cop-mentality' thing?” Wally says, “I don't buy into that. You're born good or evil, if you ask me.”

“Shades of grey,” Cold rebuts, “Or you're simplifying things too much.”

“You would say that,” Wally says, “Theft is theft. Assault is assault. It doesn't get any simpler than that.”

Iris is all but forgotten as Wally and Cold's argument starts getting more and more heated.

“You're not looking at the reasoning,” Cold says, “I break into a building unlawfully, I get called a crook. Flash breaks into a building unlawfully, he gets called a hero.”

“Flash isn't a thief,” Wally snaps.

“He sure as hell isn't working for the law,” Cold says.

“But he is working with it,” Wally says, “Ultimately his intent is good.”

“Because he's a 'hero',” Cold spits out the word, “Get the right label attached and they'll let you get away with murder.”

“The Flash doesn't murder. He saves people,” Wally says, “That's why he's a hero. He didn't just get the name out of nowhere.”

“Boys,” Iris interrupts. Which Wally's grateful for, since Cold looks close to making the argument physical – frost has started to creep over his hands. “I'm heading to the bathroom,” Iris adds, “Try not to kill each other.”

Wally wants to beg her not to leave him alone with Cold, but if the look Iris is giving him is any indication, she wants them to try to get along. Wally pointedly picks up his book and starts reading again.

“Want some ice for your head, kid?” Cold asks.

“What?” Wally asks, then his head decides to throb slightly and remind him that he smashed it pretty hard earlier.

Without waiting for more of an answer than Wally's wince, Cold presses one hand against Wally's forehead. The temperature is shocking, but very quickly soothes the ache. Cold pulls his hand away slowly and leaves behind a sheet of ice. Wally's pretty sure it's going to start dripping soon, but for now it's pleasant.

“Thanks,” Wally says, because his manners are ingrained enough to do so.

“Don't mention it,” Cold says, his response sounds somewhat instinctive too, which is a bit of surprise.

There's silence. Wally finds himself reading the same line over and over, but he doesn't want to start up the argument again. Finally it gets too much for Wally and he blurts out.

“I'm into physics and chemistry more than biology.”

“Hmm?” Cold's frowning now.

“I mean, I wouldn't be much good at figuring out your powers,” Wally elaborates, “That's what you meant earlier, right? You'd do better with someone who actually knows... would it be cryobiology?”

“Bit hard to find someone sympathetic in that field,” Cold says, “Considering how much of a mess Killer Frost's made things.”

Wally winces. Even in Blue Valley he's heard how Killer Frost terrorised or completely slaughtered almost every person in the field of cryogenics. Cold doesn't have as high a body-count, but he's still a villain and the scientists that are left are unlikely to help.

“Flash could –” Wally starts.

“I'm not asking Flash for help,” Cold snarls. Any and all progress Wally's made is suddenly gone.

“He's the best test you've got,” Wally says.

“And any time I want to try something new I'll have to deal with Iron Heights,” Cold says, “No chance.”

They lapse into silence again. Wally manages to focus long enough to get through a couple of paragraphs. Then he gets distracted by Cold practising his ice powers. He's not doing anything fancy, just letting it form and dissipate, but it's still a bit of a novelty to watch.

“How long does she usually take?” Cold asks.

“Iris?” Wally says, glancing over at the direction of the bathroom, “Not this long. I should check up on her.”

Thankful for the excuse to leave, Wally takes his book with him as he heads toward the bathroom. Iris has been gone something close to fifteen minutes. While that may be normal for some people, Iris doesn't dawdle by any stretch of the imagination.

“Iris?” Wally asks, knocking on the bathroom door, “Is everything ok?”

There's no answer. Wally tries the handle and the door opens, unlocked. Wally slips in and finds chaos.

The cabinet of toiletries has been knocked off the wall, its contents scattered over the room. The mat that usually lives beside the shower is scrunched up against the toilet. The window is smashed.

Wally runs over to the window, mind reeling at how he could've missed all this going on. There's no sign of Iris or possible attackers.

“Hell,” Wally mutters. He frowns. His word came out distorted. “Hello?” Wally tries, a bit louder. Still funny-sounding.

Wally sticks his head out of the bathroom and tries again. “Hello?” this time it comes out fine. Weird.

Wally starts searching the bathroom for the cause of this effect. He is just pulling a strange black box out of a pile of toiletries when Cold looks in.

“Shit,” Cold says silently, which Wally can clearly lip-read.

Wally locates the off switch and sound fills the room again. It's strange how much Wally wasn't hearing. The rushing wind through the broken window is louder than Wally would've expected.

“This is your fault,” Wally snaps at Cold, who is looking out of the window.

“How?” Cold snaps back, “I was unconscious when you brought me here. It's not like I could shake their tail.”

“You pissed them off,” Wally says, “And now they've gone after Iris.” He hates the way his voice hitches at the last word.

“She's a tough lady,” Cold says, “She'll be able to take care of herself until I get there.”

Wally follows Cold through to the living room. “Until we get there,” Wally corrects.

Cold stops and frowns at Wally. “Not a chance, kid.”

“You think you can do this on your own?” Wally says, trying to appeal to common sense, “You said they stabbed you last time.”

“I don't work with anyone younger than Trickster,” Cold says.

“She's my aunt,” Wally says, “My best friend. Please.”

“What use are you gonna be?” Cold asks.

“I'm quick,” Wally says, “Small too.” he's not really, not for his age, but against adults he's still got some growing to do. “And I'm smart.”

“These guys are playing for keeps,” Cold warns, “They're going to shoot at you, kid or not.”

“I'm not leaving my aunt,” Wally says hotly.

Cold gives a sharp nod. “Does she have any weapons you can use. Mace, maybe?”

Wally picks up Iris' handbag and searches through. It doesn't take him long to find a taser. It's a short-range one, so he doesn't have to worry about re-loading. Just that he'll have to be in close range with the enemy.

“Keys,” Cold says, at Wally's confusion he adds, “You'll need her keys. Take her phone too – make sure it's on silent – that way if it turns into too much of a fuck up you can get help.”

“We could try and contact the Flash,” Wally suggests.

“No,” Cold says, “It's already a tricky situation. Flash tends to complicate things.”

“Wait,” Wally says, as Cold heads for the door, “You're going out like that?”

All Cold needs are his goggles on and his hood up to be in full 'Captain Cold' mode.

“You got a better idea?” Cold asks.

“Two minutes,” Wally says as he runs into his room.

Despite having only been here for a couple of weeks, Wally's room is a tip. It takes him longer than it should to come across what he's looking for. He's surprised when he finds Cold still waiting.

“Here,” Wally says, shoving a jacket into Cold's hands, “That should cover you until we get close.”

Cold opens the jacket with distaste clearly on his face. “Not a chance in hell.”

“It's not Flash,” Wally says, “It's –”

“Just as bad,” Cold finishes.

“Are you going to argue about this or help me save Iris?” Wally demands.

Cold grumbles, but puts the jacket on. Green Lantern isn't exactly subtle, but it does its job of distracting away from his usual costume.

“Ready to go?” Wally asks, double checking his pockets for key, phone, and taser.

Cold doesn't reply, instead just walking out of the door. Wally makes sure its locked and jogs to catch up with Cold. They don't meet anyone until they get outside. Wally gives a sigh of relief

“So, which way are we going?” Wally wants to know.

“Stick close,” Cold says, “It's not far.”

He's right, it's only a few blocks before Cold yanks Wally sharply into an alley. Wally manages to keep in his yelp at being moved unexpectedly.

“Put these on,” Cold says, pressing his goggles into Wally's hands, “And keep your hood up. It's best if they don't get a good look at you.”

“What about you?” Wally asks, sliding the goggles over his head. He has to adjust to the sudden tunnel-vision.

“I want them to notice me,” Cold says, shrugging the jacket off and drawing himself up to his full height, “Follow me at a distance, ok, kid? Find your aunt and get out of there.”

Those are priorities Wally can get behind. He tugs his hood up and nods to Cold. Cold's own hood is up and he's formed crude goggles out of ice over his eyes. There's something hard in his face that Wally's not actually seen in person before.

“Twenty seconds,” Cold says, patting Wally on the shoulder and walking off.

Wally almost uses his watch to count, then he realises he should really see where Cold's going. Twenty seconds passes relatively slowly then Wally finally starts to follow.

Cold turned right at the end of the alley. Wally peers around the corner and doesn't see anyone. He trots down the next alley, keeping an eye out for anyone else. He's adjusted to the goggles' limited vision surprisingly easily. Possibly a by-product of playing video games – and mom said they were bad for him.

There's another fork and, again, Wally doesn't see anyone either way. He's starting to feel a little paranoid. Something glitters out of the corner of his eye and he sees a splatter of ice on the corner leading left. Left it is.

Wally gets about halfway along the alley when he comes across two men. They're unconscious and mostly coated in ice. At least Wally knows he's going in the right direction. He takes the taser out and approaches the door nearby. It's ajar and also has a frost pattern on it.

There's more ice inside. A handful of bullets are on the floor, completely encased. More bodies. Sometimes with a limb shattered, but all alive. Wally moves on quickly. He's catching Cold up, the sounds of fighting is becoming clearer.

There comes a point when Wally finds another door with Cold's usual frost pattern on it and he decides to take another route. Cold's been staying on the ground floor, if Wally can get higher, he'll be in a better vantage point. Especially with the way this is a warehouse and most of the best rooms are two stories or more.

Wally's beginning to feel confident, when he runs into somebody. He'd gotten used to the idea that Cold had taken out everyone and hadn't appreciated that it didn't count when Wally deviated from the path.

The man has a gun, which he points at Wally. Wally freezes, though manages to keep the taser out of the guy's view.

“What the hell are you doing here, boy?” the man asks, “This isn't a place for playing.”

“I'm lost,” Wally says, inwardly cringing at how typical that sounds.

“Yeah, right,” the man says, unimpressed, he moves toward Wally, “Come on.”

He grabs Wally's arm and Wally shoves the taser against the man's side. There's a bzzzpt and a smell of burning flesh that Wally won't soon be forgetting. The man collapses, but he's not knocked out. Wally manages to kick the gun out of the man's hand then hits him on the head. This time the man passes out.

Wally coughs and feels a bit sick. He pushes it down and checks the taser. Enough charge for three more blasts. Wally considers the gun, but ultimately he has no clue how to use one and the idea leaves him feeling even more sick. He makes do by kicking it into a corner and heading on.

The sound of fighting is loudest by one door. Wally slips through and finds himself on a catwalk. Some of the railings are out of repair, but that's not the reason his heart leaps into his mouth.

Iris is being held by a man. She's unconscious and has her hands bound as well as a gag stuffed into her mouth. The man's only sparing her one arm, his other hand is holding something Wally can't see. Wally starts creeping forward. As he moves further into the room, he can see Cold fighting on the floor below.

Cold's outnumbered and definitely in a much worse state than when Wally last saw him. By the looks of things Cold's got an aura of absolute zero up, which is the only reason he's alive. One of his opponents takes a shot at him, but the bullets don't reach Cold before they freeze over and fall to the ground. Cold's looking tired from what Wally can see. His own shots at his opponents are getting sloppy. Ice hits the walls and crates more often than it hits a person.

“Ready to surrender yet, Snart?” the man holding Iris asks.

“Fuck you,” Cold snaps.

The man holds out the object in his hand and Wally sees what it is quite clearly. A detonator.

Oh hell.

The man is calling something more down at Cold, but Wally's not listening. He picks up a piece of railing and launches himself at the man.

Wally brings down the railing on the man's arm and the detonator tumbles from his grasp. The man lets go of Iris and turns to Wally with a snarl on his face. Wally ducks the first punch, but the second catches him in the stomach and he drops to his knees, wheezing.

The man gives Wally a hard kick and Wally tumbles against a railing, which gives way under his weight. Wally barely manages to grab the edge as both he and the railing fall.

The man walks away, heading toward the door that Wally came through. He pulls another detonator out of his jacket and presses it as he leaves. Wally's just got one leg onto the catwalk when everything goes to hell.

Several crates below explode. It's not quite as sharp a noise as Wally expected, instead its mostly a roaring sound. When Wally pulls himself completely up he glances down and sees that it's not so much an explosion as a really nasty fire.

The men Cold was fighting are now fighting each other for the exit. Wally can't see Cold through the smoke. Wally has his priorities though, and he picks up Iris and stumbles toward the exit.

It's awkward and difficult, but Wally manages to navigate the stairs and get outside. There wasn't any sign of the guy Wally had knocked out and he hopes he made it out alive.

Wally sits Iris up against the alley wall and starts untying her wrists. A click from behind him stops him cold.

“You almost cost me a great deal,” it's the man who had the detonator earlier. Wally slowly turns around and finds himself face to face with the end of a gun barrel, “You're lucky I'm always prepared.”

The gun flicks to one side and Wally slowly stands up and moves. All he can think about is the pipe and taser he left on the catwalk and how they'd be no use against a gun.

“You tell Miss West, when she wakes up, to stay out of our business,” the man continues, “We're not all that fond of reporters.”

“We weren't in your business,” Wally says, ignoring the part of his brain that's telling him to shut up, “We were just helping someone injured.”

“Don't make me laugh,” the man snorts, “Everyone knows who Captain Cold is. Our business doesn't need some nosy reporter butting in. Or else...”

“Or else what?” Wally says and the sensible part of his brain is now screaming at him.

The gun lowers. Wally's just about to breathe a sigh of relief when there's a bang and white-hot pain lances through his right thigh. Wally collapses with a cry. The man says something else, but Wally doesn't take in a word. His leg hurts like nothing else ever has before.

Awareness comes back to Wally in a sudden moment. The men have vanished and there's a worrying amount of blood on his trousers. His leg is throbbing, but there's something to be said for adrenalin keeping the worst of the pain away.

Wally gets the rope off Iris' hands and ties it around his leg in a makeshift tourniquet. He then takes out Iris' phone and dials for an ambulance. Its awkward explaining how to get to them, but he manages.

It comes to Wally that he hasn't seen Cold. He might not be an expert in cryobiology, but he does know that ice in a fire isn't going to go well for the ice. There's the temptation to just leave him – he is a criminal after all – but Wally knows a good person doesn't leave anyone for dead. The Flash certainly wouldn't.

Adrenalin might be keeping the pain down, but Wally still can't put anything close to full weight on his right leg. He ends up doing an awkward shuffle-hop, using bits of furniture and the wall for support. He comes across a hatstand not too far into the building and uses it in place of a crutch.

Thick black smoke is billowing out of the doorway when Wally finally reaches the room in question. He lets his sleeve slide down over his hand and clamps it to his mouth then plunges into the room.

It's hard to see. Cold's goggle aren't helping, but Wally pretty sure that taking them off is a worse idea. Wally counts the floorboards under his feet. As long as he knows how far it is to the door, he should be able to get out.

There's a crackle and Wally heads toward it. He doesn't see the ice in time and slips, jarring his leg painfully. Wally cries out and someone grips his shoulder. Wally looks up to see Cold.

Cold looks like he's sweating, but upon closer inspection, Wally realises he's drenched in water. Frost forms, only to melt and leave Cold even wetter. He also looks close to passing out.

“Idiot,” Cold hisses.

Wally can only manage a weak smile behind his hand. He tries to get to his feet, but his leg isn't cooperating any more. It hurts and Wally's getting tired. He can't give up though and tries again, with even less success.

Icy hands wrap around his thigh at the bullet wound and Cold manages to sum up enough strength to coat Wally's leg in ice from hip to thigh. It numbs the pain and goes some way to splinting Wally's leg. He's still not going to be walking on it any time soon, but it lets him stand up.

Cold's looking even paler than normal, almost grey, and sways when Wally helps him up. Wally stumbles when he tries to take a step and Cold grabs him, only for Cold to stumble too and almost bring them both down. Wally only just gets his hatstand-crutch in the right place in time.

Their walk is shuffling, halting, and slow, but it gets them to the wall. Wally's direction must've been off, though his count was correct. Wally hopes he's chosen the right way and leads Cold sideways. It's a little easier now Cold can put some of his weight on the wall.

Thankfully, they come across the door. The smoke is still in the next room, but it's so much thinner here. Breathing gets easier, which helps fuel their stumble. The edges of Wally's vision keep sparkling black and Cold's caught himself a few times already. They're so close to the exit now though.

Cold starts coughing and spits out several black globs of gunk. Wally doesn't want to think about what the smoke has done to his own lungs. He's already ignoring his gunshot wound.

The sounds of activity reach them as they get close to the alley. Wally doesn't care who it is, he just wants to get out of the building and pass out. Cold doesn't slow down either, so he doesn't care or he hasn't picked up on the noise yet. Wally isn't going to bet either way.

Thankfully, it's an ambulance and a group of paramedics. Iris is awake and the second Wally and Cold emerge into clean air, she's pushing her way over to them. Wally barely has time to untangle himself from Cold and the hatstand before Iris sweeps him up in her arms. It's more than a little embarrassing now he's fifteen, however, he's glad she's ok.

Iris pulls back and turns her attention to Cold, who's on his feet by sheer force of will. Wally just manages to grab the hatstand again before his leg gives out.

“You –” Iris says sharply, “I should – you dragged my nephew into – I can't believe –”

Rare is the occasion when Iris is at a loss for words. Wally winces when she takes a determined step forward and pokes Cold in the chest.

“Thought the rescuer was supposed to get a kiss,” Cold says between coughs.

Wally stares at Cold's audacity. Iris isn't amused and her glare couldn't be sharper.

“I will never forgive you if Wally doesn't recover from this,” Iris says.

The moment she steps back, Cold finally passes out. The paramedics swarm on him and Wally feels a tug at his arm. He looks to see a paramedic giving him a smile.

Finally safe, Wally lets the blackness overtake him and falls unconscious.

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

When Wally wakes up it's dark and there's a beeping noise. Awareness is hard to catch ahold of, but it slowly dawns on Wally that he's in a hospital bed. The beeping is the machine he's hooked up to. Crystal clarity is still elusive, but Wally reasons he's probably drugged up because his leg doesn't hurt.

He sees Iris asleep in the chair next to his bed. She looks uncomfortable, but she also looks exhausted, so Wally doesn't wake her up immediately. Instead he spends some time looking over the rest of the room.

There are other people there, but Wally can't spot Cold. He glances back at Iris to see furious blue eyes glaring at him. She's awake.

“Erm...” Wally tries before he breaks off coughing.

Iris' frown lessens as she gives Wally a cup of water. The liquid is heaven against his abused throat. Iris doesn't let him start again.

“I can't believe what you did, Wally,” Iris says. She's keeping her voice low to avoid disturbing the other people in the ward, but Wally can hear the anger there.

“I –” Wally starts again.

“Don't talk,” Iris interrupts, “From what the paramedics said, you called them.”

“Yes, but –” Wally says.

“Yet when I came to, you were inside the building,” Iris says, “And the paramedics were expecting a bullet wound and I hadn't been shot.”

“Iris –” Wally begins.

“Did you drag Captain Cold out of a burning building after you'd been shot through the leg?” Iris says and it's obvious she wants the answer to be 'no'.

“Well...” Wally rubs the back of his head sheepishly, “He dragged me as much as I dragged him.”

“Wally,” Iris sighs, “There's a difference between bravery and idiocy. It's a fine line, but there is a difference.”

Wally's throat catches and he starts coughing again. He downs another cup of water. There's a whole jug on the table by his bed, it looks like someone predicted how he'd feel after inhaling all that smoke, even through his sleeve.

“I called your parents,” Iris says, “They can't make it to the Gem Cities at the moment, but they're considering cutting your visit with me short.”

“No!” the machine by Wally's bed starts beeping faster, “Please let me stay. You still haven't let me see the forensics lab yet.”

“And at this rate, you'll never see it,” Iris warns, “You can plead your case to your parents when you call them to check up. You were lucky, by the way, the doctors said half an inch in any other direction and you may have lost the use of your leg entirely or even died.”

Wally gulps. He hadn't really thought about that at the time. If he had he might not have flung himself around quite so carelessly.

“But I'll still be able to walk, right?” Wally confirms.

“They think so,” Iris says, “But you're on crutches for a few weeks after you get out of here.”

Wally pulls a face, but it could be a hell of a lot worse. He's getting tired again. Some of the stress has left Iris and Wally supposes it's because he's woken up and isn't possibly comatose.

“Where's Cold?” Wally asks, yawning.

“He's in intensive care until they can move him to Iron Heights,” Iris replies, “Get some rest, you need it.”

Wally can't deny the tug of sleep and soon he slips under.

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

It takes another day for Wally to be cleared and let out with a new pair of crutches. He has to make a couple of circuits of the room completely before Iris is happy enough to sign him out. It sucks being fifteen sometimes.

“Ready to go then?” Iris asks.

“Yup,” Wally says, gripping his crutches tightly.

The journey from hospital bed to outside the hospital is surprisingly hard work. Wally's arms aren't used to being worked this much. He's glad Iris doesn't make them walk back to her apartment as punishment, instead hailing a taxi from the bay.

Wally's also prepared to worship the inventor of the elevator, because there's no way he's going to get up to Iris' floor otherwise.

He's supposed to stay off his feet for the next week, but it's boring. Iris is still working and Wally can't tag along after her. As interesting as his books are, Wally can't focus on them for days on end. Any internet searches for cryobiology are coming up blank. The only thing that's keeping Wally from climbing the walls is the chance to take apart and examine the black sound-blocking box.

Then finally, finally, the week is up and Wally's allowed to go outside again. He's got a crime lab to visit and a sighting of the Flash to catch. Maybe he'll even manage to avoid trouble for the rest of his vacation.

Hope for a Better World

2014-10-31T21:18:14Z

Title: Hope for a Better World
Characters: Weather Wizard, Black Canary, Green Arrow, Nightwing, Captain Marvel
Words: 2015
Summary: Mark Mardon finds that there might still be a place for the Weather Wizard after the death of the Flash. Set in the alternate universe in 'A Better World'.

AN: I've been having a lot of Rogues feels from the tv show, so I pulled this out of storage and dusted it off. Set in the DCAU.

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Mark knows the woman recognises him. He's had enough experience with recognition appearing through confusion when people look at him to know that now's the time to run. Before they can get over the surprise of seeing the single most wanted man on the planet and do something about it.

Mark pushes his way through the restaurant he'd been stealing food from and into the bathroom. He leaps through the mirror. After a year and a half it's become second nature and Mark doesn't even pause when he puts one foot on the edge of the sink and propels himself through into the world of reflections on the other side.

He's almost completely through when a hand grabs his ankle. Mark can feel his breath quicken and panic wells up. He can't die. He can't. He's the only one left.

The woman's grip doesn't let up and she follows Mark through to the mirror-world. She only lets go of Mark's ankle once she's fully inside. Mark pulls a gun out from beneath his coat and points it at her.

“It's ok,” the woman says, holding up her hands and not moving closer to Mark, “I'm not here to hurt you.”

Mark doesn't say anything. His arm's shaking and he's never going to hit her with Sam's old pistol if he tries to fire.

“I hate the Justice Lords,” the woman says, “We want to bring them down and take things back to how they used to be. Where people were free and villains got justice, not death or worse.”

“We?” Mark's voice cracks on the word.

“Me, Green Arrow, Nightwing,” the woman says, “And more. Real heroes.” She pauses, “You don't recognise me, do you?”

Mark shakes his head jerkily.

“I'm Black Canary,” she says.

Mark wants to grab her and let relief wash over him, but he hasn't survived this long by not being cautious. He pulls another gun out of his coat and approaches her carefully.

“If you're not the Martian, you won't mind me doing this,” Mark says.

Black Canary tenses, but doesn't move as Mark closes in with Mick's flamethrower. It doesn't have much fuel left, but there's enough to send a wash of flame over Canary's leather jacket. When the flames don't catch more than a little, Mark lets out a long breath of relief. No matter how well the Martian hid himself, he was always ridiculously flammable and fire has been one of Mark's tests since he'd almost been captured with a group of squatters a year ago.

“Satisfied?” Canary asks.

“Yes,” Mark says, “You're working with Nightwing?”

Nightwing had been one of the most vocal protesters back when the Lords took over. It was only due to his status as a hero before it all went down that he'd been given any leeway. The Lords eventually grew sick of his rallies and shut him down. Even now though, Mark still hears stories about his exploits trickling through the frightened murmurs of civilians.

“I can take you to him,” Canary offers, “Your way if you prefer.”

Mark nods sharply. The mirror-world still felt safest. It was Sam's old playground after all.

“Where to?” Mark asks.

“Happy Harbour,” Canary says, “Rhode Island.”

Mark sets the pistol in his hand then grabs Canary's shoulder. When the pistol fires a nausea-inducing swirl of lights and colours pulls the two of them to the town Canary said. Mark learnt to deal with the sickness a long time ago, but Canary isn't so lucky and loses her lunch somewhere in Pennsylvania.

They stop with a lurch and several of the portals out of the mirror-world are showing a view of the ocean. Mark gives Black Canary time to pull herself together, which she does surprisingly quickly.

“See that mountain?” Canary gestures to the only mountain in the area, sitting peaceful and quiet through one of the northern portals, “Get us as close as you can.”

Mark does so and pulls them out of a nearby pond. He's feeling apprehensive, but there's an undercurrent of excitement that's stopping him from turning around and running away. He's been hiding for too long.

Canary leads Mark to a side of the mountain and removes a rocky cover of a keypad. She types in a code and submits to a retinal scan then a doorway cracks open. Canary pulls Mark in quickly and the door closes behind them with a soft click but what feels like an echoing clang.

It's dark, but Canary takes Mark's arm and guides him through to a hollowed out room. There's one man leaning over a mess of computers and wire, while another is talking to a little kid who can't be more than twelve.

All three of the strangers turn to look at Mark and Canary. Mark's willing to put money on the man with the boy being Green Arrow. Not many other people have a quiver of arrows over their shoulder and that beard after all.

“Weather Wizard?” the man by the computers asks, “It's ok,” he says when Mark flinches and looks up, “It's soundproofed. We can't be heard.” He's stood up now and Mark can see the blue on his black outfit. Nightwing.

“Good,” Mark says.

“Well, come closer, we ain't gonna bite,” Green Arrow says, “It's good to see you're still about.”

Mark remembers the last time he saw Green Arrow before all this went wrong. There had been lightning-rod arrows, which had been annoyingly effective. He remembers laughing about it with the Rogues afterwards.

“I...” Mark hasn't seen this many friendly faces – that is, faces that look friendly, not friend's faces – in a long time, “You're all that makes up the resistance?”

“No,” Nightwing says, “There are others, but we keep apart to avoid capture. I'm not going to name names, but you probably know most of them.”

Mark knows a lot of heroes, if only through talk at the bar. Supergirl, Captain Marvel, Aquaman, and so many others, some captured, some worse, some free. To think that someone's doing something to fight gives Mark a giddy rush. It's unbelievably similar to the hope he'd gotten the first time Sam leant forward and suggested that there's merit to teaming up and who's with him?

“I think we could all do with something to eat,” Canary says gently, picking up on Mark's mood somehow.

There's a much more welcoming living area to the cave and Mark finds himself sat at the kitchen table with the kid on one side and Canary on the other.

“You can call me Billy, Weather Wizard,” the kid says.

“It's Mark,” Mark says and has to swallow heavily, “You can call me Mark.”

Billy's face lights up with a smile. “Awesome. Thanks, Mark.”

Green Arrow passes around plates of chilli and Mark doesn't care that it's burning his tongue, because good food is scarce and it's so much better than dumpster diving. He has to force down memories of Mick feeding them similar food or he's going to break down.

“So how'd you escape?” Green Arrow asks.

Words start to tumble out before Mark can stop them and he can't get control of his mouth again. He just talks. It's the first time he's been able to tell another person and god it feels liberating.

Mark tells them about being in the mirror-world when the Justice Lords came to Central. How the Rogues had been keeping things quiet for the past few weeks as a nod of respect to the Flash, but the Lords still came. How Sam had tried to get people through the mirrors to safety, but Superman and Wonder Woman had shown up and Sam had blocked off the mirror-world to stop them getting in.

Mark talks about being trapped, only able to see what was happening and not being able to be seen or heard by his friends even though he'd screamed his throat raw. He'd watched Len and Piper's last stand. The first – and last – time the two had been in complete accord when they'd stood up against the 'order' the Justice Lords were imposing. He'd watched the other Rogues be picked off one by one.

Green Arrow expresses sorrow for the loss of Piper and Billy adds his sympathies for all of Mark's friends. It almost begins to get difficult to talk, but Mark perseveres.

Mark talks about the strangeness of the mirror-world and how he hadn't needed food or drink, which was lucky since it took him five months to find Sam's stash of their back-up weapons. He doesn't mention that along with Sam's pistol, Mick's flamethrower, and Len's cold-gun, Mark's also got a boomerang tucked into his belt and a yo-yo and flute in his pockets, even though he can't use them. He tells them that his weather wand was snapped, but doesn't add that he keeps the broken pieces stuffed down his boot.

Mark talks about what he's done to fight the Justice Lords, but there isn't much to say there. He's only one man and even together the Rogues never managed to stop Flash.

Mark finally runs out of things to say and he feels exhausted. A look passes between the others, then Nightwing reaches up and peels off his mask.

“It's Dick,” Nightwing says, “Dick Grayson.”

Mark can only stare as his brain links up the name and if that's the case then surely Batman's...

“Oliver Queen,” Green Arrow says and Mark can match the name to some of Piper's rants.

“Dinah Lance,” Black Canary says, though Mark can't remember if that's supposed to mean something.

“I'm still Billy,” Billy says, “But I'm also Captain Marvel.”

Mark's stare must show how incredulous he is, because Billy gets up and moves away from the table. A cry of “Shazam!” and a blinding flash of lightning – one that Mark's used to and he doesn't flinch like the others when it hits – leaves Captain Marvel standing in Billy's place.

Another cry puts Billy back and Mark's shaken from more than the thunder. They're trusting him. No one trusts him any more. Not since Len's wife gave him a basket of food and let him stay a night, before asking him to stay away or they'd both get caught.

Not that Mark could do anything with the names they'd given him, but it's trust.

“Welcome to the resistance,” Nightwing says, holding out his hand.

Mark hesitates, but slowly reaches out and takes Nightwing's hand. Hope. It's a precious commodity in this world, but Mark can feel it build up inside him.

“I'm a Ro-villain,” Mark feels compelled to point out.

“After the Pied Piper and Captain Cold, we'd welcome any Rogue,” Green Arrow says, taking his turn too shake Mark's hand.

Mark wants to point out that he's never had the rigid morals Len took to his grave or Piper's compassion for his fellow man, but he realises he hasn't crossed the lines the Justice Lords have. For all his schemes, he's never succeeded, and Mark feels an odd stab of gratitude to the Flash for foiling his plans enough to let him be trusted to help here.

Mark can remember the first time Sam looked past the green mask and invited him – as Mark, not as the Weather Wizard – to join the poker game where James was fleecing them – somehow, Digger had a theory involving aliens that didn't sound that far-fetched once you'd had a few pints. Mark had lost most of his chips to James and the rest to Mick, but gained a spot with the Rogues.

The look Black Canary gives him now is eerily similar.

It's not the Rogues, not by a long shot, but Mark's tired of running and hiding and owes his friends – Flash included – enough to make a stand in their name. He's spent nearly two years alone and losing his grip on sanity and finally, finally, he's being given a chance to change it all.

“What can I do?” Mark asks and he can feel the broken pieces of the weather wand buzzing in anticipation against his ankle.

Language Barrier - translations

2014-10-15T14:31:20Z

Title: Language Barrier
Words: 2498
Characters: Hal Jordan, Razer
Summary: AU during Babel. The team are trapped within the city for much longer, with no ring power. Prison isn't the most ideal of places to get to know each other better, but it's not like there's anything else to do.

AN: This is the version with translations and comments [in these], so you can see where Hal's made mistakes. Unannotated version is here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10758795/1/

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

The first time Razer tried to escape the guards confiscated all his knives and turned the electricity barrier on the bars on full-time.

The second time Razer tried to escape, using yet another pair of knives hidden in the soles of his boots, they dragged him off for a couple of hours and returned him shaking with fury and dressed in a loose-fitting jumpsuit Hal could only charitably describe as 'snot-yellow'.

Hal probably would have found it amusing, if the guards hadn't dragged him off next. Presumably since Razer might be able to use components of his flightsuit to try another escape attempt. Before Hal knew it he was stripped, sprayed down with a noxious green liquid, and bundled into a similarly snot-yellow outfit.

Prison, Hal decided as he hacked up some of the green stuff into the toilet, was terrible.

The guards had put Hal and Razer in the same cell, while Kilowog was in the cell next to them on his own. Presumably Hal and Razer were both humanoid enough to look roughly like they were the same species to their captors.

As much as Hal missed having moments of silence, like he could on board the Interceptor, he was glad he had company or the lack of conversation would have made him climb the walls ages ago. Not that Razer was a very good conversationalist on the best of days and now they didn't even have the advantage of the universal translator to help them along.

“Guard go Hal?” Razer asked, once Hal had finished coughing.

“Assuming you're asking why the guards dragged me off, I guess your near escape made them extra cautious,” Hal replied. Razer looked at him blankly, “Ok, you –” he pointed at Razer, “– escape. Guard angry. Uh, let's see if I remember this. Cha tu'lanak'chi. Ch'joop... uh, ch'jump... Dammit.”

“Ch'juup targ?” Razer finished, pointing at his red ring, “Guard rage?”
[Bits like the above, which have been translated mostly successfully by the characters, I'll generally leave.]

“Yeah, that's it,” Hal nodded, “Uh... Che. Yes.”

So far they hadn't made much progress with communication beyond the simple things like 'sleep', 'guard', 'food', and the like. Razer seemed to be picking up English quicker than Hal was picking up... whatever Razer's language was called. And Kilowog only cared about the translations for things he could shout across the corridor at them, mostly drills that Hal had successfully avoided since boot-camp. Or so he surmised.

Hal had been woken up at the equivalent of five a.m. too many times to be grateful that they had still managed to communicate with Kilowog.

“Angry is rage?” Razer asked.

“Hm?” Hal hummed around a mouthful of what he dearly hoped was clean water from the sink.

Razer made a noise of frustration, growling through his sharp teeth, as he always did when Hal wasn't paying attention when Razer wanted to learn.

“Hal say –” Razer cut himself off and gave his head a shake, “You say 'guard angry'. Angry is rage. Che? Yes?”
[Che actually translates to 'it is', used for confirmation similarly to 'yes' but not quite. Stolen from the Tau in Warhammer 40k, who use 'Che-da' to mean 'It is good'.]

“Sort of,” Hal replied, “Angry is only used when it's used with a person. I think. Anger is what you'd use on its own. So, I'm angry, you're angry, guard angry, etc. Rage is anger.”

“Say Kilowog angry,” Razer tried, “No'say Kilowog anger. Say Rage'Lantern, say Anger'Lantern. Yes?”
[Hal hasn't managed to successfully translate red, or differentiate it from rage, similarly, Razer currently believes the human word for 'will' is 'green'.]

“Close enough. Che.”

Razer made the hiss in the back of his throat that Hal was only just coming to realise didn't mean something bad. His team seemed much more alien without the rings and separate sleeping quarters to help buffer their differences.

Hal had found out that, despite vanishing into his room back on the ship for much longer times, Razer only slept about six hours for Hal's eight. He also found Hal's need to use the toilet several times a day kind of distressing.

(Which Hal would've found hilarious, but it's difficult to do anything on the toilet when your cellmate was putting so much effort into not paying attention to you that he might as well have been staring).

The beds were worse than on the Interceptor, and Hal didn't even have the option of creating a construct mattress. Razer seemed to find it easier and, judging by the snores from the next cell over, Kilowog had no trouble sleeping on something Hal could only call a slab of granite.

Hard beds were the least of their troubles at night though.

Hal woke up with a start and took a moment to realise that it wasn't morning yet. He waited, trying to get back to sleep, until he heard a whimper coming from Razer. A nightmare. Hal was mostly surprised that it had taken a full week for one of them to have one.

“Razer, hey,” Hal hissed, not wanting to draw the guards' attention. When Razer continued to thrash, Hal got out of bed and slipped over to grab Razer, “Hey, wake up. Razer.”

Razer woke with a cry of, “Ilana!”

He noticed Hal and turned his head away, to hide the wetness in his eyes if Hal's guess was anything to go on.

“You wanna talk about it?” Hal offered.

Razer gave him a flat stare. “Tu'capo kluhk abrego il'kepan cha, Hal.”
[You've forgotten that I can't understand you, Hal.]

“Right, right, the language thing,” Hal said. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and after a moment, Razer sat up and swung his legs over so they were side by side.

Avoiding staring at Razer, Hal slung his arm around Razer's shoulders in a manly hug.

“Tu'sapi che ckehol, Hal,” Razer said.
[Your species is strange, Hal.]

“I'm going to go with 'yes, I want to talk about it, Hal',” Hal said, “So, Ilana then –”

“Esit tristka ilmayne aska Ilana!” Razer shouted, wrenching himself out of Hal's grip and fixing a horrified stare at Hal.
[Why are you bringing up Ilana?]

“Easy, Razer, easy,” Hal said, hands up in the universal sign for surrender, “I overheard your nightmare. That is, you sleep, cha histuth. You sleeptalk, cha histuth-ton?”

“Tu'oboge il'ton'gui fabinct,” Razer muttered, “I sleep'say 'Ilana', yes?”
[Your accent/the way you talk is atrocious.]

“Che,” Hal nodded, “So, what's Ilana like? Let me see... If I say 'what's Hal like', then I'm a Green Lantern and a test pilot,” Hal pointed at his ring and then mimed flying a plane. “If I say 'what's Kilowog like', then I'd say Green Lantern –” he pointed at his ring again to make sure Razer got it, “– and drill sergeant.”

Razer watched Hal for a long moment, then slowly nodded.

“Just to make sure we've got this, if I say 'what's Razer like'?” Hal prompted.

“I Rage'Lantern,” Razer said, “I cine'tofaddi. I...” he mimed unscrewing something, “Cine'tofaddi?”

“I'm guessing engineer,” Hal said.

“What's I like? I Rage'Lantern. I engine'er,” Razer said.

“Great,” Hal said enthusiastically, “So, what's Ilana like?”

Predictably, Razer tensed up. Hal patted the bed beside him and Razer eventually sat down and stared at the floor.

“Ilana...” Razer had to swallow very hard, “Ilana brimt quedi'chuun. Di brimt hogenpu'ul.”
[Ilana was my wife (more life-mate, but the female form). She was a farmgirl.]

“You're going to have to translate that for me,” Hal said, “Is she... you said she was she before, didn't you? Ilana's female, che?”

“Seih?” Razer said.
[What?]

“This is going to be awkward to explain,” Hal grimaced, “Let's start with the basics I guess. Hal male, Razer male, Kilowog male. With me so far?”

Another long pause as Razer slowly parsed what he could.

“Hal, Razer, Kilowog. Male,” Razer said, raising his ring questioningly, “Male is rage? Male is will? Male is... huul? Is Lantern?”

“No, it's not the rings. Carol is female. Iolande is female. Got it?”

“Dixf Aga'po is female. Atrocitus is male. Yes?” Razer said.
[Queen. (It's also worth noting that names like Razer and Atrocitus have clear links in English, which begs the question of whether they mean anything similar on their planets. Does Sinestro sound like sinister on Korugar? I'm not getting into it in here, but it's worth thinking about).]

“Yeah, you've got it. So Ilana is female? Che?” Hal asked.

Razer nodded

“Glad we sorted that,” Hal said, “So, Ilana is female. She's your sweetheart, isn't she?”

“Sweetheart is...?” Razer asked.

“I get the feeling this is going to take too long for me to be shooting blindly,” Hal said, “How about you try to explain who Ilana is?”

Razer was quiet for long enough that Hal's leg started to fall asleep. He was about to shift when Razer finally spoke.

“Hal and Carol, qu'chuun'pi?” Razer asked.
[Married/life-mates, using the plural form.]

“Whatever you're saying, it's probably too serious for what me and Carol have,” Hal said, “So you're saying Ilana's your girlfriend?”

“No'friend,” Razer snapped, “You and Kilowog, friend. Ilana quedi'chuun.”

“That does sound a bit more serious than a girlfriend. Is she your wife?” Hal asked.

“Wife is quedi'chuun?” Razer asked.

“Beats me, but sounds about right,” Hal shrugged, “So you're married? I never knew. You could've said something.”

Razer went back to staring at the floor. Hal twigged and winced.

“Oh, right, I remember,” Hal put his head in his hands, “Ilana's dead.”

“Ilana dead,” Razer confirmed without looking up, “Tis'hatu shfept.”
[No direct translation, that's a death comment (eg RIP)]

“I'm sorry, kid,” Hal said, putting his hand on Razer's shoulder. He counted it as a victory when Razer didn't immediately shrug him off.

After another quiet strech of time, Razer spoke. “You sleep?”

“Huh?”

“You sleep. Hal sleep?” Razer said, gesturing at Hal's bed, then back to his own, “I sleep.”
[Razer has less of a grasp of when to use 'you' and 'Hal', mostly because Hal's pretty bad at explaining the proper rules of English and devolves into cave-man talk when he's trying to get a new point across.]

“Trying to get rid of me, I get it,” Hal chuckled, “Ok, I'm going back to bed. I deserve an extra twenty minutes in the morning for this though.”

Razer curled up under his blanket as soon as Hal got off the bed. Hal smiled fondly and helped him tuck himself in, despite Razer's annoyed growl.

“Sleep well, kid,” Hal said, ruffling Razer's hair and earning himself another annoyed growl.

The next night was less fun.

Hal would later blame the spicy, orange goop they were given for dinner, but whatever the cause, he jolted awake in the middle of the night after seeing a plane explode before his eyes. The same plane as always.

“Dad!”

“Hal, no'sleep!”
[It's not that obvious here, but I liked the idea that Razer's language involves a lot of negations. Instead of being awake, you're not-asleep, healthy is not-sick/not-injured, etc. He finds it frustrating that Hal's language has awake/asleep, alive/dead, etc as different words.]

Someone was shaking him. Hal lashed out, but his fist was caught and he found himself with a faceful of pillow.

“Hal, no'sleep? Hal say?” Razer, it was Razer pinning him down and he was in prison. Hal groaned into the bedsheets.

“I'm awake,” Hal mumbled, “You can let go now.”

The hands eased off, but when Hal summed up the energy to turn over he found Razer still hovering over him.

“Cha luek'da? You ok?” Razer asked.
[Are you alright? (more formal than how Hal would say it)]

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Hal said, turning to face the wall.

“Cha histuth'kton. You sleep'say 'Dad',” Razer said cautiously, “What's Dad like?”
[You sleeptalked. Note that Razer is using the correct form in 'kton', where Hal used just 'ton' incorrectly earlier, similar to how Razer keeps using 'say' where 'said' or 'talk(ed)' would fit better.]

“What does anyone's dad have to do with anything?” Hal asked the wall. He didn't want to think about it.

“What's Dad like?” Razer asked, more insistently, “Hal say.”

“No!” Hal snapped, “Leave it alone!”

Razer forcibly dragged Hal until they were face to face. He looked furious and Hal was pretty sure his own expression was similar.

“I say Ilana,” Razer snarled, “You say Dad.”

“What does it even matter to you anyway?” Hal shouted, “I had a bad dream and I'm fine now. Leave me alone!”

Razer growled, then started a tirade entirely in his own language. Hal was too pissed off to listen out for any words that he could understand. He rolled over to face the wall again.

Razer's rant tailed off. The blanket pulled as he sat down and put his hand on Hal's back.

“Tu'sapi unghu'at di?” Razer said softly.
[Your species likes this?]

Hal sighed. “I can't understand you.”

“Dad is female?” Razer asked, “Dad is wife?”

A hysterical laugh bubbled up, which Hal barely managed to cover with a snort. “No! Dad definitely isn't either of those.”

“Dad is no'female,” Razer hissed through his teeth as he searched for the right word, “Dad is male. Yes? Dad is queri'chuun... no'wife?”
[Razer's trying to say husband, which he feels is wrong, but he doesn't have much else to go on.]

“Dad is male,” Hal nodded, turned to face Razer as the confusion in his voice grew, “I don't think you've got the second half of that right though.”

Razer just watched, waiting for Hal to continue.

“Alright, alright. I'll try to explain,” Hal grumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, “Say you've got a man and a woman, uh, a male and female. They can have a baby. If they do, then the male is dad. Got it?”

“Male is Hal,” Razer said cautiously, “Female is Carol. Baby is...? Baby is Dad?”

“No!” Hal waved his hands frantically in negation, “No!”

“Hal is Dad?” Razer asked, bewildered.

“No! Let me try again,” Hal said. He had a fleeting wish that he was back on Earth and it was Guy trying to give the Talk to a confused alien. “If you've got a male and female, they can make a baby,” Hal rocked his arms like he was holding a baby, “See, baby.”

“Male no'baby is Dad?” Razer asked.

“I think you've got it, though you need to seriously cut out the negatives,” Hal said, “Mom, dad, baby.”

“Dima, rima, tlu'ma,” Razer said. “Mom, dad, baby.”

“Right, so my dad, he died,” Hal said.

“You dad dead,” Razer confirmed, “You here?”
[Razer means 'Were you there?'.]

“Yeah, I'm still here,” Hal said.

“Tis'hatu shfept,” Razer said, carefully placing his hand on Hal's shoulder.
[Death RIP thing.]

“Thanks, kid.”

Escape a few days later was easier than Hal ever dreamed of. A giant alien, a Manhunter head, and Green Lantern's light. Hal had never been so happy to see the stars again. They'd even managed to grab their confiscated equipment on the way out and Hal was enjoying being back in fitted clothing.

“At least I can stop listening to you butchering my language,” Razer commented once they were back out in space.

“Me? If you had to listen to the way you were abusing English you'd have gone insane,” Hal shot back.

“I'm thankful for soundproofed rooms again,” Kilowog said, “If I had to listen to you two flappin' your traps all night long again, Razer wouldn't be the only one with a red power ring.”

Razer quickly focused on the control panel in from of him and Hal gave Kilowog a look that he hoped expressed his disapproval properly.

“What? It's not like I could understand anything,” Kilowog said defensively. He threw his hands in the air when Hal continued to glare, “Fine, I get it. Everyone has nightmares and if talkin' about it helped, then it helped. It's just weird when your name keeps comin' up when the talkin' happens.”

“I'll try not to bring you up next time,” Hal said, smiling again.

“Too right, you'd better not,” Kilowog grumbled, as he went to check on his own station.

Hal approached Razer and placed a had on his shoulder.

“I don't require assistance in my task,” Razer said, eyes staying on the console.

“Kilowog was right, talking helped,” Hal said.

“Even if we couldn't understand each other?”

“Especially then, it means we got the important stuff across. Like my pep-talk,” Hal said cheerfuly, “Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, thanks, and if you ever need to talk after... if you ever need to talk, you can come to me.”

“Thank you, Hal,” Razer said, finally looking up, “The same offer applies for you, should you need it.”

“Thanks, kid,” Hal said, “Now let's find Aya.”

Reverse-Flash Task Force - Part 3

2014-07-08T21:21:49Z

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.

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

Part1, Part2, Part3
Artist: melinie17 (All pictures together: http://melinie17.livejournal.com/714.html)

Lance's alarm sounded and he slapped it off with a well practised move. He sat up groggily and noted that the other side of the bed was empty. A shame, but not completely unexpected. Lance pulled on some underwear and made his way into the kitchen.

To his surprise, Marten was there, drinking a cup of coffee. Marten looked like he'd been up for hours and had taken a shower too. Unfair that he looked quite so handsome there, while Lance was unshaven and his hair was sticking up on end.

“You sleep like the dead,” Marten said, “I wasn't expecting that, if I'm honest.”

“So I'm not a morning person,” Lance said gruffly, he gestured at the kettle, “Enough for me in there?”

Marten nodded and Lance prepared himself a mug, waving off Marten's attempts to help. He'd seen the tar that Jim drank, R&D guys tended to like their coffee strong enough to stand the spoon in. Even if his bleary morning coffee usually ended up not quite right, it was still better than trusting someone from R&D to do it.

“You've got a nice place,” Marten said, “Spacious. I didn't really appreciate it last night, but you've got a great view too.”

And the mention of last night reminded Lance why he was talking to his co-worker in his kitchen while wearing just his underwear.

“Last night,” Lance said. Marten tensed up, but let Lance finish, “Was that a one-time thing?”

“I'm...” Marten squared his shoulders determinedly and met Lance's gaze, “I'd like a relationship. With you. I like you and I think we could make this work.”

Lance tapped his fingers on the side of his mug, as all the reasons it would be a terrible idea ran through his head. “I can be stubborn,” he finally said.

“I once spent three solid days on a tricky firing mechanism,” Marten said.

“It could cause some problems with the Task Force,” Lance said.

Not to mention draw attention from the Perpetuate, a group attempting to ensure the continuation of the human race by seeking to end relationships that had no chance of producing offspring. Lance had had to break up their mobs before, it was never pretty.

“Only if we let it,” Marten said, “And I'm not going to.”

“Relationships... aren't exactly my forte,” Lance admitted.

“Then we'll take things slow,” Marten said, “Lance, you could give me a hundred reasons why this is all going to hell and I'm still going to want to try it.”

Lance took a long drink to put off his reply for a few moments. “If you're sure...”

“Absolutely,” Marten said.

“Because you're quite a looker,” Lance said, “And I don't want you settling for me when you can get someone better looking and less of a loose-cannon.”

“I think you're underestimating your own appeal,” Marten said with a smile, “So that's a yes then?”

“...yes,” Lance said, “Yes, I'd like to try a relationship with you.”

Marten's smile widened. “Brilliant.”

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

Jim was the only other person there when Marten and Lance arrived at work. Marten set up at his lab table and tried to ignore the knowing grin on Jim's face opposite him.

“Someone got lucky last night,” Jim said in a sing-song voice.

“Quiet,” Marten warned.

“It's about time,” Jim carried on regardless, “Any longer and I would've had to chuck you in a pleasure house to save your libido.”

“Shut up,” Marten hissed.

“It was dying,” James said dramatically, “Then finally, finally, someone came to sweep you off your feet and get you laid.”

“I'll have you know I did some of the sweeping,” Marten muttered, then, in the hopes of getting Jim to switch topics he added louder, “Can we focus on the equipment? I came up with several ideas yesterday.”

He did, but not as far as Marten had hoped for.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jim said, “You propositioned him? I mean, I know you did the asking with the drinks and all, but you acted on behalf of your under-developed libido?”

“Why do you...” Marten put his head in his hands and groaned, “You made a bet, didn't you?”

“Just a little one,” Jim said, completely unabashed.

“How much?” Marten asked. If he could ignore that it was a bet about him he'd be fine. Jim had made loads of bets over the years and Marten usually found out in one way or another.

“Well, I've got twenty from Randall and Mike. They thought you wouldn't do anything or had already been doing something, respectively,” Jim said, “But I've lost a tenner to Simon. I thought you wouldn't have the balls to be the propositioner and he thought the same about Lance.”

The whole ignoring thing wasn't going all that well.

“Why do I put up with you?” Marten wondered out loud.

“Because you need someone witty, charming, and handsome for everything you can't be,” Jim said with a grin.

Simon arrived with a handful of reports and a holographic display of today's newspaper. He shoved all of it at Lance, before making his way over to Jim with a cocky smirk. Marten decided he didn't want to watch the payoff of the bet and left them to it, instead going over to check the newspaper.

“'The Renegades'?” Marten read out, frowning at the bright picture of all six Task Force members under the bold headline, “'Armed with weapons of the long-since deceased Flash's enemies, are these people truly the heroes they want us to believe they are? While none can deny the actions of the Renegades during the fiasco at the Links, the fact that they have chosen criminals' weaponry doesn't invite confidence in their motives. Frederico Lane has more on page 4...' Wh- what? Renegades?”

“Precinct One need to get their act together,” Lance snarled, “They could've stopped this, it's only one reporter's photo and word. What happened to the element of surprise?”

Marten privately wondered if this was Precinct One's retaliation for Lance's rant yesterday, then dismissed the notion. Surely that was too petty for Precinct One.

Marten flicked forward to the later page and skim-read through the rest of the article. It was mostly neutral to positive, with occasional comments on how they could do better. Marten felt surprisingly pleased with it when he finished.

“Like the codenames?” Simon asked. Marten hoped he hadn't just caught sight of Simon tucking some money into his pocket.

“I take it you do, Mirror Monarch,” Marten said. 'Top', 'Trixster', 'Heatstroke'. He supposed 'Weather Warlock' wasn't too bad, though certainly nothing he'd have picked out for himself.

Simon's smile widened. “We need codenames,” he said, “Right, Command Cold, sir?”

“Don't push it, Slaytor,” Lance warned.

“We need codenames,” Simon repeated, “And a group name couldn't hurt. One that's less of a mouthful than The Reverse-Flash Task Force.”

“Renegades implies a disregard for the law,” Lance argued, “We work with the law.”

“You know I'm right about the codenames,” Simon shrugged easily, “And we'll have to make a statement.”

Lance sighed, but didn't disagree.

It was only when Simon and Lance had moved on to practise with their weapons some more and Marten was heavily engrossed in wiring together a voice-activated cold blast that he remembered the newspaper had only used 'Cold' for Lance's Renegade name.

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

A statement made by Mirror Monarch and the Top of the 'Renegades' dated 23/8/2468:
“The Renegades will be serving the city to protect it from the crime that the police force doesn't have the equipment and training to cope with. Regarding the accusations that the Renegades will bring more super-criminals out of the woodwork, we would ask people to remember that Professor Zoom has been a threat for many years before the Renegades existed.”

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

Unfortunately the second big missive Simon received from Precinct One a week later was much less interesting than the previous mission briefing. Simon dumped the pile of papers on the desk and snagged a copy to flick through while he was waiting for the others to arrive. Blah, blah, security issues, blah, blah; he'd seen all this before. Being a cop had required him to sign several of these a year.

Randall was next in the room. Judging by the jackets Simon had seen in the coat cupboard Lance and Marten were in, though probably in the training rooms downstairs.

“Is that another mission?” Randall asked, picking up one of the copies to leaf through it.

“Afraid not,” Simon said, “It's the security and background check.”

“What exactly does that check entail?” Randall sounded a little nervous about it.

“Don't worry,” Simon replied, “It's just your usual law enforcement check. You know, to see if you've got any criminals in your bloodline.”

“Oh, that check,” Randall said, though he didn't look any happier about it.

“Hey, if you're that worried about it, you could get someone to look over it for you,” Simon said, “But, seriously, I've signed at least fifty of these and no harm's befallen me.”

Randall gave a weak smile, but didn't look up from the paper. The door opened again, letting in Jim, who was supporting Mike. Simon promptly forgot about the forms to go and welcome back Mike.

“Out already?” Simon said, giving Mike a careful shove.

“Couldn't spend another day in there,” Mike replied with a grin.

The conversation flowed freely as Jim guided them over to his lab bench and started telling the others what he'd been working on. When Simon glanced back to see why Randall hadn't come over too, he couldn't see him anywhere in the room. With a shrug, Simon let himself be drawn back into Jim's excited chatter about new communicators.

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

Deep within the building, in a windowless room, the past played on several projections, showing events from just over five hundred years ago. Nothing changed. Randall knew he needed to sleep, but he was so close to figuring out a way to avoid this. He was good at this job and he was going to help people.

He couldn't if they found out about his ancestor from the twenty-first century.

Randall had checked it several times, both before and after he'd gotten involved with the Task Force. Rory Tork, tried and convicted after Iris Allen stuck her nose in where it didn't belong. Someone else had originally taken the fall and if things could just be made to stay like that, then Rory Tork wouldn't have ever received a criminal record and Randall wouldn't be thrown off the Task Force when Precinct One found out.

If only he could find a reason to go back in time and smooth it over...

An odd flicker on a single projection caught Randall's attention. He frowned as the images played out, differently to how he remembered seeing it last time and differently to the others surrounding it. Randall gave himself a pinch to check he was still awake and replayed it.

The giant mirror shattered and people, no, things emerged and spread out. One faded into the Mirror Master. Another slid inside Iris Allen's body. Fast-forwarding days later, the Flash got confused and desperate and killed Simon.

The question of why Simon was even there didn't cross Randall's mind.

This could be the chance Randall was looking for. He tuned it back to the start of the incident and recorded it onto a separate projector that wasn't linked to the past.

“Have you been here all night?”

Randall jumped and knocked the screen projectors off the table. Simon stood in the doorway, watching Randall with concern clearly printed on his face.

This was Randall's chance.

History appeared to be changing. If Randall could keep the history he'd just seen active, then the Renegades would have the perfect opportunity to go back in time and he could fix the blot on his record.

“There's something you should see,” Randall said, retrieving the recorded-on projector and pulling up the film of the Flash killing Simon.

Simon watched over it, his mouth tightening and the colour leaving his face. His eyes were rooted to the recording, which gave Randall the chance to pick up a powered down projector and judge its weight.

Randall didn't like what he was considering doing, but he couldn't be sure that history would stay still long enough for the events he saw to play out. If he was successful then there would have been no need for him to do what he was considering doing and everything would be back the way it was, with Randall's family history cleaner.

They had Barry Allen's DNA on file. If it came down to it, there existed technology able to simulate the Flash's DNA using a direct descendant's, and why else was Lance on the team?

Randall lifted up the projector in his hand and, feeling ill, swung forward at Simon.

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

“So what d'you think?” Jim asked, as Lance slid on the frames, “There's even a communicator in there too, one of the special ones Precinct One gave us to talk through time.”

The lenses filled in and Lance had to take a few moments to adjust to the rapid display of information. When he didn't move the labels stopped appearing, leaving only a few notes on what the glasses deemed most important objects in the scene he was looking at.

“Did you file yourself in the database as 'witty, charming, handsome, and single'?” Lance said in disbelief.

“Hey, if it's true,” Jim said, grinning, “So they're working. Awesome. Try looking around a bit more.”

Lance turned slowly, letting the AI flag up objects of interest. Its recognition was excellent, though Lance was still surprised that it worked after what Jim had put it through to form the shades.

“You can move faster,” Jim said, “They can handle it.”

“Not sure I can,” Lance muttered, “You got a full set yet?”

“Even with Precinct One's resources, creating enough tantalum-berkelium alloy for the lenses is a pain,” Jim replied, “I've made Marten a pair – he's off testing them now – but Simon and Randall will have to wait. Depending on Marten's analysis of Michael's goggles, we might be able to fix him up the same HUD without needing a full amount of alloy in the lenses.”

“Not bad,” Lance decided. He turned his head quicker and was pleased to see the recognition kept up, “It'll take some getting used to.”

“No worse than the rest of the gimmicks,” Jim said.

“Themes, not gimmicks,” Lance said with a frown.

“I'm the one building them, I can call them whatever the hell I want,” Jim said flippantly.

Lance opened his mouth to argue the point, but the lab door was flung open and Randall ran in. He was wide-eyed and was clutching a projector so tightly his knuckles were white and Lance began to fear for the projector.

“What's wrong?” Lance snapped out. In his experience it was never a good thing when an officer looked like that.

“It's – there's – you've – Simon –” Randall stumbled.

“What's happened to Simon?” Lance demanded, stamping down on his building panic. He automatically reached for his pistol before remembering it was locked in his storage locker on level one. Lance grabbed the cold-gun off the lab bench and started for his coat by the door.

Randall grabbed Lance's arm to stop him. “It's – just watch,” he said, putting the projector down on the bench and flicking it on.

Lance watched the play-back and couldn't muster any emotion through the numbness that filled him. The Flash snapped Simon's neck. Lance knew enough of his history, Flash had snapped Professor Zoom's neck before, so the incident wasn't without precedence.

The play-back hit the end and restarted. Jim reached forward and switched it off. There was a long silence as both Lance and Jim tried to process what they'd just seen.

“This is... this is the sort of thing the Task Force was made to prevent,” Randall said, looking from one to the other, “Isn't it?”

“Where is Simon now?” Lance asked. Locate the potential victim.

“I – he saw it,” Randall replied, “He got one of the time-platforms and –”

“– and it leads to this,” Jim finished, running his fingers over the unlit projector nervously.

“When does this happen?” Lance asked. Determine the time of the hit.

“The twentieth of September, 2010,” Randall said, “Aren't we going to stop it?”

“We will,” Lance said, “And we'll follow protocol. I'll take the case to Precinct One and we'll prepare for departure tomorrow morning.”

“Simon wouldn't follow protocol if his friends were in danger,” Jim said, folding his arms and scowling at Lance, “He'd do what he could to help them as fast as he can.”

“And maybe if Simon had followed protocol for once in his life, he'd still be alive,” Lance snapped. He regretted it immediately as Jim looked like he'd been punched.

“Have fun programming the time-platforms without me,” Jim said sharply, “I'm going to save my friend myself.”

“Jim...” Lance wasn't used to being the one to smooth things over, that's what Simon was for.

“One night's sleep isn't going to hurt,” Randall said, stepping in front of Jim and blocking the door, “Time passing now isn't going to affect the past. Staying together is going to keep any more of us from being killed unnecessarily.”

Jim's shoulder slumped. “I know,” he said quietly, “It's just...”

“Contact Moore and Rayner,” Lance said, “I'll go to Precinct One and get everything cleared. Dennison, you're with me. Bring that recording.”

Randall picked up the projector and waited. Jim turned back to his lab bench and pulled up his pair of HUD sunglasses. Lance rested a hand on Jim's shoulder.

“We can do this,” Lance said, trying to put the determination he didn't feel into his voice.

“Dibs on being the first to tell Simon he's an idiot when we fix things,” Jim said with a weak smile.

Lance gave his shoulder a squeeze then left the room with Randall. It would be alright. It would be alright.

It would be alright.

For some reason Lance was having trouble believing that.

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

The next day was a blur of lessons, surprises, and disappointments. It was all the Task Force could do to keep up with the developments and fights.

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

Then, just like that, it was over.

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

Lance's hands started to shake as he opened the file on the desk in front of him. No. Now was not a good time to break down. It was just like any other report. Just ignore that the victim was a close friend and the murderer was a co-worker.

Just keep the calm of the past day. It was just another report like any other. Lance knew routine well and this was just routine.

The words 'Simon Slaytor' stood in stark bold letters along with 'Randall Denison'. They fell out of focus as Lance's eyes blurred with tears, but the words were stamped in his mind as clear as day.

“Fuck.”

Lance shoved the file onto the floor and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. It was too much on top of the day he'd already had.

An unsympathetic boss and an actively hostile ancestor. The other members of the Task Force needing kept an eye on because of their injuries, lack of field experience causing trouble, or outright treachery. Lance had been holding more than himself together for hours and he was tired of it.

Lance got up and grabbed his coat. He would do the report tomorrow when he had his head on straight. Tonight he was drinking to an old friend.

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

“We thought we'd find you in here,” said Jim.

Lance looked up to see Jim drop into the seat opposite him. Michael took the seat on his left while Marten slid into the booth beside Lance.

“G'way,” Lance mumbled into his drink.

“He was our friend too,” Jim said, “Just because we didn't know him as well as you did doesn't mean we don't miss him.”

“Always had a nice word and a smile,” Marten said softly, raising his drink.

“Best of all of us,” Michael said, clinking his glass with Marten's.

“A good man,” Jim said, raising his drink.

Lance stared at them before slowly raising his own glass. “A good friend.”

“Did he ever tell you about the time he set half of our old lab on fire?” Jim asked.

Lance shook his head and Michael leaned forward to hear better.

“It must've been about two years ago now,” Jim started, “We'd just gotten an unusual poison that half the department was fighting for the chance to be the one to analyse it...”

Jim was getting into his telling when Lance felt a hand slip into his own under the table. He glanced over at Marten, who was looking back at him.

“We're here for you,” Marten said, “I'm here for you.”

Lance was finding it very hard to swallow and his eyes were burning. Marten didn't let go, even when Lance's grip must've been starting to get quite painful.

“...and then I'm running about, trying to stop the fire before it reaches the old paper records and Jo's trying to stop the sprinklers before they ruin all our current work. Meanwhile, Simon's on his third fire extinguisher...”

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

A statement made by the 'Renegades' dated 30/8/2468:
“Though we have lost two members, the remaining Renegades will be continuing our work to keep the city safe from super-criminal threats. We will not be taking on any new members at this current time.”

Reverse-Flash Task Force - Part 2

2014-07-08T21:17:20Z

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

Part1, Part2, Part3
Artist: melinie17 (All pictures together: http://melinie17.livejournal.com/714.html)

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

Reverse-Flash Task Force - Part 1

2014-07-08T21:14:49Z

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

Part1, Part2, Part3
Artist: melinie17 (All pictures together: http://melinie17.livejournal.com/714.html)

The sirens were echoing behind Simon as he sprinted forward. They were too slow. He was going to get away!

Simon hoped it wasn't just his wishful thinking that the gap between him and the suspect was getting smaller. His feet pounded the cracked tarmac and his hand dropped to where his gun hung on his belt...

Where his gun should have been hanging on his belt.

Not for the first time since becoming a police officer did Simon wonder how he'd gotten through the exams without being disqualified for absentmindedness.

“Slaytor! Get back here!” Lance snarled over the communicator.

“Closing in,” Simon panted, not wasting any more breath on words.

“Wait for backup!” Lance snapped back. There was a whir over the communicator as Lance's car took a sharp corner too quickly, “How're you going to detain them when you've left your gun here?”

Simon didn't bother replying, Lance knew what he was like and would catch up in time to help take in the suspect, but not if Simon let him get away now.

Continuing the chase down another alley, over several fences, and past a rather startled cat, Simon kept an eye out for something – anything – that could be used to capture the fleeing man.

He damn near tripped over the blasted thing, but Simon found what he was looking for.

The man went down and Simon decided, as he waited for Lance and the sirens to catch up, that sometimes the simplest things were often the best.

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

Simon did what he could to keep a blank expression as Commissioner Frambul went through the same rant he always did when Simon was in his office.

“... Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Frambul finished, as he usually did.

“I apprehended the suspect,” Simon said, as he usually did.

“You had backup not five minutes away,” Frambul snapped, “The suspect wasn't going to escape. You had no right or need to use unauthorised equipment to bring him down, Slaytor.”

“It wasn't –” Simon started.

“No,” Frambul interrupted, “No excuses. You're on suspension. Again. You know the drill.”

“Yes, sir,” Simon sighed.

Frambul waved him out and Simon left the office. Lance was waiting for him in the hall. Simon didn't say anything, just walking back toward their desks. Lance trailed behind him.

“Let me guess,” Lance said, “Suspension.”

“For a net. For a stupid net,” Simon sighed, “Well at least I'm giving the guys in R&D a laugh.”

“Fantastic,” Lance said dryly.

Simon reached his desk and collapsed into his chair. He'd have an hour to gather his personal belongings and get out of the station or he'd be in more trouble.

“Look,” Lance said, standing on the other side of Simon's desk. Simon could see the speech coming. “You know there's only so many times they're going to suspend you before they kick you off the force entirely. Good record with catching suspects or not.”

“Then what do you suggest I do?” Simon said, “Let them get away?”

“Don't use external equipment until it's been properly tested and regulated,” Lance said.

“That takes bloody ages,” Simon said.

“Better a long wait than the criminals you do catch getting off on a technicality because you used unregistered equipment,” Lance pointed out.

Simon just sighed again and started going through his drawers for anything that might be his. Lance walked around the desk and placed a hand on Simon's shoulder.

“Dammit, Simon, I don't want to see you kicked off the force,” Lance said, “Take this week as a vacation and unwind.”

“I'll try,” Simon promised.

Lance moved back over to his own desk. “I swear, if they partner me up Distalf again they won't be finding his body,” he said, with a pointed look at Simon, “This is why you can't get fired. Who else am I going to stand as a partner?”

“Drinks as usual on Friday?” Simon asked as he shoved the last of his belongings into his bag.

“Of course,” Lance said, “Don't get into too much trouble while I'm stuck in here doing paperwork.”

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

“I've got qualifications from –”

“That's still no good if we don't have an opening,” the wizened old professor said, peering over the top of a holographic display at Randall.

“I've also got a letter of recommendation from Professor Zamarano,” Randall said quickly, juggling the papers in his arms to produce the specific sheet.

“Again, we're not interested in someone of your particular talents,” the professor said, shaking his head.

“Please,” Randall said, “I've been studying the Flash for years, this would be my dream job. Even if it's not being the resident expert on the Flash, please let me have a job here. I don't care if it's mopping toilets or –”

“Mr Dennison,” the professor interrupted sternly, “While I appreciate your enthusiasm in the study of speedsters, we simply cannot employ someone without the correct opening. Thank you for your application, we will keep your record on file. Good day.”

With that, the old professor focussed on the screen in front of him and completely tuned out Randall's last attempts at talking. Randall's shoulders slumped. He made sure he had all his papers and left the office.

Wandering through the Flash museum, Randall couldn't help glaring at the statues of the various scarlet speedsters they'd had over the centuries since Jay Garrick had first put on a shiny hat.

“Easy for you,” Randall muttered, “Put on a mask and save people. Do really well at your regular jobs too. Some of us don't have that many hours in a day.”

It was probably a good idea to get out of the museum before his bitterness got too much, so Randall went out into the sunshine and tried to forget the sting of being rejected. He'd go the library, that being one of his favourite places to just sit and be.

Randall just hoped something would come up soon; he was getting low on funds.

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

Marten looked up when Jim started laughing. Jim was holding up a torn net and grinning at Marten from the other side.

“A net?” Marten asked, “That's a bit... primitive, isn't it?”

“Priority one. Special orders from Commissioner Frambul,” Jim said, dangling the report that came with it in Marten's face.

Marten sighed and left his much more interesting analysis of meteorological phenomenon to run through the standard procedure with Jim.

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

“Mr Simon Evan Slaytor?”

Simon tensed. No good had ever come of his full name being used like that. He turned to find a hologram standing next to him, the small buzzing drone that projected it hovering close by. The next thing Simon noticed was the insignia sewn into the hologram's robes and painted on the drone.

Precinct One.

Despite having done no wrong, Simon still had to clamp down on the urge to run for it. He balled his fists before it became obvious that his hands were shaking from the burst of adrenalin that his flight instinct had just triggered.

“Yes?”

“Follow,” the hologram ordered. The drone buzzed off, taking the projection with it. Simon trudged along after, hating the way that the people he passed purposefully avoided looking anywhere near the hologram or Simon himself.

The main building Precinct One occupied – at least the main one that the public knew about – was uptown in Central City. Simon was lead elsewhere to another building in the middle of the Missouri river which separated the twin cities of Keystone and Central. A narrow bridge joined the island to the mainland on either side.

Simon wondered if it would be quicker and less painful to throw himself in the river now. However he was on the other side of the bridge before he knew it, keeping up with the drone’s steady clip.

The only imposing thing that Simon found with this building was its location. Otherwise it was made of whitewashed smooth stone with tinted windows places at regular intervals. Simon felt rather disillusioned.

Even the inside was clinically sterile chrome and glass. Simon was left in an uncomfortable chair to stare at the only poster in the windowless room. It was telling employees how to wash their hands correctly and Simon started to wonder if he was dreaming.

“We will see you now,” said a voice that Simon couldn’t find the location of.

One of the doors opened and Simon went through. He appeared in a room full of flickering images. Yellow blurs, red blurs, bright colours, and dark shadows took up every available piece of wall.

“We have been watching you, Mr Simon Evan Slaytor,” said the same disembodied voice, “And we have a task for you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Simon asked, “I usually get to see my boss’ face.”

“We are Precinct One,” said the voice, “And I am before you.”

As Simon turned again, taking in more of the images, he realised there was a hooded and robed figure standing in the room with him. Simon had a feeling that asking to see its face would be a bad move.

“What kind of task?” Simon asked.

The robed figure waved its hand. An image of a man in yellow appeared, he had a cruel look on his face and Simon’s police-trained instincts put him as a criminal, even before he recognised the insignia on his chest.

“You want me to arrest the Reverse-Flash?” Simon asked, incredulous.

“What knowledge do you have of this individual?” the robed figure asked.

“What I learnt in school,” Simon said, “We had a trip to the Flash museum for history once. That’s about it.”

“Eobard Thawne, known as Professor Zoom and the Reverse-Flash, is alive again. We have proof that he was resurrected in the 21^st Century and will likely return to our current time and wreak the havoc he unleashed before.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?” Simon asked, “I’m on suspension at the moment.”

“We do not believe that the regular police force will be able to combat a meta-threat like Eobard Thawne,” Precinct One said, “I have been watching you and I have... you might like to call it a job offer.”

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

“Are you crazy?” Lance asked, staring at Simon with a very familiar exasperated look, “Precinct One? Do you know how dangerous they are?”

“It's an opportunity,” Simon argued, “One I'm not going to get here.”

“But Precinct One?” Lance said, pressing the heel of his hand into his brow.

Simon just leant against the wall and waited for Lance to calm down. Eventually Lance lifted his head up and gave Simon a serious look.

“So what's it all about?” Lance asked, sounding tired despite the early hour.

“A Reverse-Flash Task Force,” Simon replied, “One that can deal with Professor Zoom now we know he's alive again in the past.”

“... time-travel was never my area of expertise,” Lance said, “I'm never going to be able to understand what you've been up to. If you can tell me, that is. Is it classified? Are you supposed to be even telling me about this?”

“Well, I was thinking...” Simon began.

“This is going to end badly for me, isn't it?” Lance sighed.

Simon rolled his eyes and continued. “They've put me in charge of the team. However, there isn't a team yet. My first job is to make one.”

Lance's eyebrows rose. “You want... me on this team?”

“Who else am I going to give all the paperwork to?” Simon said.

“Wait a minute, they put you in charge of the team?” Lance said, “You can barely take care of yourself.”

“I'll learn,” Simon said with an easy shrug.

Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. “How big's this team going to be?” he asked.

“I was thinking six, including us,” Simon said, “Think you can handle getting two of the remaining four?”

“I know a few places that I could ask around in,” Lance said slowly, frowning at Simon's pleading look, “Fine, I'm in. When's the first day?”

“This coming Monday,” Simon replied, “Room 2.35 in Precinct One's main building uptown. See you then.”

“And Slaytor,” Lance called as Simon headed out, “You can do your own damn paperwork.”

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

They never told you how dull it could be, Mike reflected, trying not fidget as prospective employers looked over the line-up. He focused on staying as still as possible, for some reason that made people believe you'd be a good security guard. Snippets of discussion reached Mike's ears.

“...the Tellalia 3005...”

“...auto-recognition...outperforms...”

And that was always the problem with being a fully human security guard, Mike thought dismally, you always had to compete with robots that were getting better and better.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” called Mike's boss, a dark woman in a severe red dress known only as Thengold, “Do I hear some murmurs about my elite being worse than a bunch of dustbins? Here at TSE, we strive to produce the best in security.”

“And how can you ignore the consistent improvement in brands like Tellalia or Faststream Industries?” a man in the group pointed out. He had an ugly thin moustache and Mike had a feeling that he worked for one of the companies he'd just mentioned. “How can you ignore the benchmark tests that show that robotic reflexes and AI threat-awareness will always out-perform your basic humanoid, no matter how well-trained?”

“Because my agents have something that no machine will ever be able to duplicate,” Thengold replied, “Humanity. They will make the human decision in any given circumstance. Do you want your children entrusted to a mechanical thing that once was part of a military weapon? Part of a nuclear reactor? There is a reason our police-force is still ninety-percent human, with the other ten-percent belonging to their vehicles and weapons.”

“So you would choose sentimentality over accuracy?” the man sniffed imperiously.

“I would choose what made me feel safe,” Thengold shot back, “And machines as watchdogs keep me awake at night.”

The man looked like he might persist, but Thengold stared him down and he appeared to remember that he was currently standing on her turf.

That was the most exciting thing that happened during that group of employers. And the next. Some of Mike's co-workers got given contracts, but only a few. As much as Thengold might like to protest it, they were losing out against AI driven security drones since a breakthrough in human-recognition by Faststream five years ago. There were less and less prospective employers and the number of employees was dwindling by the month now.

Mike had only obtained one contract this year so far, if he didn't get another soon he was likely to be made redundant.

The last group shuffled off and Mike was finally able to relax properly, only having had short breaks that could be cut even shorter at a second's notice. He rolled his shoulders back and let out a sigh as he ambled toward the lockers where their valuables were kept during the presentations.

There was a vaguely familiar man standing at the entrance to the display hall when Mike came back through. Thengold had noticed him and some of Mike's colleagues had already edged closer in order to see what would happen. It beat an empty flat, so Mike decided to hang around. Thengold was always entertaining.

“We don't have any openings,” she said sharply, “And I'd prefer potential clients to use our business hours when selecting our employees.”

The man was taken aback for a moment, but recovered admirably and held up a badge to Thengold. As he did so Mike suddenly recognised him.

“Lance Allen, Precinct One,” said Captain Allen – though Mike supposed that wasn't the case if he wasn't still with the force, “I'm here to see if anyone within the company's employ would like the chance to work for Precinct One.”

Mike hissed in sympathy as Thengold's expression hardened.

“Mr Allen,” Thengold said icily, “I don't know where you got the idea that my employees were for something other than security, but it's not welcome here. You may engage their services through TSE, we offer extremely reasonably rates for large businesses such as Precinct One.”

Allen's eyes narrowed. “Ms...”

“Thengold.”

“Ms Thengold, this isn't about rates,” Allen said sharply, “I've worked with several similar companies before and I know that it's becoming a rare thing to have human guards nowadays.”

“And you're offering to take unnecessary employees off my hands?” Thengold snorted.

“I know you've already made redundancies.”

“And did they take you up on your offer?” Thengold asked pointedly.

Allen's jaw tensed. “No, they haven't,” he gritted out.

“Then it must be an excellent job offer,” Thengold said, with a vicious smile like a shark, “You may make your offer to my employees, who are free to accept if they don't already have a contract.”

Stiffly and with one final glare at Thengold, Allen faced the room at large. Mike already knew that he wouldn't get anywhere, Thengold held all the power here.

“I'm looking for a few individuals to become part of a Task Force for Precinct One,” Allen said, “You will be working with the law to put away meta-threats and criminals beyond the regular force's capabilities.”

Mike wasn't the only one who was surprised at the abrupt description. Despite himself, Mike was interested though, especially since he wasn't likely to last long in TSE.

Nobody moved to answer. Allen gave a sharp nod, quietly thanked Thengold for her time and left.

Mike started to leave himself, but suddenly a grip like an iron vice clamped onto his arm and Thengold pulled him to one side.

“You should go after him and take that offer, Mr Rayner,” she said.

Mike wondered when his boss would stop surprising him.

“It's sensible,” Thengold continued, “You haven't had a contract here for four months and we hardly want somewhere like Faststream gaining a foothold in Precinct One when TSE has an opportunity such as this.”

“I didn't think you wanted us to take it,” Mike said cautiously.

“Precinct One's an excellent chance to move up in the world for anyone, I did what I did so I would still have employees left and they didn't all fight to become one of those 'few individuals',” Thengold said, “And you want to take that job, I saw it.”

“I...” Mike didn't know what to say, “I've enjoyed working for TSE.”

“I know you have,” Thengold said, “Now go enjoy working for Precinct One.”

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

Simon walked into the research and development lab and, in a well-practised move, grabbed the fire extinguisher by the door. The fire wasn't a big one, but it was flickering in all the colours of the rainbow. Simon pointed the extinguisher at it then was suddenly tackled out of the way, making his blast of foam go wild.

“It's meant to be on fire,” the man who had tackled Simon said, getting up and brushing off his lab coat.

“It's not usually,” Simon said, “You should put up a sign or something, Jim.”

Jim gave a cocky grin and helped Simon to his feet. The fire burned its merry colours on the work-space, but Simon noticed that it wasn't spreading further.

Jim Jefferys was one of Research and Development's worst nightmares as well as its best technician. He was a smidge taller than Simon and had dirty-blond hair that sat far more attractively than Simon's ever did on the rare occasions it wasn't soot-streaked or electrocuted to insanity. He was also regularly missing his eyebrows.

“So what brings you down to our lair?” Jim asked, ignoring the fact that R&D got one of the highest floors in the building to play on, “Another net?”

Simon wasn't entirely surprised that Jim had correctly linked last week's fiasco to him; it wasn't the first time he'd looked in on Research and Development to try and wangle his 'illegal' equipment back.

“Job offer,” Simon replied, “Something you might be interested in.”

“When I've got everything I want here?” Jim said, gesturing at the lab and fire, “It's going to have to be pretty good for me to consider it, you know.”

“Precinct One,” Simon said.

Jim paused, then picked up the fire extinguisher and put out the multi-coloured flames. When he turned back to Simon his intrigue was clear.

“Go on,” Jim said.

“They're putting together a Reverse-Flash Task Force,” Simon said.

“You do know how to tempt a guy,” Jim said, tapping his fingers on the work-surface.

“Two guys, hopefully,” Simon said, “I'd like you and someone else from here to be part of the team.”

“If I say 'yes' can I pick the other member?” Jim asked.

Simon shrugged. “Fine by me.”

“Great,” Jim said, with a wide grin. He turned his head and called, “Hey! Marten!”

One of the other lab technicians peeled away from the main group at Jim's shout and made his way over. Unlike Jim, this guy was wearing his lab coat like a lab coat and had his brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail. He gave Simon a nod, though his whole posture was wary. Simon supposed that working with Jim would do that to you.

“Pack your desk, Marten,” Jim said, “We've got a new job.”

“What?” Marten took a step back, as though Jim's craziness was contagious, “I like my job here, thank you very much.”

“Well this is even better,” Jim said, “Precinct One.”

Marten took his protective goggles off purely to pinch the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “You know you're not supposed to drink on the job, Jim.”

“He's telling the truth,” Simon said. He held his hand out toward Marten, “Simon Slaytor, CCPD. Well, I was, now I'm working for Precinct One in a Reverse-Flash Task Force.”

“He's hiring,” Jim said, “And I've accepted for us.”

“Jim,” Marten said with a well-practised sigh, “As much as you like to try and take control of my life, it's my decision.” He looked at Simon, a sliver of interest visible, “Have you got any more information?”

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

“Why couldn't someone else have agreed?” Lance sighed, “Simon'll never let me live it down if he recruits more people than me.”

“You've not got anywhere else in mind?” Michael asked.

“No,” Lance said, “That's most of the major security firms down. Any worse and I doubt they'll pass the criminal ancestors background check.”

“You can't expect everyone to be as up for working for Precinct One as you are,” Michael pointed out.

“As Simon is,” Lance corrected, “But think of the difference they could make. How much better a Reverse-Flash Task Force could make the city.”

“Excuse me. Did I hear you correctly?” a shortish blond man interrupted, “There's such a thing as a Reverse-Flash Task Force?”

“Maybe,” Lance said, automatically on his guard around someone he didn't know, “Why?”

“Randall Dennison,” the man said, holding out his hand, “I'm an expert in History, Time-travel, and the Flash. I'm looking for a job that could utilise these skills, is there an opening?”

“You know what the words 'Task Force' mean, right?” Lance asked, “You're not just going to be sitting down with some screens and books, you're going to be out in the field against the Reverse-Flash and any other threats Precinct One wants us to face.”

“I'd be willing to train,” Randall said quickly.

Randall had the pallor of a man who didn't see sunlight very often, but he didn't look completely out of shape. Not much – if any – combat training from what Lance could tell from his hands and stance. Still, a historian to keep their records straight would be useful.

“Precinct One, room 2.35, Monday at nine,” Lance said after a few seconds thought, “Be on time.”

“Thank you,” Randall's face lit up and he shook Lance's hand, then Michael's too, “Really, thank you for this opportunity. I won't let you down.”

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

Simon looked over the recruits with a friendly smile. First thing Monday morning was never pleasant, but these four were surprisingly wide-awake. Especially when compared to Lance, who was currently inhaling his coffee while waiting for Simon to start.

“So, this is all of us,” Simon said, “The operation might grow in time, but I think it's best we start small. I'm Simon Slaytor and I was a cop before this. If everyone else could go around and introduce themselves and their previous jobs, that'd be helpful. Lance?”

“Lance Allen. CCPD,” Lance said abruptly, “Next?”

There was a pause, which Jim broke.

“I'm James Jefferys, R&D,” he said, “You can call me Jim.”

“Marten Moore,” Marten said when Jim elbowed him, “I'm in research and development too.”

“And he'll kill everyone who calls him Marty,” Jim offered, all smiles.

Marten elbowed Jim right back and turned his head to look at the man next in line.

“Michael Rayner, I was a security guard,” he said, “I guess you could call me Mike if that's too much of a mouthful.”

“Randall Dennison, historian specialising in the Flash,” the last man said without needing prompting.

Simon nodded. “Alright, I can't promise to remember them, but it's a start. So,” Simon ran through a mental checklist of what he was supposed to ask, “Does everyone know why they're here and what we plan to do?”

“Aren't you supposed to be telling us what we're going to do?” Jim asked, giving voice to the confusion on the others' faces.

“Right, right,” Simon said, he heard Lance sigh, “We're going to create a Reverse-Flash Task Force. Simply put, we can't wait around for a Flash to finally decide to time-travel while the Reverse-Flash is wreaking our city. We're going to be what stands between the regular police force and meta-threats like the Reverse-Flash.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Mike asked, but it was curious, not scornful.

“There have been a lot of people trying to stop speedsters in the last five centuries,” Randall said, “Very few have ever succeeded.”

“We're going to start with the technology that's most easily accessible,” Simon said, “And the ones that work best as a team.”

“You're going to use the Rogues,” Randall said, comprehension dawning on his face.

“Yup,” Simon said, “I've got...” he looked around, but the nearby tables were empty, “I had some information on them, but I can't remember where it's gone.”

Lance rolled his eyes and pulled a pile of folders out of a drawer and handed them to Simon. “You did read over this, right?” Lance asked in an undertone.

“Um...” Simon gave a bright smile in hopes of keeping Lance from shouting at him.

“You,” Lance said, shoving a folder into Simon's hands, “Are an idiot. Looks like I'm explaining things then.”

“If you didn't mind,” Simon said.

“These folders,” Lance said, addressing the rest of the group and handing out the rest of the folders as he did, “Contain information on the Rogues, their weapons, and which ones we have available to us now and which will only be released on a provisional basis when we prove our proficiency at the job. They also contain your contract, which must be signed by the end of today. It's a little old-fashioned, but we're keeping paper records only for the moment.”

“Less chance of being hacked?” Mike clarified.

“Correct,” Lance said, “Until further notice, we're not to give anyone else information about the Task Force. We'd prefer to keep the element of surprise until it is no longer available.”

“So, now that’s the boring stuff out of the way,” Simon said, before Lance could starting running over even more tedious legal information, “Who wants to try out some weapons?”

There was a cheer from Jim and a glare from Lance, but he didn’t raise any objections while Simon led the lot of them to the weapons vault.

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

As much as Marten was trying to hold a grudge against Jim for pushing him into this job, he could barely hold back a moan of joy as Simon ushered them into the weapons storage room. Blueprints were laid over solid workbenches and stacked in corners in rolled up bundles. Zero-gravity containers held a number of weapons in varying stages of design and repair.

Jim laughed and was off, running between the tables with the giddy glee of a child on their birthday morning. Marten only managed to hold himself in check long enough for Simon’s friend to wave the rest of them forward.

There was so much to look at. Everything was brightly coloured and full of impossible notes – absolute zero, really? – having only been a glorified forensic scientist with only occasional bouts of new development, Marten realised that he was both completely out of his depth and exhilarated at the prospect of so many new things.

“Still doubting my decision now?” Jim asked smugly.

“There’s a still a chance it could all blow up,” Marten said, “Literally, given the substance this tank purportedly held.”

“You’re still smiling,” Jim said, with his own grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much.”

Jim bounced off to look at another bit of equipment before Marten could reply. Marten’s head was spinning – flames hot enough to harm a speedster? – and he took a moment to look over his new team.

Jim was talking with Simon animatedly. Simon was pointing at a set of blueprints and one of the contained pistols. The historian was making good use of the information packs they’d been given and was looking at each weapon in turn, muttering to himself as he cross-referenced the weapons and the criminals who wielded them.

The other two men were talking too, Simon’s cop friend and the security guard. Marten would learn their names eventually. They appeared to be discussing the merits of straightforward firearms versus specialised weapons.

Marten realised that this was his life now. The job that had always been promised, but had never appeared. The career he would work himself to the bone for because he loved it that much.

“Have you found what weapon you want yet?”

Marten jumped and found Simon’s friend had wandered over while he’d been lost in his head. The man was tall, with short blond hair and intense blue eyes. Marten’s stomach gave a lurch, but he ignored it.

“Not yet. There’s so much to choose from,” he replied, then felt it would only get more awkward if he had to avoid using the man’s name, “I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names. You’re...”

“It’s Lance. Lance Allen,” Lance said, with a hint of a smile, “And you’re Marten Moore. If I’m rightly remembering, Simon said you’re the one who wasn’t sure about all this.”

“That was before I saw this room,” Marten replied truthfully.

“As you’re going to be one of the two who does all the work on these things, speak up if you don’t think you’ll be able to keep any of them working,” Lance said, “There’s no point in us getting to grips with one weapon only to have it break and not be able to us it again.”

“Thank you,” Marten said. He felt he shouldn’t just leave it there, so added, “Have you decided which weapon you’re going to use yet?”

“I’m hoping to get one of the straightforward point and shoot ones,” Lance said, “I’ve been firing a gun for years, I know how to do that.”

It made sense to Marten, Simon had also chosen a pistol and had come from the same line of work. There were several pistols amongst the weapons, so it wouldn’t be like Lance would have trouble finding one.

A thin piece of detailed metal caught Marten’s eye and he went over to have a closer look. Even before he read the notice attached to the container or looked up the weapon in his folder of Rogues, Marten knew what it was.

“‘The weather wand’,” Lance read aloud.

“It's an incredibly sophisticated piece of technology. For the time period anyway,” Marten said, examining the weather wand as close as he dared without better equipment, “Even now I'd be hard pressed to find some capable of creating something like this. Meteorology is rarely studied by humans these days.”

“Can you get it working?” Lance asked.

“I don't know,” Marten replied frankly, “I don't have the Jackham genes. None of us do. I'm going to have to take a better look.”

“Don't spend too long with it,” Lance said, “If it doesn't work it doesn't work.”

The wand hummed, glowed, and shot off a stray spark. When Marten didn't move it further it quieted down again.

“Well, something's still working in there,” Marten said, wishing he was back in his lab with the right equipment.

It took the rest of the day, but eventually they all found something they would be happy using. Marten got the weather wand after all, though only with a promise that if he couldn’t get any of it working in a week he’d pick something else. Jim couldn’t decide on just one gimmick and went for a bit of everything, explaining that he was basing himself off the Trickster.

Lance got his pistol, one of the ones that could produce absolute zero. So did Simon, though his had power over reflections instead of ice. Michael decided on the flamethrower and Randall went for a prototype suit that was attempting to replicate the Top’s meta-powers.

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

Simon headed into work a couple of Thursdays later. He was beginning to get the hang of the mirror gimmicks and had completed several test-runs into the mirror-dimension only yesterday. Today he was hoping to have a successful run with someone else in tow.

His mail slot was oddly full when he checked it. Since working here, the only items Simon had gotten so far were the initial briefing from Precinct One and a couple of gag cards from Jim (bearing lines like 'congratulations on getting fired').

By the insignia on the thick envelope, it looked like another missive from Precinct One. Maybe it had information about their equipment and what Precinct One was going to expect of them – expect of them more that just Lance's training drills, which were something Simon had been hoping to get away from now they weren't working with the police force, but no such luck.

It wasn't about their training or equipment. Simon nearly broke his neck tripping up the stairs in his hurry to get to room 2.35.

Lance was already there, talking to Jim and Randall. There wasn't any sign of Marten or Mike yet, but Simon was on time, for once, and there was never a full Task Force before nine o'clock.

Lance recognised Simon's excitement for what it was and looking annoyingly frowny about it. Simon had expected that and thus turned to give Jim and Randall the news first. It would be easier to persuade Lance if Simon had other people behind him.

“We've got a mission,” Simon said enthusiastically.

Jim's face lit up and Randall looked intrigued. Lance rolled his eyes at Simon, but didn't interrupt; likely only because the others were there, which is what Simon had been banking on.

“Thawne?” Randall asked, “The Reverse-Flash?”

“No,” Simon replied, “There's a disturbance down the Links. Meta-human disturbance.”

Randall lost a bit of his eagerness, but still looked interested. Thank goodness. Jim was already moving toward his workbench for supplies.

“They sent it on paper?” Lance asked, which wasn't what Simon had been expecting. “Innocent people possibly getting hurt, structural damage, and they didn't notify us more quickly?”

“They said they were keeping records quiet,” Randall said, but he didn't sound too enthused by the idea, “We are meant to not exist at the moment.”

“Take it up with Precinct One later,” Simon said, holding up the missive, “We've got a job to do.”

Lance held out his hand. “I'll read it over. Go and get ready,” he ordered.

“Come on, Randall,” Simon said, dragging him over to Jim and leaving Lance to read the mission briefing.

“Doesn't it bother you that he doesn't treat you like you're his superior?” Randall asked when they were out of Lance's earshot.

“Nope,” Simon said cheerfully, “If you hadn't noticed, it's all pretty informal here. Lance's always been better at understanding the formal talk they use on those things. Besides he's saved my arse enough times to treat me however he wants.”

Randall smiled at that. Jim emerged from under his workbench and placed an armful of material on the surface. Green and orange and yellow and blue. Simon picked up his outfit and grabbed the mirror-pistol from Marten's bench. Their first job.

This would be fun.

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

Child of Thunder

2014-02-25T13:57:12Z

Title: Child of Thunder
Words: 3048
Characters: Mark Mardon, Weather Wizard, Thor, Frigga, Loki
Summary: Mark finds himself in a golden city and with no other Rogues in sight.

AN: My gift for herbertwest for the Flash secret santa exchange over on tumblr.

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

Mark was yanked in the sixth dimension.

(He'd felt the tug of time and been through the looking glass often enough to have proof of more than the normal three dimensions and as far as he was concerned, since he was the one being affected he could count them in whatever order he damn well wanted to).

McCulloch made a grab for him, but Mark was already beyond his reach, dragged backwards-sideways-upside-down through a rainbow-white beam of force.

Mark crashed to the ground, the momentum tossing him some distance from his landing spot. He barely had a chance to raise his head before something pulled at the very core of him, cracking his sense of self wide open.

Mark screamed.

The world around him was too bright. Or was it so dark Mark's eyes were playing tricks on him? Where was the wind and lightning? It should have responded by now. What else was Mark going to protect himself and get away with?

“–oth–! Wh– happ–!”

There was someone talking, or Mark thought there was anyway. Communication felt like an extremely novel concept all of a sudden. Hands held him down. Or pulled him up.

And finally, finally something slipped loose and Mark could breathe again.

Leaning over Mark was a blond man in armour and a cape. The man was holding Mark still, presumably to stop him thrashing about.

“Are you well?” the man asked, catching that Mark had regained at least some of his senses.

“Who the hell are you? Where the hell am I?” Mark demanded.

Instead of looking concerned, the man grinned. “He is well, Mother.”

A woman came into focus. She was standing over both Mark and the caped man with an expression that reminded Mark of Lisa – mostly haughty, though with an undercurrent of concern and amusement.

“Let him breathe, Thor,” she chided, “It was a powerful magic I had to break to return him to Asguard. It may take some time before his self settles.”

Mark wrenched himself out of the man's – Thor's – arms and scrambled backward.

“Answer my question!” Mark demanded. “Where am I? Who are you? And where the hell are the other Rogues?”

Thor and the woman looked at each other, a silent question passing between them.

“This isn't the best place to discuss such matters,” the woman finally said, “Thor, my private chambers, if you will.”

“Aye, mother,” Thor agreed, holding out a hand to help Mark to his feet.

Mark knocked it away, getting upright shakily, but under his own power. Given the current lack of connection to the weather here in this strange place, pride was the only thing he had left.

“This way, please,” the woman said, an underlay of iron to her voice that made Mark realise that disobeying her wasn't an option.

With the curiosity that always got him into trouble (usually the painful kind) Mark followed.

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

Frigga – the woman had introduced herself on the way – lead them to a set of lavish rooms within a golden palace. Mark was starting to wonder if he was in heaven and how much he could cart off when he escaped.

“Sit,” Frigga ordered. Both Mark and Thor dropped into nearby chairs. “I appreciate that you have many questions, Mark Mardon, but I ask that you allow me to explain before asking them.”

“How do you know my name?” Mark – who had not introduced himself so far – demanded.

Frigga frowned at him, until Mark began to fidget and let out a quiet “yes ma'am”.

“It begins,” Frigga started, “With Midguard, as is often the case with these matters.

“Some three and a half centuries ago, my son was on a trip to Midguard. It's not uncommon, even now, for those of Asguard to spend time amongst the mortals. Neither is it uncommon for things to get a little out of hand... to put it delicately.

“On this occasion, a mortal woman bore my son a child. My family have many enemies and we feared for the child's safety. We could not let it be known that there was a child whose mortal blood would make him an easy target the nine realms over.”

Mark could see where this was going and had to admit it was the most masterful prank anyone had ever pulled on him.

“The Allfather and I conspired to hide you in another realm, under a spell so that none could scry your true being or location,” Frigga continued, “I had sensed there was trouble in your world, a crisis of sorts, and brought you back.

“I'm afraid the process broke the geas holding your other self down. You may feel disoriented for some time. Until you're well, you will stay here.”

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

Mark had always chaffed when given restrictions, so naturally the first thing he did when Frigga laid down the rules was try to break them. There had to be a way out (aside from by the gatekeeper) and Mark was going to find it.

The weather wand had took some time, but it was responding again. It let Mark explore Asguard from one end to the other. There were plenty of sights and people to see, most of who recognised Mark as Thor's kid because he flew and sparked lightning when he was angry.

During one such exploration about a week in, Mark found Thor in the Bifrost gate – it had another name, but Mark hated even thinking the word – in discussion with Heimdall. There was a puppyish wistfulness about Thor, the sort that made Mark want to blast a tornado at him.

Mark caught something about a woman before Thor noticed him and stopped conversing with the gatekeeper. What followed could have been an awkward silence if Mark believed in those.

“Can you see my world?” Mark found himself asking. He'd been curious about that for some time and now was as good a time as any to ask.

“Yes,” Heimdall replied, “And your companions too.”

“They are alive then. This is good news!” Thor said with forced cheer while carefully watching Mark for his reaction.

“They survived the apocalypse?” Mark clarified, “Frigga said she pulled me away from something horrible. They made it through that?”

“They live on their world as they ever have,” Heimdall replied, “They still search for you from time to time.”

Mark let out a surprised bark of laughter and turned to leave. He'd had enough. “They're looking for me? Hardly,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“The mirror mage and the child trickster make the most effort,” Heimdall said, “But all of them try if they have an opportunity.”

Mark increased his stride. He knew the Rogues weren't looking for him. There wasn't any point in listening to these lies.

“Heimdall speaks the truth,” Thor said, catching up to Mark easily, “What benefit would he gain from lying?”

“Shut up,” Mark snapped, “They aren't looking for me! They would've found me by now if they were. A family of Rogues. Ha! What good is family?”

“My son...” Thor began.

“I AM NOT YOUR SON!” Mark screamed, knocking away Thor's outstretched hand. There was a crash of thunder, but no rain. Not yet.

Thor opened his mouth to speak again, but Mark beat him to it.

“If you really were my father, you wouldn't have left me with my parents – the ones who raised me worse than you'll ever know,” Mark spat, “It's your fault! Memory spells or no memory spells, that had to have known! Why else would they have preferred Clyde over me? He might have been a scientist, but I was an artist! They had to have known I wasn't their son! They had to... I... It's your fault!”

Thor had a peculiar expression on his face, almost as if...

“DON'T YOU DARE PITY ME!”

Lightning snaked down and struck Thor, who had to take half a step back to brace himself, but nothing more. Damn him. Damn him and all the gods of thunder.

“Mark Mardon,” Thor said heavily, once the ringing from the thunder had died down, “I believe it is time you met your uncle.”

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

The prisons of Asguard were much nicer than Iron Heights. Neither had natural sunlight, but Asguard's were bright and warm, and whether it was because Thor was nearby or not, none of the guards were jeering at the prisoners.

“Loki, I would speak with you,” Thor said, stopping in front of one of the cells. He was positioned so that they weren't easily visible by guards or other prisoners. It was the sort of thing Mark noticed, having played a part in more jailbreaks than he could count over the years.

“And what if I don't wish to speak to you?” the prisoner asked.

If this prisoner really was Thor's brother, there wasn't much family resemblance. Where Thor was bright and broad, Loki was dark and wiry – though given what he'd had seen of Asguard so far, Mark was certain that, even with his thinner frame, Loki could easily put him through a wall if he felt it was necessary.

“Then you perhaps you will speak with this man,” Thor gave Mark a nudge as he spoke, except it ended up more like a shove and Mark stumbled forward.

“Who is...” Loki trailed off and looked at Mark in exactly the same way Frigga had. There was the family resemblance after all.

Loki laughed. “Your spawn? Is he not to your high standards? Have you come to foist him off on me?”

“I don't look anything like him!” Mark exploded, “Why would you even think that we're related?”

“The tangled web of a broken geas still enshrouds you,” Loki replied, smirking as he studied Mark further, “Even if you weren't as thunderously brash as my brother, the spell tells all.”

“It is not my intention to cast aside my son,” Thor interrupted Mark's response, “Nor will it ever be. I came to seek council on a matter I have little familiarity with.”

Loki laughed again, short and ugly. “Is he a villain then, this child of yours? No bright, brave prince for Asguard's throne? Have you come to show him where he'll be left to rot after he's disappointed you one too many times?”

“My name,” Mark ground out, sick of being referred to by other monikers, “Is Mark Mardon. Stop addressing me otherwise.”

“Such a plain name for your child, brother,” Loki said, “Why not Tanngrisnir, after your goat? Tanngrisnir Thorsson has such a nice ring to it.”

“Stop being difficult, Loki,” Thor ordered, cutting off Mark's complaint yet again, “I wished for you two to meet and, though it may have been a passing dream, I had hoped you could help.”

“Not scared I'll corrupt the boy?” Loki asked, with a grin that showed too many teeth.

“We need to get to dinner,” Thor said, “Mother will be missing us. If you believe Loki will help you, you will be welcome here, Mark.”

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

Both Mark and Thor were miserable at the feast. Mark pushed the food around his plate, not feeling like eating. Loki's words still rung in his head.

“You know what the pair of you need?” Fandral said brightly, “A quest! A deadly adventure with only your wits and your blade for arms. And it just so happens that the three of us,” he gestured to Volstagg and Hogun, “Have just such plans. It wouldn't be difficult to adjust for two more.”

“We do?” Volstagg asked Hogun in a way that was probably meant to be quiet. Hogun gave him a hard stare in reply. “Ah! Yes, we do!” Volstagg exclaimed, catching on, “A wonderful quest, to... uh...”

“Alfheim,” Fandral supplied smoothly, “We leave in two days. You are both very welcome to join us.”

The corners of Thor's mouth quirked up into a smile. And damn it all, but Mark missed a good heist enough to consider the idea.

And if that thought wasn't enough to make him want to reach for the mead and down it like tequila, nothing was.

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

“Back so soon? The merriment too much for you to bear?”

Mark threw his empty bottle at Loki. It bounced off the cell's containment field and shattered on the floor. A small puddle of honey-liquid pooled around the shards.

Already Mark regretted wasting that last gulp.

“Fucking cage.”

“Truly, Thor's son,” Loki sighed, “Always breaking things and blaming others.”

“My brother's dead,” Mark said. He rested against the wall, the sickly-sweet taste of the mead making him feel suddenly queasy.

Loki cocked his head, silent for once, waiting for Mark to continued.

“I don't know if it was by my hand, but it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been there,” Mark choked. Talking about Clyde still brought a lump to his throat, excessive quantities of mead or not.

“Do you miss him?”

“...yes.”

“Do you wish him alive and returned to you?” Loki asked, “There are roads to Helheim and Valhalla that even Thor knows.”

“No!” Mark spluttered, then just as quickly, “Yes. Shit.”

Loki was silent again, but at least he looked like he was listening to Mark.

“You know I had a son?” Mark said randomly, he could always blame the drink, or the fact that Loki could probably mind-control answers out of him if he wanted to, “He's dead too. Fuck knows why Frigga brought me here when I'm cursed to watch all my family die.” Mark finished with a hiccough and wished he'd brought more mead.

“Clyde Mardon wasn't your brother,” Loki said. There was something dark and bitter shadowing his face, the sort of twisted anger at the world that you could see on every Rogue.

“Yes he fucking was.”

“Not by blood and that's what curses care about,” Loki corrected smugly.

“Fuck your magic,” Mark made a rude gesture. The pleased smile Loki was directing at him was enough to bring Mark's slurred thoughts to a startlingly sober epiphany.

“Stop that. I've worked with a trickster long enough to tell when someone's trying to avoid a topic,” Mark said, “What the hell's bothering you about me saying that Clyde's my brother, even if he wasn't related by blood?”

“Your mortal mind truly is tiny if you think your notions are in some way upsetting to me,” Loki scoffed.

“Insults, huh. If I was sober that might've worked” Mark frowned at Loki, “The Rogues were the best fucked-up family a criminal could ask for and like hell were they blood relatives.”

“Blood is everything,” Loki hissed, pleasant completely out the window and replaced with the unhinged anger that screamed 'supervillain'.

“I thought that for a while too,” Mark said, nodding until he had to stop or fall over, “It's not really.”

“You ignorant – !” Loki made a noise of disgust, “How dare you make light of the lies involved with such a farce!”

“Aren't you all about the lies?” Mark said, “Why's it bothering you so much anyway?”

Loki turned his head away from Mark.

“Just to be clear, I don't give a damn,” Mark said, “I'm bored and there's only some much fun to be gotten out of detailing the horrible things I've done at dinner and watching people try to cover it up.”

“I was right then, villain,” Loki twisted the word, latching onto another topic.

“If the boot fits,” Mark shrugged, “I'm not ashamed of it.”

“And you're his son, so Thor can't get angry at you,” Loki hissed with an empty grin, “The failing of the child are so often the failings of the parent. He must despise himself.”

Mark straightened and focused a hard stare at Loki. With so many years of being a Rogue, Mark could clearly see what Thor and Frigga just couldn't.

“One day, Thor will die,” Mark said starkly, “And you won't dance on his grave. You'll hunt down the being responsible and you. Will. End. Them.”

Loki smiled, unholy fire dancing in his eyes. “And so will you, Mark Mardon.”

“Goodnight, uncle,” Mark said, starting toward the exit and nearly walking into a pillar, “Now where's the bathroom? I need a piss.”

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

The dawn was bright, as everything was in Asguard. Mark had to wonder about building a city out of metal (so reflective McCulloch would love it) in a place that never seemed to have natural cloud.

Today was the day Mark, Thor, and the Warriors Three were going to head off to Alfheim. Mark had been kitted out with what Fandral referred to as 'adventurer's gear'. Mark was thankful of the thick furs, even if they were somewhat smelly, though he wasn't sure what use fifty feet of rope was.

“It's easy, Mark. Just put your foot on the stirrup and pull yourself over using the pommel,” Volstagg explained patiently.

Mark eyed up the horse, not moving an inch toward it. It eyed him up just the same and snorted.

“I'll be fine flying,” Mark said.

“For the whole day?” Fandral rolled his eyes, “That's no way to travel! It's far easier to be admired from atop a dashing white stead.”

“...It's brown,” Mark said, gesturing at the horse in case Fandral was looking at the wrong one.

“It's all in how it's told afterwards,” Fandral retorted, “Get on.”

Mark edged closer to the horse and followed Volstagg's instructions. He ended up on the horse, but it felt unbalanced and unwieldy compared to a good funnel of wind.

“To success and glory that will be told in tale for years to come,” Thor boomed. His horse reared up and his cape billowed in what must have been a planned gust of wind. Every inch the hero.

Mark wasn't a hero. He would never go out of his way to save innocents or follow laws to the letter. He couldn't stop children from crying (since he was usually the one to make them cry). He needed to be around people who could take his abrasive attitude and give it back.

He might not be a hero, but maybe in this crazy space-Viking world there might be a place for him.

Now if he could just see about getting the other Rogues here too...

A New Alliance

2014-02-08T18:18:35Z

Title: A New Alliance
Words: 2112
Characters: Théoden, Thorin Oakenshield, Éowyn, Fíli, Kíli, Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn
Summary: In which Thorin led his people South after Smaug attacked and Théoden likes his neighbours. Set during the battle of Helm's Deep.

AN: Because Théoden and Thorin have a lot in common. This is set assuming that Théoden and the others arrived a full day before Aragorn showed up. Film'verse and slightly time-skewed.

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

Thorin is already in the throne room of Helm's Deep when Théoden arrives. There had been a Dwarf or two amongst the many refugees, so Théoden isn't entirely surprised.

“Hail, King Thorin,” Théoden greets, joining the Dwarf at the table Thorin has spread papers and weapons over.

“Hail, Théoden-King,” Thorin returns, grasping Théoden's offered arm before turning his attention back to the logistics in front of them, “You are not an unwelcome sight in this dark hour.”

Some of the papers are covered in a scrawl of Dwarvish runes. What memory Théoden has of them is somewhat clouded from his recent troubles, but he recognises enough to know a list of names when he sees one.

“How many of your people made it to the Keep?” Théoden asks.

“Barely a hundred,” Thorin replies with an exhausted sigh, “There was a cave-in at the mountains. And Wargs on the road.”

Thorin's people had only ever been, at most, five hundred strong. Théoden glances over the list again, it's strange to see an entire race's population on two pages.

“A cave-in?” Théoden repeats, “I thought the White Mountains were stable?”

A dark look covers Thorin's face. “As did we,” he says heavily, “As they were, until Wizard-fire broke them down with charcoal, salt, and sulphur.”

“Saruman.”

It's strange how quickly a name, especially one that had once been associated with an ally, can turn sour to say. Théoden takes a drink to clear his mouth.

“You bring few warriors,” Thorin says, running his finger over a map of the wall, “Where is Éomer and the Rohirrim?”

“Banished,” Théoden replies, “I have not been myself for some time.”

“Are they expected to return?”

“Yes, but I doubt it will be soon enough.”

“Gandalf will make good on his word,” Aragorn's Elf says. Théoden had nearly forgotten he was still there, “He will bring them.”

Thorin glowers at the Elf, before turning his attention to Aragorn's Dwarf companion instead. He still look angry, but Théoden can tell when fury is directed inwards.

“Gimli, son of Glóin,” Thorin greets, “Your father didn't make it from the mines.”

It's a blunter tone than Théoden would have used and there's a frown from the Elf. However, Gimli bows his head with a cry of sorrow, but tries no denials.

“I believe the rest of your family are in the caves,” Thorin continues.

Gimli nods and starts for the caves. He catches himself and turns back to Thorin.

“My Lord, I have news from Moria,” Gimli says heavily enough that Théoden knows it cannot be good news. From the pinched look on Thorin's face, he knows it too.

“We will speak of that later,” Thorin says, dismissing Gimli.

Gimli rushes off and, after a moment, the Elf follows him.

“Who else was lost in the mines?” Théoden asks. There are too many for Thorin to list individually, but Théoden hasn't seen hide nor hair of the rest of Thorin's family so far.

“My sister,” Thorin says, “Who did you lose against Saruman's forces?”

“My son. I was too lost in darkness to even see him at the last,” Théoden says. They've always been truthful with one another, it's part of why Théoden trusts the Dwarves far more readily than any other ally around.

There is no time for apologies from either king and they turn their attention back to lists and figures.

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

“Do you approve?”

Théoden looks up from where he'd been frowning at an inventory of weapons without truly seeing it. Thorin is looking over at a corner of the room where Éowyn and Fíli are talking. The occasional laugh makes its way over.

Théoden registers Thorin's question and looks at the pair with fresh eyes.

“No,” he decides.

“Good,” Thorin says, “Neither do I.”

Still, neither Théoden nor Thorin make any move to break them apart. Let the young enjoy what little time they have left.

There is a sword strapped to Éowyn's hip and Théoden can do nothing but curse that he'd let Éomer teach her at all.

“We have need of someone to guard the caves,” Thorin says. He can be observant when he tries, he just doesn't make the effort very often, “Someone used to leading and has a way of defending themselves and others.”

It's an offer Théoden cannot refuse. He can also make one of his own.

“The caves are a maze, there is also need for someone who can guide them through the dark.”

“Kíli was injured on our travels,” Thorin says, indicating his other nephew with a nod, “I would not have him in this fight anyway and if can make himself useful, that's even better.”

Kíli is currently sitting in another corner, fletching arrows with Legolas. There's a swath of bandages over the Dwarf's left side and leg.

“Keep an eye on the Elf,” Thorin says suddenly, “His father abandoned my people when our need was greatest.”

Legolas has been nothing but loyal to Aragorn and Gimli ever since Théoden met them. Even Elves, it seems, are to be judged by their ancestors.

“Where would he abandon us to?” Théoden asks, “I don't believe Elves are fond of tunnels and I doubt Saruman will stay away for long.”

That thought, more akin to gallows humour than Théoden had meant it, seems to cheer Thorin somewhat and they return to questions of harvest and supplies.

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

Aragorn throws open the doors the following day in a dramatic flourish that Théoden spitefully wonders if he learnt from Gandalf.

His news is far more distressing than anything Gandalf had ever brought however.

“I cannot spare more than fifty,” Thorin says to the question of warriors, “We have precious few who are not miners first.”

“Every person counts,” Aragorn pushes, “We need every able-bodied Man and Dwarf.”

“Then be content that I am offering fifty more than you would've had,” Thorin snarls.

“We are against an army,” Aragorn hisses back, “An army that will stop at nothing until everyone in this Keep is broken.”

Thorin slams down a fist on the table. “I will not lead my people to their deaths!” he roars.

Théoden can hear the 'not again' and wonders if Aragorn can too. To be king of a dragon-infested kingdom and a handful of subjects. Théoden doesn't envy Thorin one bit.

The question of Gondor makes Théoden snarl too. He would not turn away their aid were Gondor to give it, but he will not beg for nothing again.

Théoden, too, is a king of a dying country. He hates Aragorn and his optimism just long enough to hope he tries to reclaim Gondor and chokes on it.

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

Éowyn and Kíli are, expectedly, difficult to persuade.

“I can fight!” Éowyn snaps, full of fire.

“I can still shoot from the wall without getting into close combat,” Kíli argues.

“One day you will learn that there are other ways of defending your people,” Théoden says to his niece.

“You cannot draw fully,” Théoden retorts to his nephew, “You will be no good except in close combat.”

There is a lot of arguing back and forth. It ends when Kíli tries to demonstrate that he has full control over his bow and nearly shoots his brother when his wounded side makes him release too soon.

The look Éowyn bestows upon Théoden is nothing short of betrayed, but, dutiful daughter of Rohan that she is, she obeys his order to stay in the caves with the other women.

Fíli very nearly chooses to stay with his brother over fighting on the wall. Thorin looks like he desperately wants to keep Fíli in the caves too, and perhaps that is what finally makes up Fíli's mind for him. Kíli will be in minimal danger, Thorin won't be.

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

The Elves, while an amazing sight, are subject to Thorin's glower for their welcome. Théoden is glad that there is still some sense under Thorin's wounded pride when it comes to Elves and he doesn't try to send them away.

“At least they're not from Mirkwood,” Thorin mutters as Aragorn starts directing the Elves to their places on the battlements.

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

The army of Uruk-hai is bigger than Théoden's worst nightmares. It fills the valley with armoured foes, fire, and cries of battle.

The rain is very nearly a welcome, as it makes it difficult to see how far the army stretches.

The first part of the siege is what Théoden expects. He's used the fortress before and for all the enemy's ladders and crossbows, the defenders are victorious. It's enough to make Théoden relax for a moment. They've won before and they'll win again.

“FÍLI!” Thorin is suddenly running for the wall.

Théoden cannot see Fíli any longer, not that he could make out the individual soldiers very well from the distance he's holding. He hopes that whatever got Thorin so worried, Fíli will survive it. For Éowyn's sake.

Because Théoden is already looking that way, he loses what little night-vision he had amongst the torches when the explosion happens.

There's a smell of soot and sulphur in the rain-damp air and Théoden wishes it had occurred to anyone that Saruman could use the same trick twice.

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

Later, Théoden will hear of how Fíli leapt from the wall to kill the first Uruk-hai carrying a torch. And the second. And the third.

And then the forth engaged him long enough for a fifth to get past and ignite the fire of Orthanc.

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

The causeway gates are mended, but they will not last long. The wall has fallen and even now Uruk-hai are pushing through the last of the defenders.

Thorin makes it into the throne room just as they're closing and barring the doors. He's carrying Fíli on his back and is covered head to toe in mud and the blood of Uruk-hai.

“He lives. Though I doubt for long,” Thorin says, passing his nephew to an attendant to take into the caves. The uneven gait Théoden had taken for the heavy burden of another Dwarf remains; Thorin is injured.

Théoden gets a good look at Fíli on the way past. Fíli's right ear is a bloody mess and a jagged piece of thick iron is lodged in his right arm. The smell of soot and sulphur clings heavily to the Dwarf, especially so on the metal in his arm.

“None will live when they destroy the door,” Théoden says, his heart heavy. He tries to picture the last time he saw Éowyn smile and cannot recall it. Éomer's face too, is gone from his memory.

At least he will meet Théodred in the hall of their forebears.

“Ride out with me. Ride out and meet them,” Aragorn is saying. There's a light in his eyes and a pride to his stance that speaks to Théoden, king to king.

“For death and glory,” it's all Théoden has left to offer.

“For Rohan,” Aragorn says and people would follow a Man like that to the ends of the earth.

Thorin limps over to where Théoden is mounting his horse. Gamling has, with his usual forethought, saddled Snowmane up for two.

“We will likely not come back alive,” Théoden says, even as he reaches down a hand to pull Thorin up behind him.

“We've held off death long enough this night,” Thorin replies. He gives the straps of his oaken shield one last check over and draws his sword carefully.

They've fought like this before and it's frighteningly effective. Being left-handed as he is, Théoden can focus on steering his mount and fighting enemies to their left, knowing that Thorin, being dextral, will cover his unguarded side.

The doors finally break and Théoden spurs Snowmane onwards into the melee.

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

“I still don't approve.”

Théoden's shoulder is finally being seen to properly after the enemy has been ousted and Thorin has neat, white bandages over the gash in his leg. Further across the infirmary Éowyn is tending to Fíli.

“Neither do I,” Théoden says, “But he makes her smile and that is a rare sight these days.”

Fíli will probably never hear through his mangled ear again and it will certainly be a long time before he can fight with his arm in the state it's in. Éowyn is currently wrapping said arm. Wrapping it too tightly if the paleness of Fíli's hand is anything to go by. Shieldmaiden Éowyn may be, but she has little practise with medicine of any sort.

Still, Fíli is bearing the treatment well enough.

“And she makes him laugh, when even his brother cannot,” Thorin sighs, “I believe half the initial attraction was my disapproval in the first place.”

Gentlemen

2013-11-21T20:33:58Z

Title: Gentlemen
Words: 2611
Characters: Hershel Layton, Miles Edgeworth
Summary: A man looking for his book and a man looking for his place in the world. What else are they going to do but have tea?

AN: For the Phoenix Wright kinkmeme part 24: http://pw-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/884.html?thread=126068#cmt126068 Set between Ace Attorney and Justice For All, and pre-Curious Village (though with only a rough idea of what happened in the prequels).

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Hershel Layton, professor of archaeology and puzzle enthusiast, sometimes wished he didn't have to put in at least two terms worth of teaching credit in order to keep his position at Gressenheller. It was completely fair of the university to ask it of him, however, it meant marking.

Lots and lots of marking.

Layton stared at the current paper in front of himself and wondered where, exactly, this particular student had found his information. It wasn't in the required reading for the course, or the texts Layton had specified for the paper – and he should know, what with copies of the texts scattered over his desk in varying stages of open. It was barely on topic, however the points it made required answering.

The hour was late, but the library should still be open. Layton got up, made sure his hat was firmly in place, then left his office. He made sure to take the paper, in the hopes that the reference was correct in the bibliography, so he could find the books he was looking for quickly.

The library was mostly quiet – it being the middle of term, instead of the end of year exam-crush – and Layton trod the familiar path to the archaeology and history section without being frantically questioned by any students with exams or coursework due tomorrow. Layton made a mental note to come here this early in term more often.

There was only one man in the archaeology and history section. Reasonably tall, with grey hair and a rather striking suit. He was reading a book in the middle of the aisle. A book which Layton had a sinking feeling – because, really, the odds always came down like this whenever he was involved – was actually the book he was after.

Still, Layton made sure to check the shelves thoroughly beforehand. It wouldn't do to go interrupting the man if it turned out he was simply reading a similarly-sized book.

No such luck. There was a distinct gap on the bookshelf and the university's organising system skipped right over the number Layton was interested in. It was such a pity when events like this occurred.

“Excuse me, sir,” Layton said.

The stranger startled out of his reading trance and looked surprised that Layton was standing nearby. Layton could completely understand, having been swept away by the world of words many times in the past.

“Do you need something?” the man asked. Not completely rude, but not particularly polite either.

“I was wondering if that book you're reading would happen to be the Encyclopedia of Nineteenth Century Law,” Layton said, “I'm looking for that book, you see. If I know you have it, I don't have to search the other shelves in case it's been misplaced.”

The man checked the front of the book. “It is.”

“Oh dear,” Layton sighed, “In that case, may I inquire as to how long you're planning to keep it?”

The man drummed his fingers on the spine of the book then appeared to come to a decision. He held the book out to Layton.

“Here,” the man said, “You look like you need it more than me.”

“While I do require that book for research purposes, it wouldn't be fair of me to deprive you of its pages,” Layton said, making no move to take it.

“It's hardly fair of me, when I'm in the wrong subject area,” the man said, somewhat cryptically.

“May I suggest another arrangement?” Layton said, “I only require the book until I have finished with my marking – which I had planned on getting through the last of tonight. You could come to my office to read the book and I will only bother you for it when absolutely necessary.”

“I wouldn't want to impose,” the man started.

“Nonsense, I always enjoy company,” Layton said, “I have a wide range of teas, which you would be welcome to try.”

“Thank you,” the man said, “That does sound pleasant.”

“Right this way, sir,” Layton said, “Oh, forgive my lack of manners. My name is Hershel Layton, I'm a professor of archaeology at the university.”

“Miles Edgeworth,” the man said, with a gracious nod, “I'm... studying law.”

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

Edgeworth was a quiet guest, which meant Layton could make good progress with his marking. He took his tea bitter, thankfully, so Layton didn't have to make two blends in order to both serve his guest and give himself the proper stimulation required for marking this late.

As the course of the evening unwound, Layton managed to finish all but two papers. The last few had been particularly dense and Layton started when he glanced at his clock.

“Goodness, is it that late already?”

Edgeworth blinked and checked his watch. “It is,” he replied.

“I'm terribly sorry to have kept you so late,” Layton said, “I didn't expect my marking to take this long. I still haven't finished everything yet.”

“That's fine,” Edgeworth said, getting to his feet and giving his shoulders a shrug to loosen them, “...Does that mean you require the book to continue tomorrow?”

“If it isn't too much trouble for you,” Layton said, “I'd be glad for the company.”

Edgeworth looked somewhat wary, as though he could sense a trap but didn't know where it lay yet.

“That would be nice,” Edgeworth said carefully, “I have business that takes me out of town during the day, however, I should be back by eight o'clock. Would that be acceptable?”

Spoken in the tone of voice that left little room for argument. Whomever Miles Edgeworth was, he obviously had more of a backstory than that of a simple student. Layton found himself curious.

“Eight o'clock then,” Layton nodded, “Good night, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Good night, Professor Layton.”

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It was a rather harried Edgeworth who met with Layton the next evening. Layton decided a smoother, calming tea would be best and set about preparing the pot while Edgeworth made himself comfortable on the settee.

“Why,” Edgeworth bit out, “Is it that banks are globally incompetent when dealing with simple requests?”

“Oh dear,” Layton said, setting down the teatray, “Were you able to find a solution for your predicament?”

“Thankfully, yes,” Edgeworth replied, “The issue is resolved and they no longer believe me to be dead.”

“Dead?” Layton repeated, “My, that is quite the oversight.”

Edgeworth hesitated when reaching for his cup. He gave Layton a considering look.

“It's done now,” Edgeworth said, shaking himself out of his thoughts, “There's no need to dwell on it further.”

Stranger and stranger. However, a gentleman didn't pry into the affairs of others; especially when they'd already been dismissed by the relevant parties.

That didn't mean he couldn't ask in a direction Edgeworth was more likely to talk about.

“Tell me, if you would, Mr. Edgeworth,” Layton said, “Why have you chosen Gressenheller University to study law? Though I'm very fond of my workplace, it's hardly the foremost university when it comes to subjects other than archaeology, history, and puzzles.”

“It's the history I'm interested in,” Edgeworth replied, “I wish to look at older examples of prosecutors and their reason for first appearing in the court of law. My previous studies were thorough, but they neglected this aspect. I've since discovered it's far more crucial than first glance would have it.”

“Oh? Crucial in what way?” Layton asked.

Edgeworth hesitated again. “What would you say is a prosecutor's duty in the courtroom?” he asked. It felt very much like a puzzle.

“I'm not nearly as well-versed in the subject of law as I imagine you are,” Layton said, with a nod toward Edgeworth, “But, as I understand it, the prosecutor in a trial is responsible for punishing the guilty.”

“Everyone's guilty of something,” Edgeworth said, sounding like he was quoting someone, though for the life of him, Layton didn't know whom.

“That's a rather dour outlook, I must say,” Layton said, “And surely it conflicts with the role of the trial itself? That is, the crime is being punished, correct?”

“Yet sometimes it may be better to catch a criminal with a smaller crime than risk them going unpunished,” Edgeworth argued, “Criminals should not walk free.”

“I agree,” Layton said, “Though I am a firm believer in the old adage of innocent until proven guilty.”

“Hmph,” Edgeworth sat back and regarded Layton with a harsh glare, “And the families of the victim? What comfort can be offered to them if the only suspect gets away?”

“Are you interested in solely murder trials then?” Layton asked.

“It's what I am... was accustomed to working on,” Edgeworth replied, his left hand twitching up to pull on his sleeve.

“It sounds like you've had quite the interesting career,” Layton said, making a mental note of it, “How often has it come about that the wrong suspect was successfully framed?”

“More often than I'd like recently,” Edgeworth replied with a heavy sigh, “Thanks to... him.”

“Him?” Layton echoed.

“Never mind,” Edgeworth said, standing up quickly. He took the book out of his satchel and put it on the table, “I've got what I needed from the book. I'll let the library know it's in your possession. Good day.”

Moving as rapidly as he did, Edgeworth was at the door before Layton found his tongue.

“W-wait! You don't have to leave,” Layton said, “I apologise for pushing on what is obviously a sensitive subject for you.”

“If I don't leave I'm liable to say something unforgivable,” Edgeworth replied, not slowing, “Good day.”

The door shut behind him harder than strictly necessary. Layton sat back and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Oh dear.”

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

It was a week before Layton saw Edgeworth again.

Truth be told, Layton had expected their last meeting to be the end of it and had resigned himself to never seeing the strange man again. He'd since finished with the book in question and had returned it to the library.

So, it was unexpected when there was a knock at Layton's office door; after office hours, but quite some time before Luke was due. Visitors were always welcome though, so Layton went to see who it was –

– and nearly knocked his hat off in a combination of surprise at the visitor and a quick step back to avoid the bag Edgeworth thrust out as soon as the door was opened.

“I apologise for the way I left, it was rude of me,” Edgeworth said. It sounded very rehearsed and stiff, but there was a ring of sincerity to the words.

And a true gentleman never refuses an apology or a present. Layton smiled and opened the door further to let Edgeworth step inside, taking the bag from him at he did so.

“Not at all,” Layton said, “It was insensitive of me. Tea?”

“Please.”

Edgeworth only began to relax after he'd drunk half a cup. Layton did his best to make small talk, but it was difficult work.

Then he struck gold.

“I've had some time to think about the nature of law,” Layton said, immediately gaining Edgeworth's full attention, “As I've said before, it's not my area of expertise, but I have had some dealings with ambiguous wills, usually when it comes to how to divide up land. It might not be murder, but some of the underlying principles are the same.”

Edgeworth motioned for him to go on. Layton took a moment to refill his teacup, picking his words carefully.

“Sometimes I find that what people deserve is very different to what they receive,” Layton said slowly.

“Precisely,” Edgeworth nodded, “So what can a prosecutor do but attempt to ensure that every suspect they believe to be guilty is given the correct verdict?”

“Only so long as that qualifier holds,” Layton replied, “If their arguments are torn asunder by the defence and there is no doubt that the suspect is innocent, it would be wrong to push for a guilty verdict.”

“Even if the prosecutor still believes in the suspect's guilt?”

Layton paused before answering, savouring his drink. “Distance is important in the courtroom, is it not? Personal feelings shouldn't come before the law or what's right.”

“No, it shouldn't,” Edgeworth muttered, “I've accused defence attorneys of doing just that, yet when I had the opportunity to face it with dignity...”

Layton kept silent in the presence of the admission. It appeared to have been hard to reach and a long time in coming; it wouldn't be a good idea to either point it out or distract away from it.

“I'm a coward,” Edgeworth said suddenly, “A disgrace to my profession.”

“Perhaps it would be best to talk things over before you go hastily deciding something like that,” Layton said, pouring Edgeworth another cup of tea and wishing he'd made something more calming, “I will be the sole of discretion if you choose to discuss the situation with me.”

Edgeworth was silent for a long time. Layton felt every tick of the clock hanging on the wall behind him. If Edgeworth took too long, then Luke would arrive and Layton suspected he'd never get to the bottom of this curious situation.

“I suppose it all starts a little over fifteen years ago,” Edgeworth began haltingly, “My father was a defence attorney of some renown and, as a Christmas present, he took me to see one of his trials...”

The story came out piece by piece, in a tone devoid of emotion, as though Edgeworth was narrating someone else's life. If it hadn't been for his own strange adventures, Layton would've scarce believed the tale; full of deceit, revenge, and murder as it was.

“...and with that I left. I told no one where I was going and now I find myself at your university, Professor,” Edgeworth finished.

“My, that's a lot to take in,” Layton said, giving himself time to think, “Law suddenly seems like a much more sensational career than I was originally lead to believe.”

“Given that you now know the whole sorry affair, what would you have done?” Edgeworth asked. The question was posed blandly, but there was a tension to Edgeworth's shoulders and an intensity in his eyes that told a different story. This query was possibly the most vital Layton had answered in this conversation so far.

“It's difficult to say,” Layton said carefully, “After all, a puzzle never looks the same once you know the answer. Also, it sounds like you're far more used to the intricacies of legal politics than I am.”

“Assume you had my training.”

“I can't say I would've done things particularly differently,” Layton said, “People in positions of power – like the police or prosecutors – are supposed to be trustworthy. To find out that not only were they deceiving you, but also manipulating you for their own ends... It must've been hard. I can't imagine I'd want to talk to anyone who I believed in and could betray me too.”

Not that Layton's list of close confidants was long by any stretch of the imagination.

All the tension left Edgeworth and the corners of his mouth finally twitched upward in the first smile Layton had ever seen him express. Something in Layton's answer must have been exactly what Edgeworth was after.

There was a patter of running feet in the corridor outside and a hurried knock at the door. Edgeworth started and nearly split his tea. Layton excused himself to let in Luke, who was right on time.

“That's my cue to leave then,” Edgeworth said, standing up and giving both Layton and Luke a nod, “Good night, Professor Layton.”

“Good night, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Come Rain or Shine

2013-07-13T17:59:24Z

Title: Come Rain or Shine
Words: 1552
Characters: Len Snart, Marcia Mardon, Captain Cold, Weather Witch
Summary: The last thing Len wanted after a long day was a visit from the Weather Witch.
Warnings: Mention of post-partum depression, genderbending

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It was miserable outside. The winds were up to nearly gale-force and the rain couldn't decide if it was actually being hail or not, stinging either way. Len had to battle the warehouse door for a good five minutes before it let him inside.

His boots squelched as he walked and his clothes were sodden. Len found the battered heater in the little office room the warehouse offered and started stripping out of his wet furs. His undershirt and boxers were soaked too, but they'd dry a hell of a lot faster than his thick outer layers.

“You sure know how to treat a girl to a good time.”

Len was moving before the voice finished speaking. However, he didn't fire; he recognised the voice. He kept his cold-gun trained on the intruder as she sauntered up to him from the shadows she'd been concealed in.

“What the hell do you want, Mardon?” Len snapped, “I assume that little display outside is your fault.”

“You'd be correct,” Mardon said, seemingly unconcerned about the gun pointed in her direction, “And you know what I want.”

“The answer's still no,” Len said.

Mardon pouted. Thankfully it wasn't a good look for her and Len could shore up his barriers. It was one thing to run into the Weather Witch when they were both out fighting the Flash and it was another for them to be in an enclosed space with Len under-dressed.

“Do you know how immature your rules sound?” Mardon said, “'No girls'. What are you, six?”

“The rules are there for a reason,” Len said, “And you've proven yourself untrustworthy in the past.”

“Like the rest of your team is any better,” Mardon said, a stray spark of lightning dancing around her eyes for a moment, “McCulloch can give me a reference.”

“I'm well aware what kind of 'reference' McCulloch can give you,” Len said.

“If you've got the skills, use them,” Mardon said with a sly smile, “You wouldn't complain if you actually got laid once in a while.”

Mardon was close now. Len lowered his gun, confident that he was fast enough to stop Mardon without it before she tried anything. Mardon was tracing her lips with the weather wand, flicking the tip of her tongue out to wet them occasionally.

“Introduce me to a stable woman in the business and I'll consider relaxing my policy,” Len said, “With you and Blacksmith running around I don't see that happening soon.”

“Me, Blacksmith, and the Golden Glider,” Mardon said, bracing herself.

Len grabbed Mardon by the throat and shoved her against the wall. “Don't say a fucking thing about Lisa,” he snarled.

“Why should I stay quiet about my friend?” Mardon snapped, her voice choked, “I worked with her far more than you ever did!”

“You think there isn't a reason for that? You think I didn't want my sister out of the game and safe?” Len snarled.

Mardon's eyes sparked again and this time a jolt of electricity lanced through Len's fingers and made him release his grip. His fingers stung, but Len ignored it and forced his hand into a fist.

“And if you'd been a better brother you would've seen that it was too late for her to back out and helped her,” Mardon snapped, red marks on her neck where Len's fingers had gripped it, “Maybe if you'd let her into the Rogues proper, instead of fighting her, she'd still be alive.”

Len slammed his fist into the cheap plaster by Mardon's head. It went through, making yet another hole in the filthy wall.

“Get the fuck out of my sight before I do something we'll both regret,” Len said, his voice low.

“You're just like my parents,” Mardon said, a dark glare on her face, “Never could abide me doing anything even remotely masculine. No, all that went to Clyde. Clyde who couldn't defend himself in the slightest. Clyde who never so much as came into passing contact with testosterone.”

“Clyde who you killed,” Len added.

“I didn't kill him!” Mardon shouted, “I didn't. I don't... It wasn't me.”

“Not from what I've heard,” Len said.

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” Mardon snarled, the lightning back in her eyes, “Clyde was dead when I found him.”

“Whatever you say,” Len said, finally pulling back his hand and taking a step back to let Mardon go, “Now get out.”

“No,” Mardon said stubbornly, “I'm going to be a Rogue and you're going to let me. You've seen how powerful I am. I've been in this game nearly as long as you have.”

“What's with the sudden desperation?” Len asked, “You've never been this serious before.”

A haunted look passed over Mardon's face. “I'm not going back in Iron Heights,” she said quietly, “You don't know what they do to you there – what they do to women. I need protection.”

Len took a moment before speaking. He'd heard how Iron Heights had taken a turn for the worse. Still, before he even considered making Mardon an offer, there was something else he had to clear up first...

“What about that kid of yours?” Len asked, “I don't like making deals with anyone willing to murder children.”

“I carried that parasite for nine months,” Mardon snapped, “It would've been less if I could've gotten rid of it sooner. Don't I get a say about it?”

“Not from where I'm standing,” Len said.

“There's a reason they've put 'postpartum depression' on my file,” Mardon said, “I'm hardly alone as a mother wanting to get rid of her child.”

That, at least, was something Len had witnessed as a kid himself, One of the mothers in the trailer park had been diagnosed with that, but only after she had subjected her baby to far too much.

“Are you going to let me become a Rogue?” Mardon pushed.

“No,” Len said, “I've got my rules and I'm sticking to them. However,” he pre-emptively cut Mardon's protest off, “I'm willing to deal.”

Mardon cocked her head, looking interested. “Go on.”

“We've got contacts. Alchemy, Grodd, those sort,” Len explained, “Not proper Rogues, but willing to help us out if we help them with what they want. If you scratch our back, we'll be happy to keep you out of Iron Heights.”

“And what, exactly, does scratching your back involve?” Mardon asked, licking her lips.

“Nothing you're imagining,” Len said, “We know something big's coming up, and I want every ounce of backup I can get for us.”

“Backup for front lines consisting of you, a teenage boy, and an addict?” Mardon snorted, “I don't know why you even bother pretending that your 'backup' has even the remote chance of not being called in.”

“Only in case of a...” Len frowned as something hit him, “Addict? What do you mean, addict?”

Mardon snorted. “Shows what a great job you're doing as leader. Maybe it's best you're not letting me be a full Rogue.”

“McCulloch's an addict?” Len pressed, grabbing Mardon by the shoulders.

“You didn't get this from me,” Mardon said, “It's the reason I'm not trying to get in through him. I like my sex clean, thank you.”

“Fuck!” Len let go of Mardon and hit the wall again, “Why the fuck would he be so fucking stupid? And if it's not him the fucking brat's tying explosives to dogs and –”

The smile on Mardon's face wasn't reassuring as Len cut himself off. She'd take every inch she could if given the opportunity and Len was being careless.

“Get out,” Len snapped, tiredness creeping over him.

“Sure there's nothing I could do to make you bend your rules just a little?” Mardon asked, trailing her fingers up Len's back.

Len turned and grabbed Mardon by the upper arms and pressed her against the wall. He allowed himself one lingering glance down her body. Tall, with long black hair perpetually tangled by wind and rain in a way that shouldn't look so good. Len preferred larger breasts on his women, but he would be willing to make sacrifices for legs that long. Her tongue ran over her lower lip slowly, with the air of a woman who knows exactly what she does to men.

Len leant forward to whisper in Mardon's ear. “I'm not seventeen any more; a pretty smile and flash of tits isn't going to make me do something I don't want to. There is no way you're fucking your way onto this team.”

“Glad we've settled that then,” Mardon said, shrugging of Len's grip, “I'll have this one just for me then.”

Her hands snaked up to hold the back of Len's head and pull him down into a kiss. Her lips were soft, warm, and just a little tingly. Len decided his principles were satisfied by him not bending her over the rickety table and let himself enjoy the kiss while it lasted.

“Done?” Len asked when they pulled apart.

“For now,” Mardon said, with a saucy smile and a wink, “I'll see you around, Captain.”

With that, Marcia Mardon walked gracefully from the room. Len counted to thirty before slumping down to sit on a crate with his head in his hands.

Looked like his life was going to get that much more complicated.

Annexation - Part Two

2013-06-05T19:55:46Z

“Temporal anomaly?” Mark guessed.

“What makes you say that?” Len asked.

Mark just pointed at the large digital clock at the motel entrance. Its numbers were changing randomly.

“Could be electrical disturbance,” Axel said.

“Either way, that's a hell of a large draw for capes,” Len said, “We're leavin'.”

They left. Or rather, they tried to leave, but somehow, no matter which way they went, they always found themselves heading toward the cracking portal.

“Fuck.”

“I wonder what it wants,” Mark said, contemplating the mess of space-time, “There's definitely intent about it.”

“Incoming!” Axel called, “Looks like a Lantern.”

“Fuck!”

“We try another run,” Mark said, eyes sparking up and fog rolling in, “He can get rid of this, but it'll buy us time.”

A low hum started below the crackling shriek of the portal. It got increasingly loud until Len was certain something was going to blow up in his face.

The portal still wasn't letting them leave. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Mardon, blast it,” Len ordered, pulling out his cold-gun and taking aim at the centre of the writhing mass.

Lightning and ice shot out. Nothing happened for a full second, even the sound had vanished.

The portal shot back crackling bolts of red lightning back at them. Len was blasted off his feet and landed several yards away. A quick check, nothing seemed broken.

The Green Lantern landed where Len had been standing not two seconds ago. He glanced around, Axel was dazed, but getting to his feet, and Mark was nowhere in sight.

Fighting a Lantern with one cold-gun and a trick-less Trickster; Len had faced better odds.

Mind you, he'd also faced worse ones.

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

A swirling mass of hallucinogenic colour and bright rips in space assaulted Mark's senses, forcing him to close his eyes. It didn't help. Mark had a passing thought that this might be how Bivolo viewed the world. Poor bastard.

Mark felt a pull and squinted to see one particular tear ringed with scarlet lightning getting closer. He had the feeling that he really didn't want to go through it. Nothing he tried worked. No wind, no lightning, nothing.

With another sickening lurch, Mark tumbled through and found himself in a junkyard. An eerily silent, familiar junkyard.

“Fuck,” the word didn't so much come out of Mark's mouth as stick almost tangibly to the air in front of him. The air which was thick and burned at Mark when he moved.

Figures falling through a temporal anomaly could put you at Flash-speeds.

Mark pushed through the molasses-like air and stumbled over a mound of broken dishwashers and car parts to see an unbelievably familiar sight. Familiar, because he'd been standing right over there not a full fortnight ago.

Libra was stood, still as a statue, holding an infant with forked lightning surround its eyes. The blade of Libra's staff was pointed at the infant's chest. The infant was unaware of what was going on, upset at only the cold and the fact that he was surrounded by shouting strangers.

Mark's past self was stood with the other Rogues, shock just beginning to make itself known on his face. Zoom was stood slightly apart from them and Mark was almost glad he was twitching the slightest amount.

The cause for shock and alarm was Inertia, standing next to Libra and the infant – Josh – holding up a hand that was about to perform a sonic-boom click.

Mark didn't even think. He ran for Inertia. The wand wouldn't be fast enough, Inertia too far into his motion to be stopped by lightning.

A solid right hook did the trick instead.

Inertia fell slowly, until he got a foot underneath his body and pushed himself back into standing, speeding up as he went until he was matching Mark.

“You want to die first then?” Inertia cackled, apparently uncaring as to why Mark was moving faster than sound. Like Mark's voice earlier, Inertia's was flat and Mark understood it more because he saw Inertia's mouth form the words than because he heard the words themselves.

Inertia darted forward in a way that was probably meant to be quicker than Mark could react, but it just looked clumsy and Mark elbowed him hard in the shoulder when he got close.

Indignation flickered over Inertia's face and his stance shifted into something tighter, more deadly. Mark had a fleeting wish that he was one of the Rogues who regularly got into bar brawls and waited for Inertia to come to him. If there was one thing speedsters could be counted on for, it was to always make the first move.

Inertia actually took longer to attack than Mark had expected, but then they were moving at several times greater than the speed of sound, so that possibly translated into a shorter time than a speedster usually had to wait.

This time Mark wasn't so lucky. He might be matching Inertia's speed, but while Inertia normally relied on his superior reflexes to deal with enemies, he'd also been built to take down speedsters and could therefore fight opponents at equal speeds perfectly well.

Inertia's first punch landed squarely in Mark's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Inertia followed that up with a blow to the back of Mark's head as he curled up, causing stars to dance across Mark's vision. A vicious kick to the back of his knee made Mark crumple, but also shot a jolt of electricity up Inertia's leg as Mark's natural lightning-aura caught up with it all.

Mark fought to get his breath back as Inertia was blasted away with a yelp. Seconds were everything when fighting a speedster, even a slowed one. They just didn't react like normal people.

Mark had only just made it to his feet and half-turned when Inertia slammed into him shoulder first. Thankfully Inertia was still only a teenager and didn't have his usual extra momentum backing him up, so Mark was able to stay upright this time.

Hurt like hell though.

He caught Inertia by the hair and used it to drag his head down into Mark's knee before flinging him away. Inertia licked the blood trickling down his face with a sadistic grin. Why was everyone with superspeed either a goodie-two-shoes or a psycho?

Inertia charged again and they descended into a proper brawl. The junkyard ground was littered with jagged piece of metal and lumps of plastic or concrete. In short, Mark had rarely felt so battered as he did when trying to pin Inertia and avoid being pinned in return.

Mark screamed when a rusty blade – from either a lawnmower or a dishwasher – stabbed through his thigh. Inertia took the chance to push it in further, until Mark's lightning zapped him away.

Shaking and unsteady, Mark couldn't put any weight on his injured leg. Inertia was holding back, waiting to see what Mark did next. The bleeding had stopped, but the grin was still as crazy as ever. Mark wasn't going to win this fight. He'd faced stupidly impossible odds before, but this one he wasn't going to walk away from. He'd be lucky to crawl at this rate.

“Maybe I should kill the kid first,” Inertia mused, “You'd find that tragic, wouldn't you? And we're all about the tragedy tonight. Heh.”

He strolled over to where Libra was standing, kicking Mark on the way past. Mark pushed himself to his feet, using a bent stop sign in place of a crutch, and flung a piece of debris at his enemy. Inertia dodged out of the way, but it gave Mark enough time to limp closer and just reach Josh with the tip of his finger.

A howl tore through the unearthly silence and rage twisted Inertia's face. The last Mark saw of him was the speedster desperately trying to snap his fingers before Mark was ripped away by an unseen force.

Whether it was because he was used to it, the time stream had decided he'd been fucked with enough, or because Mark had just gotten lucky, the next reality-warping journey took less that a second. Mark landed on both feet, hard, on the dusty, wooded plane and his leg gave out.

“Fuckin' hell, Mardon!” Len snapped, as he caught Mark and helped him stand upright, “What the hell just –”

Whatever Len had been about to say was cut off by a loud wailing and Mark becoming aware that there was something squirming in his arms. A baby.

Josh.

The roaring shriek suddenly cut out, taking the portal with it. Mark staggered as the twisted gravitational pull returned to normal. Josh's sobs sounded unnaturally loud in the silence and Mark didn't know how to fix it.

“Let's get out of here,” Len said. He took a good look at Josh and rolled his eyes, “Give him to me.”

“No!” Mark shouted, pulled away and nearly ending up on the ground again. He held Josh tighter, which only increased the wailing. He didn't care, he wasn't going to let someone else take his child and get him killed again.

Len's mouth twisted. “At least hold him right,” he huffed, “Put your arm lower down, so you're not havin' to squeeze him so hard to keep him up.”

Cautiously, Mark let Len rearrange his arm and Josh until the kid was held much more comfortably against his side. The crying calmed down, but didn't stop entirely. Mark shouldn't have been so grateful that crying meant Josh was alive.

“Holy shit! Where'd you pull the kid from, Wiz?” Axel said, announcing himself. He was moving carefully and his right arm was hanging limply.

“Save it, we need to get out of here,” Len said, looking around, “Before that cape gets back on his feet. We only got him 'cause he got caught by slowed time.”

Mark could see a mass of ice with a green glow trapped inside. The glow was getting brighter with every second. Time to leave.

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

“Can't you shut the kid up?” Len groused. He was tired, sore, his stomach was feeling queasy, and he had a headache pulsing with every whimper of Josh's.

“I don't know how,” Mark replied, trying to bounce the baby on his uninjured leg, “It's not like I've ever spent any time with children.”

Len was currently driving them as fast as he could toward the nearest town and subsequently hospital he could find. Mark's leg would need patching up, Axel's arm needed sorting out, and Len could do with better painkillers than the pharmacy ones that were all the car held.

“I've got a few things that might shut him up,” Axel said.

“He's not playing with anything that might explode,” Mark said darkly.

“Not all my stuff explodes,” Axel whined, “C'mon, Wiz.”

“No,” Mark said, a note of finality in his voice.

“Make yourself useful with somethin' else,” Len interrupted before they could start arguing properly, “Find out where the nearest hospital is.”

A sigh and some obnoxious beeps later, Axel read out a list of directions. They were maybe thirty miles away. Good, that shouldn't take too long.

A twinge shot through Len's gut and he put his foot down harder. They couldn't get there fast enough.

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

Len had one thing to say about the staff of St. Mercy's Hospital, and that was that they were efficient. He'd barely made it through the door, lugging Mark along, when they'd descended to help Mark onto a gurney and set up emergency surgery.

Mark wasn't letting go of Josh though and the nurses were getting annoyed at him.

“You can't take a child into surgery with you,” one of them tired to explain patiently.

“He's not getting stolen again,” Mark argued, though it was weak, probably from the lack of blood.

“We can keep him in the observation room,” another nurse tried, “He'll be near you all the time.”

“No!”

“Fuck's sake, Mark,” Len snapped, “Just hand him over.”

Mark's eyes went yellow for a moment, but faded back to normal brown before sparks could shoot out. Whether he was just too damn tired to make a threat or whether he didn't want to blow cover, Len wasn't sure.

“Look after him, Len,” Mark said suddenly, “Don't let anyone else have him. Or so help me, your forecast will be grim.”

Len didn't want to take the kid. However, Mark staying alive was more important than a few hours' discomfort on Len's part. With a disgusted sigh, Len relieved Mark of his son and went back to the reception area where they'd left Axel.

On second thoughts, it probably wouldn't hurt to make sure there was nothing wrong with Josh after dodgy time-travel and temporal and spatial anomalies. Better they find out now than in a few months once Mark had gotten properly attached.

“'Scuse me,” Len said, trying and failing to be polite with a screaming infant in his arms, “Any chance this guy could get a check-up?”

The nurse at the reception desk didn't even raise an eyebrow. “Name?”

“Uh... Josh,” Len said, “Joshua... Star.”

“Age?”

“Uh...” Len looked at Josh, but it was hard to tell with babies, “Maybe a year? He's got most of his teeth if that helps.” Len knew that for a fact, as the little bastard had tried biting him several times already.

The nurse looked deeply unimpressed.

“Look, I'm just a friend of his dad's, alright?” Len said defensively, “His dad who's in surgery right now to get a chuck of metal the size of my hand pulled out of his leg.”

The nurse's skepticism didn't lessen in the slightest, but thankfully she pointed Len to the waiting seats and told him a paediatrician would be along to see Josh at some point.

Axel wasn't there when Len sat down. Hopefully that meant someone was setting his arm and the brat wasn't making a nuisance of himself. Not that the brat had been a nuisance recently. Len was actually mildly impressed by how well he'd responded tonight and how quickly he'd gotten the car with only one working arm.

“Be quiet,” Len mutter to Josh, “Can't you go back to sleep?”

Apparently not. Josh continued to wail for the next twenty minutes, resisting Len's attempts to feed him anything and not even stopping once he'd gotten a clean diaper. Mardon'd better get out of surgery soon, or Len was dumping the kid, weather powers be damned.

“Joshua Star?” a nurse called. Len thanked the heavens that it was a quiet night at the hospital and followed her to a room brightly decorated with zoo animals.

“What appears to be the trouble?” the doctor asked, he was a large man with an even larger strained smile, “Lego up his nose?”

Len took a moment to check, but all that seemed to be up Josh's nose was an obscene amount of snot.

“I can't get him to stop crying,” Len said, “He's in need of a check-up anyway; thought I'd kill two birds with one stone.”

“Hmm, let's see then. Sit on the examining table and I'll give him a look-see,” the doctor said gestured at the green table covered in pictures of frogs, “No need to leave him in the hands of a stranger and get him even more worked up.”

Being upset at a stranger's hold might actually be the problem, Len reflected as he sat down and held Josh out.

“Doesn't appear to be a fever,” the doctor said, holding a hand against Josh's forehead, “Nothing wrong with his eyes or ears. Throat seems to be... aha. Looks like we've got a few final teeth pushing through at the back there. I'll give him the rest of the check-up, but I'm betting what's got him so upset is those little milk teeth there.”

“He's teething? Fu- wonderful,” Len muttered.

The doctor continued with the check-up until he pronounced Josh 'surprisingly fit for someone who's been in a car crash' – it took Len a moment to remember that had been their excuse for their injuries. After giving Len directions on how to ease the teething process, the doctor waved him out of the room.

White-hot pain stabbed Len up the side the instant he got to his feet. His vision blacked out for a moment and he found the doctor pushing him back onto the table.

“Is everything alright?” the doctor asked, already flashing a penlight into Len's eyes.

“Fuckin' hurts,” Len moaned, “Been feelin' a bit sick, but – fuck!” the last word came as an exclamation after the doctor poked him in the side.

“Internal rupturing,” the doctor said grimly, “You're going to need surgery to sort that out. Leave the boy with me and I'll have a nurse take you to the emergency room.”

“No,” Len said, batting away the doctor's outstretched hands with one of his, “Promised Mark... Wait, Axel. Blond kid. He's havin' his arm set. Give the kid to him.”

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

Josh was finally asleep, supported unsteadily in Axel's working arm, when Mark woke up. Despite the anaesthetic, Mark's awakening was sudden and his vitals spiked on the monitor the second his eyes opened.

It was only when he started to get out of bed, without a care for all the work that had been put into his leg that Axel bothered to say anything.

“They said if you try walking you're gonna be a cripple.”

Mark's head whipped around to face Axel and he froze. His mouth opened, but all he managed was a coughing fit.

“J-Josh...” Mark finally rasped.

Axel passed the kid over. Mark calmed down the instant Josh was safely in his arms.

“Cap's got appendicitis,” Axel said, “He's still in surgery. That, my arm, and your leg wiped out our entire stash put together. Even the extra stuff you stashed in the car. I would've ran out on the bill, but neither of you can run right now, so that'd be hard. Also, the car's been ganked for parts.”

“...Someone robbed... us?” Mark said, disbelief thick in his voice.

“Yeah, ballsy I know,” Axel said, “I look into getting them back when my arm's up to scratch. It's not like we can get far without a car.”

Josh snuggled closer into Mark's arms with a quiet, “Da.” Mark looked down at Josh, an odd look coming over his face. Axel felt something drop heavily into his stomach, he'd had the same look when they'd gotten back from Salvation and announced they were retiring.

“Maybe... maybe it's time to stop running,” Mark said quietly.

“You want to finish up in the ass-end of nowhere?” Axel asked.

“We were never going to end up in paradise,” Mark said, “However... 'Let us so live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry.'”

“I'm not gonna retire,” Axel said determinedly, the slightest hint of poetry going right over his head, “You two old men can do what the fuck you like, but I'm not giving up being the Trickster.”

“Heh,” Mark shook his head, “Do what you want, but break our cover and I'll fry your ass.”

Despite the threat – probably because of it – Axel grinned. “I'd like to see you try, old man.”

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

On a piece of paper found by Mick's shaving mirror:

Hey, heard you settled down in Mexico, though doing what I didn't hear. Just to let you know we're in Alaska. McCulloch knows the actual address if you're interested.

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

Scribbled on a napkin found by the kitchen pots:

Fuck no, way too cold for me. And what the hell was on the back of that paper? I'm working at a bar.

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

On a note left by the long mirror in the bar Mick works at:

Shit. Send it back? That's one of Josh's drawings and Mark'll have my hide if he finds it gone.

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

On a wad of paper found by Josh's mobile:

Josh?

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

Hastily scrawled on a page that looks suspiciously like it's been torn from a book:

Long story. Mark's considering writing it for extra cash.

“Huh,” Mick said, turning from the note to continue wiping down the bartop. All in all, he was pretty content with his life here. Sometimes though...

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

Thrown out of the bathroom mirror when Len's shaving:

Might visit sometime. Make sure you're not in jail.

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

Annexation - Part One

2013-05-30T11:43:47Z

Title: Annexation
Genre: Friendship
Characters: Len Snart, Mark Mardon, Axel Walker
Rating: T for swearing and violence
Word Count: 10k+
A/N: Because I actually thought the Rogues retiring subplot of Rogues' Revenge had potential.

Summary: In the aftermath of Libra's attack, Len decides he doesn't want to hang around Keystone and Central while the Flashes are still out for blood. Mark invites himself along and Axel's always in the last place you want him to be. AU after Rogues' Revenge.

Part one | Part Two
Art link: Art Masterlist

Despite Axel's whining, Len was determined to stick by his resolution. Retirement from the supervillain business. Libra's warning about the old Flash returning had only reinforced the gut instinct and Len started stripping the hideout of everything he owned the second he got back.

“What will you do next?” Mardon asked from where he was leaning in the doorway. So far Mardon had neither began setting himself up to stay in the hideout nor started packing up his belongings.

“Take a holiday. Find a place to hole up,” Len shrugged, “Whatever the case, I'm not stayin' around here waiting for the Flashes to find me. Give it a while and the sting of losin' that Kid Flash will lessen and I might be able to come back without winding up straight in Iron Heights.”

“McCulloch's looking into going back to being a mercenary in another city, maybe even going back to Scotland,” Mardon said, examining his nails, “And Rory's going south. The brat's sticking around.”

“And you?” Len asked, more out of conversational habit than any real interest in where Mardon was running off to.

Mardon shrugged. “Not sure. Somewhere more temperate likely, they're used to odd weather patterns.”

Len shoved the last of his belongings he was taking with him into a bag and zipped it closed. The costume he was leaving, but his cold-gun was wrapped in its holster and his blue visor was tucked in the side. Never knew when there'd be trouble after all.

Even with a bag full of stuff slung over his shoulders, Len felt too light. His current jacket was far lighter and cooler than what he was used to.

“Fancy some company for the first leg of your journey?” Mardon asked.

Before the mess with Libra, Len would've said no without thinking about it. However, Len had just faced down his father and being left alone with his thoughts didn't sound like a good idea. On second glance, Mardon was looking somewhat twitchy – oh, of course. The kid.

“You'd better not get us pulled over when it's your turn to drive,” was all Len said, because it wouldn't be him if he was nice about it.

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

Damn but Axel could be persistent when he wanted to. It had taken Len three hours to get a working, subtle car out of the brat. Len had also tried to make it clear to the kid that staying in Central and Keystone was going to be a really bad idea; he'd started to show a bit of promise after all and it would be a shame for him to wind up in prison without being able to give it all he could first.

Eventually, Len threw his bag into the boot of a battered green Chevy and sat behind the wheel as he waited for Mardon to finish up and get in. Axel leaned in the open passenger side window.

“You're really going to retire?” Axel still sounded disbelieving at the fact.

“I've already been over this, kid,” Len said.

“Yeah, but you could still change your mind,” Axel said, with a shrug that nearly knocked his head against the ceiling, “Won't it be, you know, boring?”

“That sounds nice right now,” Len said.

Axel chewed on his lip, it had the effect of making him look even younger than he was. Len didn't need to be reminded that the kid was still quite a bit short of legal drinking age.

“McCulloch said to tell you why I need to be in the Rogues instead of why I want to be here,” Axel blurted out quickly. It took Len a few seconds to run that over in his head and understand.

“And?”

“I – you – it's –” Axel fumbled with his words, “I...”

“Spit it out, kid.”

“You guys see me!” Axel blurted.

He ducked his head down so Len couldn't see his face. Len sighed and felt the words settle into a small reason to stay. The only reason to stay – it wasn't going to be enough with speedsters on their tail.

“We can't stay here while they're still out for blood after that Flash,” Len said.

“I know,” Axel said miserably, “But it just sucks. I figured you'd finally let me back in and you're all splitting off and won't let me come with.”

“Have you asked McCulloch?” Len suggested, “He's still staying in the business.”

“He said I'm not stealthy enough,” Axel scoffed, “I can totally be sneaky if I want to be.”

“Not that we've seen it,” Len said.

Axel looked downcast, but was shortly shooed out of the way by Mardon finally being ready and climbing into the passenger seat. Len put the car in gear then cursed and put the handbrake on.

“What're you doing?” Mardon asked.

“Forgot something,” Len said, getting out, “Five minutes.”

Axel was in the part of the hideout that could be called a living room, tossing explosives at the couch.

“You'll regret that come nightfall,” Len said.

“I've got the run of the whole place, I'll find somewhere else to sleep,” Axel said with a particularly vicious throw.

“If you're in plain clothes and packed by the time I'm finished in the bathroom you can tag along for a few states,” Len said, turning away at the first sign of a smile on Axel's face, “No more'n one gimmick and make sure you've got cash, 'cause I'm not payin' to feed you.”

He'd probably regret that decision, but it was done now. Len had lived with his bad choices so far, what was another one on top of a mountain of screw-ups?

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

Mardon gave Len a look that plainly said 'are you fucking serious?' when Len got back into the car and Axel threw his stuff into the boot. Len just passed over a pair of earplugs he'd picked up from Piper's old stash. Axel clambered into the back seat of the car and Len finally started driving.

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

Len didn't have a destination in mind, just a generally northwards direction to find somewhere cold to hole up for a few months. He stopped at a petrol station a few hours out of Keystone and filled up both the car and a couple of containers just in case they found themselves stranded. Axel picked up as many packets of sweets and crisps as he could carry and filled half the back seat with colourful bags. Mardon took the opportunity to fetch a couple of books from his bag and start reading with the earplugs in.

It was somewhat strange, not being immediately recognised as Rogues. Len honestly couldn't remember the last time that had been the case. He preferred to think that was because it had been such a long time and not because he was starting to get old. He wasn't even fifty yet.

Though that was starting to look a lot closer than he liked to really consider.

Len picked up a packet of cigarettes and discovered the lighter in the car was missing once they'd left the station. Axel had a lighter thankfully – fuck if Len knew why and he wasn't going to ask. Len lit up a smoke and offered the packet to the others. Mardon declined, but Axel took one.

Salvation had been a forced detox and Len was looking forward to resuming old habits now he had the chance.

“Isn't that more Heat Wave's thing?” Axel asked as Len struggled with the window until it was open enough that he could tap the ashes outside of the car.

“So he's the only Rogue allowed to smoke? Fuck that,” Len said, taking a drag.

“No,” Axel said, taking a shorter, less lung-burning puff himself, “Just that it's a bit close to being fire for Captain Cold, isn't it?”

“You need to know when to hang up the gimmick,” Len replied, “Sometimes things work better if you're not just the mask.”

Len was beginning to understand why old men always seemed wise, all they had to do was look at their own life and point out everything that had gone wrong. Len had always believed he wouldn't become his Captain Cold mask, but more and more often he found himself reaching up to take off the glasses and realise they weren't even on.

Axel actually looked like he was taking that to heart and thinking about it. He'd been doing that a lot recently and Len found himself curious as to what the kid would end up taking away with him.

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

Mark took over driving around ten in the evening and Snart reclined the passenger seat to try and get some sleep. Considering not just normal Rogue behaviour, but also Salvation, Mark wasn't surprised when Snart fell asleep in minutes, despite Axel's gameboy thing bleeping constantly.

Truth be told, Mark wouldn't have minded sticking around Central to mess with the Flashes, he needed something to distract him from – no, not going to think about that. However, with Snart, Rory, and McCulloch heading away from the city, there wasn't any point in staying behind on his own.

It was unfortunate that driving meant Mark needed his ears, because Axel's gameboy was obnoxious and Snart snored fucking loudly.

“I didn't know you had a kid, Wiz,” Axel said suddenly.

Mark's grip on the steering wheel became white-knuckled as he forced the car to stay straight instead of veer off in surprise.

“I don't any more,” Mark got out through gritted teeth.

“Huh, guess not,” Axel said, his voice in a place Mark hadn't heard before, “Am I supposed to say sorry about it?”

“I don't expect you to,” Mark said.

“Good,” Axel said, “I mean... well, good.”

The atmosphere of the car felt dark and even the blips from Axel game sounded subdued. Mark just focussed on the road in front of him being eaten up by the car.

“Would've been cool if that hadn't happened,” Axel said, “You could've trained him up to be the new Weather Wizard when he got older or –”

It probably shouldn't have felt as good as it did to slam on the brakes and hear Axel's yelp as he was flung forward. Mark left the engine running and got out of the car, walking away to try and put some space between him and his feelings.

Dammit.

Mark came across a large fallen log and sat on it, doing what he could to keep his breathing even and his hands steady. He'd done so well not thinking about it and now everything he'd been blocking off just flooded in, made him feel sick.

Shit.

Footsteps sounded behind him and Mark wasn't surprised when Snart took a seat on the log next to him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Brat told me what you were talking about,” Snart said, “You want some time alone?”

Mark found himself shaking his head, even though he couldn't place why he thought being alone was a bad idea. Still, Snart actually knew about the full tangle of confusion that was Clyde's death – another thing that had been flaring up since the visit to the observatory during Inertia's mess.

“One day the brat'll learn tact,” Snart said, “Thought it's not gonna be soon at this rate.”

Mark gave a slightly wet laugh that was more of a choke. Things had been happening quickly since the observatory last night, not giving Mark a chance to sit down a let everything catch up with him. That was happening now and Mark had trouble swallowing the lump in his throat.

“My son is dead,” Mark said thickly.

He shouldn't be feeling like this, he barely knew the kid. One kidnapping attempt and being present for his murder shouldn't have given Mark the chance to bond with the kid (Josh, his name was Josh).

Snart didn't say anything, just tilting his head back to look at the stars. Mark scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand and wished he had his mask on, it was easier to pretend with the mask on. He let out another wet, almost hysterical laugh and finally let the tears fall.

Another set of much more hesitant footsteps sounded behind Mark and Axel slowly made his way over to the log. He took a seat on the other side of Snart and looked up too.

“Stars are bright out here,” Axel said and there was a thump as Snart whapped him upside the head, “Hey!”

“Clyde used to stargaze when he wasn't looking at clouds,” Mark said, because he might as well get all his family-related feelings out in one go, “Always looking up.”

“Who's Clyde?” Axel asked, only to be cuffed again for his question, “Cut it out!”

“Stop being stupid,” Snart growled.

“Clyde was my brother,” Mark said, “He used to take me out into back garden when I was five and he'd tell me all the different constellations and their stories.”

“They've got stories?” Axel asked, then ducked Snart's hand quickly, “Hah! Missed!” he taunted, “Even the ones like the big dipper? Who wants a story about a fucking spoon?”

“Ursa Major,” Mark corrected, “Hera turned a woman Zeus was lusting after into a bear. To stop her being killed by her son, Zeus turned them both into bears and put them in the sky.”

“Huh,” Axel said, looking at the constellation with new eyes, “Orion?”

“The hunter,” Mark said, “He was killed by the giant scorpion that became Scorpius.”

“Well that's all the stars I know,” Axel said.

“There's Draco, the dragon, over there,” Mark sketched out the constellation with one finger, “He was a titan that got killed by Minerva and thrown into the sky in defeat.”

“Sometimes you've gotta be wondering what people back then were smoking to make this kinda stuff up,” Axel said.

“We fight someone who can move at the speed of light,” Snart pointed out, “If the Flashes died out tomorrow then how crazy would our stories sound in fifty years? Let alone a few centuries away.”

“Millennia,” Mark corrected quietly.

There was no sound except the wind for a nice few minutes. However, Axel didn't appear to understand the appeal of silence.

“Do you know any other stars?”

Despite the general annoyance that came with anything Axel said or did, Mark did find himself relaxing as he talked through the other constellations Clyde had taught him so many years ago.

Eventually, Mark ran out and trailed off.

“Kid, go back to the car,” Snart ordered, “We'll be along in a minute.”

Axel grumbled, but didn't push his luck and trotted back to the car. Snart pulled Mark to his feet and looked at him seriously.

“You're gonna be ok now?” it was more of a statement than a question, but Mark nodded anyway.

“My son's dead,” Mark said, the words not weighing him down as much as they had earlier, “But I'll keep it together for now.”

“Good,” Snart said gruffly, “No more emergency stops?”

Mark gave a short laugh. It was still flat, but nowhere near as wet as earlier.

“Alright,” Snart said, “C'mon, or the brat'll kick up a fuss.”

Mark just hoped he could blame his next action on exhaustion and distress as he lunged forward and grabbed Snart tightly. Snart froze, but it was enough for Mark to feel someone warm and breathing and alive.

The hug didn't last long and Snart seemed quite relieved when it was over.

“Tell you what,” Snart said, “I'll drive for a bit longer. You get some sleep.”

Mark was only too happy to put the earplugs back in and curl up on the back seat after Axel had chucked his empty food wrappers out of the window and clambered over to the passenger side.

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

Axel was sulking.

He'd never admit to it, but Len knew a sulk when he saw one.

The brat's gameboy had run out of batteries and he hadn't brought more or an adaptor to get electricity from the car. Without any way to entertain himself – and he was hardly about to pick up one of Mardon's books, despite Len suggesting them several times with increasing annoyance – Axel had hooked his music player up to the car radio and got some rubbish teen music blasting out the crackly speakers.

Len yanked the connector out almost immediately. “Fuck no.”

“C'mon,” Axel whined, “I'm bored.”

“Then go to sleep,” Len said, adjusting the radio until it picked up a static-y station that had a song he recognised.

“You're seriously listening to that?” Axel sounded disgusted, “Y'know, I don't usually complain about you lot being old, but seriously man?”

“This is classic,” Len said, tapping his fingers on the wheel to the tune, “There's spare earplugs in the glovebox if you hate it that much.”

Axel just grumbled and produced a pair of headphones from somewhere and entered his sulk while listening to his own music. Len let the radio fill the otherwise quiet car and kept driving.

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

Two days later an actual city – as opposed to motorway services and crummy towns with a population that didn't meet triple digits – heralded a cheer from Axel, a 'thank fuck' from Snart, and a muttered prayer from Mark. Rogues weren't made for that kind of forced proximity and Mark kept having nightmares about being back on Salvation.

It was early evening before Mark found a place to park that wasn't screaming 'steal my car'. Axel was off like a shot before the car even pulled to a stop. To be fair to him, Mark would've been the same if he hadn't been focussing on parking – fuck it, he was a Rogue, not being perfectly parallel to the lines was the least of his crimes.

“See you in the morning?” Mark said as he handed over the car keys to Snart.

“Afternoon maybe,” Snart said.

There wasn't any more conversation before they parted ways. Normally Rogues stuck together for a bar crawl, peeling off one by one as they found women or were too drunk to leave the current bar's toilet floor. This time Mark was happy to see the back of Snart and looking forward to spending a night in an actual bed instead of the lumpy car seats.

After treating himself to a nice dinner, operation: drink and women was underway.

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

By some miracle Len remembered the way back to the car and found his way there sometime after noon, stopping only to pick up some painkillers to try and tone down his hangover with. They didn't work very well and Len hoped that Mardon was in less of a state and could take over driving until Len's head was back in the game.

Considering he found Mardon slumped over a short wall near the car, Len wasn't so sure that would be happening. Mardon was dozing, but managed to get to blearily alert after groaning and flailing at Len when he gave him a shove.

They found a pair of trousers wrapped around the car's aerial.

“Have you seen the brat?” Len asked.

Mardon shook his head, then immediately looked like he regretted the movement. Len sighed and unlocked the boot to fetch the sunglasses he'd packed. If he was going to have to drive hungover, there was no way he was going to let the sun glare in his eyes all the while.

Len found Axel curled around the bags in the boot. He wasn't sure how the kid had gotten in without messing up the lock, since Len had the only set of keys. Axel was asleep and thankfully wearing underwear. Len fished his sunglasses out of his bag, tossed Axel's trousers in the boot with him, shut the boot, and unlocked the doors. Mardon slipped into the passenger side and adjusted the visor to keep the sun out of his eyes.

They'd been driving in near silence for a couple of hours and the painkillers were still not helping, when Axel emerged from the boot via the back seat with the broken latch.

“We're... moving?” Axel sounded dubious, even with the uninteresting scenery going by at seventy miles an hour.

“No shit,” Mardon said with his eyes closed.

The bewildered look on Axel's face was amusing as he looked between the boot, the outside, then Len and Mardon, before looking at the boot again, in what was probably an attempt to remember what happened, all while squinting at the bright sun. It was enough to pull at what little heavily buried sympathy Len had and he tossed the remainder of the packet of painkillers at the kid.

“Didn't do shit for me,” Len said, “But they might help.”

There wasn't any form of thanks, but Axel took half an hour before he properly started needling the adults about not getting a chance to pick up some more batteries.

The radio channel that was on in the background turned over to a news broadcast, where the reporter started talking about general things like the weather. Len hadn't been giving it much attention, but when the topic switched from gardening tips to a discussion with key phrases like 'temporal anomalies' and 'the Justice League's response will be', Len quickly switched it off.

“Hey! I was listening to that!” Axel complained.

“Find somewhere else to hear it,” Len said, “I'm on fucking holiday, I'm staying away from capes.”

“Thought you were retired,” Axel muttered as he slouched back against the seat.

“Shut it.”

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

The next time they stopped at a town was because something in the engine went kaput. Between the three of them they were capable of fixing weapons to create absolute zero, making wands to control the weather from old blueprints, or modifying toys to deadly levels.

There was no way in hell they could fix the car themselves.

Mark started walking down the road to find help, his reasoning being that he was the one able to survive longest out under the heavy sun and was also the quickest at travelling if there was an emergency. He'd left while Snart was chewing Axel out because the brat had drained all the mobile batteries in an attempt to get his gameboy working again.

Mark enjoyed the chance to stretch his legs and spend some time without the others. Oh, he didn't know what he'd be doing if it wasn't on this crazy road trip, but a man needed his space. Mark tilted his head back and just yelled. God, it had been such a long time since he could do that without something making him regret it straight after.

He reached a petrol station after maybe twenty miles or so and from there Mark called a tow-truck. He enjoyed an icecream from the station's shop while he waited and couldn't help a bit of a grin thinking what a state the others must be in right now.

The driver of the truck couldn't have been less of a stereotype if he'd tried. Young, decently dressed, and an accent that didn't make him sound stupid in the slightest. Mark was actually impressed, and that hadn't happened in a long time.

“You're the one with the broken car?” he said in lieu of greeting.

“That obvious?” Mark asked.

“You learn to tell the type,” the guy said, “I'm Geoff. You said your car was a few miles out?”

“Some,” Mark said, then figured he should probably introduce himself too, “It's Mark.”

“Alright, get in,” Geoff said, gesturing at his truck, “Are you on your own?”

“No,” Mark replied.

“Family?” Geoff asked.

Mark climbed into the passenger side and was grateful for the air-conditioning. “No, they're my...” shit, how was he supposed to describe the weird relationship that bound Rogues? “...friends,” Mark settled on. It made more sense than saying co-worker, even if neither option fitted that well.

“Right,” Geoff said, “Who're they?”

“There's Len,” Mark said, since 'Snart' was way too recognisable, “He's the other adult. Then there's Axel, he's a teenager, the worst kind.”

Geoff laughed at the description, but Mark was certain he wasn't going to be laughing after having to put up with the brat for a while.

The drive back to the car was pleasant. Geoff, Mark was delighted to discover, was actually pretty well read and they had a solid discussion on Twain that Mark hadn't managed to have for years. Criminals could be entertaining in a stupid, drunk way, but when they started to get smart you had to watch it. With intelligence came delusions of grandeur. Look at Luthor. Look at Sinestro. Hell, look at the mess Jesse had ended up with.

Axel was nowhere in sight when Geoff pulled up by the car. Snart was sat on the ground, leaning against the side of the car that was casting a shadow, and generally looking exhausted. Or was possibly asleep, it was hard to tell with the sunglasses over his eyes,

Mark wasn't sure who it spoke badly of that his first thought was that Snart had killed Axel in a fit of frustration and hidden the body.

Snart wasn't asleep and shouted out at the rocks roughly a hundred yards off the road for Axel, which probably meant the kid wasn't dead either. It took a couple of minutes for Axel to appear, but appear he did.

Geoff opened the car bonnet and wrinkled his nose at the acidic smell of burnt plastic that hissed out. “How far did you say you'd driven on this?” he asked, prodding some part with a screwdriver.

“Some hundred miles,” Snart replied, “Wasn't really keepin' count.”

Geoff didn't spend much longer at it. He slammed the bonnet closed. “You're going to have to put it into a proper garage to get that fixed, it's not going anywhere with just the spit and prayers I've got in my truck,” he said.

“Figured that,” Snart said.

“How much is it going to cost?” Mark asked.

Geoff tapped his screwdriver against his chin as he thought. “Assuming all you need is a new radiator, oil tank, battery, and spark plugs, you're looking at something in the region of a thousand or so,” he grimaced as he gave the car another look, “That's assuming the engine isn't completely dead and doesn't need replacing fully. It might be cheaper buying a new car to be honest.”

“That might be... difficult,” Snart said.

“It's up to you,” Geoff replied easily, “And you don't have to decide now anyway. Let's get it hitched up to the truck and I'll get you guys into town.”

The hitching up of the car to the truck went a lot quicker once Snart forcibly restrained Axel to stop the brat fiddling with the mechanism.

Snart was smart enough to avoid conspicuous names, though Axel needed a few elbows in the ribs before he stopped using Rogue codenames. Thankfully, Geoff didn't appear to notice and soon enough he was back behind the wheel, picking up his conversation with Mark on the subject of good books.

Axel started kicking the seat until Geoff broke off the conversation long enough to tell Axel there was a power converter in the glove compartment. Axel went from an annoying little brat to a slightly less annoying little brat in seconds. Snart just rolled his eyes at Axel's enthusiasm for his game and rolled down the window to have a smoke.

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

The mechanic in town looked a lot more like a mechanic than Geoff did a tow-truck driver, he had an oil-stained beard to match and everything. Mark let Snart discuss things with the man and decided to make himself useful and get the locations of some good bars out of Geoff. Axel had already vanished to do whatever it was he did when they stopped at these towns.

“Aren't you worried about your kid?” Geoff asked after listing a few bars and directions to them.

“He can take care of himself,” Mark said dismissively, “And he's not my kid.”

It felt odd to have to define that. Everyone in the twin cities knew that Axel didn't belong to any of the Rogues and the only kid Mark had was – no, it still wasn't a good idea to think about Josh around strangers.

“If you're sure,” Geoff didn't sound too happy with Mark at that. Mark shrugged it off, it wasn't like people tended to expect anything of him nowadays.

Except Snart, but that was usually in the area of 'do what I expect or I'll punch you for ruining my plans'.

Mark only remembered at the last moment to thank Geoff, told Snart where he was going, then left the garage. Time to find some company and drinks for the night.

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

Axel was bored. Normally a Trickster being bored lead to all sorts of trouble, but Axel didn't have any of his tricks with him – at least not enough for a decent mess – and he was pretty sure Cold and Wizard would kick him out of the road trip if he brought the cops down on their heads.

And fuck it, he was having more fun on this trip than he'd had in ages. No being the Trickster for now.

Axel still wasn't sure exactly what part of the trip was making it fun. By all rights he should be completely bored out of his mind – and he usually was – but there was just something about being included in the last minute plans that made Axel avoid being as obnoxiously annoying as he could.

It was still good to blow off steam out on the town though. Axel didn't want to piss Cold off enough to risk being thrown out of the car, especially since Cold would likely do it while it was still moving.

He'd tried to palm the driver's adaptor once they reached the garage, but Wizard had caught him and made him put it back. Unfair. So now Axel was on the lookout for an adaptor to acquire. He hadn't decided if he'd be stealing it or paying. It would probably depend on what he found.

Eventually, Axel found a hardware store just closing up and bought an adaptor. He also snagged a few packs of batteries and a coil of wire, but he didn't pay for them on principle. The adaptor had been enough. The store owner just wanted Axel out so he could close up and go home.

Axel decided it would be a good idea to have a look around for a takeaway or other fast food place. Somewhere he could get hot food that wasn't from a roadside dive. There was a reason he liked staying in Keystone and Central, and it wasn't just because that's where the Flashes made their home. Crisps and sweets were all well and good, but sometimes he needed something with a bit more substance.

He was looking around for a place to eat when Axel started recognising the buildings and realised he'd made a loop. This was further reinforced by seeing the truck-driver – John or Grant or something, Axel hadn't been paying that much attention.

“Hello, Axel,” Grant-or-John called over. Axel shrugged to himself and went to see what the guy had to say, there wasn't much else to do.

“Hey,” Axel said.

“Are you going to be alright by yourself?” John-or-Grant asked.

“Yeah,” Axel said, more than a little confused as to why the guy was asking and insulted that he sounded skeptical about it.

“You're still quite young,” the guy said, “And no one will think badly of you if you need to ask for help. I was speaking to your father and –”

“Wait. My father?” Axel repeated. As far as he knew his dad wasn't anywhere near this region. But then he didn't know where his dad was full stop. So what the hell was this guy on about?

“Sorry, I know you're trying to keep it quiet, but it's fairly obvious,” the guy said.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Axel asked.

John-or-Grant looked a little confused. “Mark and Len, they're your adoptive parents, right?”

Axel wasn't sure what to get riled up about. First of all, adoptive parents? He was the Trickster, he didn't need adult supervision. Second, it was fucking gay having two dudes for parents. Third, he was the fucking Trickster and parents shouldn't be anywhere near him. Forth, how the hell did anyone think that Wizard and Cold were ever given the chance to adopt?

“What makes you say that?” Axel asked, genuinely baffled. If he'd had his tricks on him, Axel would've been done with the conversation already, but they were buried at the bottom of his bag.

He was totally graffiti-ing the hell out of the garage later that night though.

“I can't see any other reason for you to all be on vacation together,” John-or-Grant shrugged.

“Huh,” Axel said. It probably would look suspicious as hell to a civilian if he wasn't related to at least one of the older Rogues. Time for a change of subject, “Hey, you know any good takeaways around here?”

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

Honestly, Mark had expected this to happen days ago.

Axel's whining had become just a little too much and Snart had kicked him out before they left town. Mark's last memory of the kid was of him watching the car drive away with a hangdog expression clear on his face.

Mark left it an hour before he commented – not out of any real respect for the situation, more because it had taken that long for Snart's grip on the wheel to loosen from lethal to almost fatal.

“The kid had a point.”

The car screeched to a halt. Mark took the dashboard to the face; he'd have a wicked bruise on his right cheekbone in a few hours.

“Get out.”

The words were spoken tersely and with no room for argument. However, Mark was a Rogue and a Rogue was nothing if he wasn't prepared to face the impossible.

“I thought you said Rogues don't run,” Mark said, “And here you are, avoiding the facts.”

“Get the fuck out!”

Mark picked up his wand and got out of the car. They weren't too far from civilization, it wasn't like he'd have trouble finding somewhere to stay.

“Coward,” Mark got in, just before he slammed the door shut.

He got a mouthful of dust for his insult as the car sped away. He spat on the ground and briefly considered hitting the car with lightning or something. He decided against it when he remembered all his books were still in there.

Maybe this trip had actually gotten to Mark somewhat. Normally he would've struck first, thought later.

Calling the wind to carry him, Mark set off back the way they came.

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

Axel was sat crossed-legged on a roof when Mark found him. Upon closer inspection, Mark noticed that the brat was surrounded by cans of spray-paint.

“Got a picture in mind?” Mark asked as he landed on the rooftop.

Surprise flitted across Axel's face, but it was quickly replaced with a mulish anger. Mark didn't blame him and took a seat opposite.

“Got a place picked out?” Mark tried again.

“That garage,” Axel replied.

“Is this because I stopped you stealing that adapter?” Mark asked, “Because that's a bit petty, even for us.”

“Hardly 'us',” Axel muttered.

“It was going to happen eventually,” Mark said with a shrug, “Rogues might be made for sticking together, but we're not good at putting up with each other. It keeps us sharp.”

“You know that mechanic thought you were queer?” Axel said, looking up at Mark with a bit of a squint when the sun got in his eyes. Mark could've done something about that, but he didn't feel like it.

“Bastard,” Mark said, but there wasn't much heat in it, “No wonder he was trying to chat me up.”

“No, he thought you were gay with Cold,” Axel corrected, “He thought I was your adopted love-child.”

Mark spluttered for a long moment, then finally gave in and laughed. That had to be the last impression they left, surely.

“That's why you're going to graffiti the building?” Mark asked.

“Yeah,” Axel shrugged, “It's pretty gay if someone assumes you grew up with two dads, y'know?”

“As opposed to actively being assumed to be gay enough to adopt a child with another man?”

“Shut up,” Axel said, hunching his shoulders up, “You wanna help?”

“Why not,” Mark decided.

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

Neither Mark nor Axel were really artists, so the graffiti ended up mostly being a clashing mess of colour and patterns that looked similar to what would happen if Jesse and Bivolo had teamed up.

“So what d'we do now?” Axel asked through a mouthful of the noodles he'd picked up at a nearby Chinese restaurant, “I'm not looking to stop in a pathetic town like this.”

“I'm going to head down the road,” Mark replied, around his own meal of spring rolls, “There's a chance Len didn't get too much further.”

“You think he's waiting for us?” Axel asked, hope clear beneath incredulity.

“No,” Mark said, “But I know Len and he's probably broken the car again.”

Axel frowned, but decided against commenting. He scrambled onto Mark's back when they reached the town outskirts and Mark pulled them both away with the wind.

It was always unbalancing, having someone else being swept along with the wind, and Mark nearly dropped the brat more than once – which, at the high-speeds they were travelling at, would have meant instant death. However, it never actually happened and Mark was even more convinced that Axel was secretly part monkey.

An hour or two later, they came across the car parked on the wayside and abandoned. Mark shrugged at Axel's confused look and started skirting around in widening circles to find Len.

“Well shit, you did come back.”

Len was leaning against a tree, smoking. Half a carton's worth of cigarette butts littered the ground at his feet.

“Couldn't go on without us?” Mark asked with a lopsided smirk.

Len took a deep inhale. “Wasn't goin' back for you either, remember.”

“Hell of a lot easier having targets for anger, isn't it?” Mark said, “That's why no matter how productive we can be on our own, Rogues always end up sticking together.”

“Fuckin' parasites,” Len said darkly, “You pick up the brat?”

“He's around.”

Len dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. Without waiting to see if Mark was following, he stormed off back to the car.

Axel had been looking under the bonnet while he was waiting, but quickly shut it and wiped oil-stained hands on his trousers when Len and Mark approached. It was surprisingly easy to read the apprehension on his face and Mark was beginning to understand why the brat used to wear his mask constantly back in Keystone.

“You gonna be a pain in the ass again?” Len asked, pulling out the car keys and tossing them to Mark.

“It's in the job description,” Axel said cockily. Good that he was showing some backbone, but he could've picked a better time.

Len snorted. “Retired.”

“On vacation,” Axel corrected, “At least as far as I'm concerned.”

“You're on thin ice,” Len said with a bit of a snarl, “Mess up again and I'm not waiting for you to catch up.”

“Gotcha, Cap,” Axel said with a mocking parody of a salute.

Mark had to repress a smile as he got into the driver's seat. Rogues.

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

Mark was driving when an all-too-familiar red blur shot past the car. He swore and slammed on the brakes. The seatbelts stopped Mark from breaking his nose on the steering wheel and Len from smashing face-first against the dashboard. A thump and a yelp from the seats behind told them that Axel still believed in living dangerously. The car stalled.

“What the fuck?” Len hissed, rubbing at his chest where the seatbelt had caught him.

“Flash,” Mark said, reaching down next to his seat for the weather wand.

“Don't,” Len said, sharply, “Restart the car and keep going. There's no way he knows we're here.”

Even so, as Mark twisted the key in the ignition, Len took his cold-gun out from the glovebox and held it at the ready between his knees.

“You sure you don't want me to throw something out the window at him?” Axel asked, pulling the seat down to get to his tricks in the boot.

“No, keep things quiet,” Len ordered.

The atmosphere in the car was extremely tense for the next thirty minutes down the motorway. Mark hadn't tried to be anything approaching stealthy in years. He wasn't entirely sure he remembered how to look inconspicuous.

That was probably something he should remedy.

Thankfully the red blur didn't return and everyone gradually relaxed. Axel finally thawed out his arm from when he made a bit much noise and Len had been a little trigger happy.

“How has no one gotten frostbite from being in the same team as you?” Axel groused, poking at cold, but un-frostbitten, flesh.

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

Part Two

The Professor's Army - Art

2013-05-30T11:35:56Z

As part of the RoguesBang, I acted as an artist for LiaBrown and her story, The Professor's Army.

Link to fic: http://dillonmania.livejournal.com/7875.html
Link to masterpost: http://roguesbang.livejournal.com/5930.html

To give a rough premise of the story: Professor Zoom (Eobard Thawne) has gone back in time to kidnap the Rogues when they were children. He then plans to train these children up to help him commit crimes and take down the Flash.

The Alphas:

On the relevance to the plot: Thawne splits the children into two groups. The 'better' ones become the Alphas (from left to right we have: Pied Piper aka Hartley Rathaway, Dr Alchemy aka Al Desmond, Mirror Master aka Sam Scudder, Captain Cold aka Len Snart, Weather Wizard aka Mark Mardon, Mr Wykeham their mentor, and The Top aka Roscoe Dillon). Being the 'superior' group, the Alphas are dressed in Zoom's own colours.
On drawing: With this picture and the next, I drew out the individuals by hand then took a photo and traced over it in Inkscape. Except for Sam, who I decided to do fully in Inkscape, but it took me a lot longer to get a sensible skeleton down than pencil sketches, so I didn't do it again.

The Betas:

On the relevance to the plot: The other children were relegated to being the 'inferior' Betas (left to right we have: Mr Gausbert their mentor, Rainbow Raider aka Roy Bivolo, Trickster aka James Jesse, Heat Wave aka Mick Rory, Captain Boomerang aka George Harkness, Golden Glider aka Lisa Snart, and Mirror Master aka Evan McCullouch).
On drawing: While the last picture managed to focus quite well on the emotions of the children (I think so anyway), this one is looking at their use of equipment. I'll admit it was meant to be closer to the last one, but once I'd drawn James in the air I realised Lisa should be too, then she wasn't looking at the camera and well... it just carried on from there. The Betas aren't really meant to be any happier than the Alphas, but they've got less pressure on them and a laxer mentor, so they can probably get away with a little more fun from time to time.

Cribi Infiltration:

On the relevance to the plot: This is a moment from the Alphas' first mission, Zoom sends them to steal a Cribi. Mark takes out the security system, Sam takes out the robots, and Roscoe grabs the prize. Sam's arm is darkened because they're in 'stealth mode'.
On drawing: You can probably tell that this was the last thing I ended up drawing and cut a few corners because the deadline was fast approaching (hence why you can't see any of the kids and the robot's fairly simplistic). I started sketching this in MyPaint with a tablet, but I'm still not very used to tablets, so the basic skeleton ended up needing a lot of work when I switched back to Inkscape.

So, all in all, I quite enjoyed the RoguesBang and wouldn't mind doing another one (once I've had some downtime from this anyway).

A Million Petty Annoyances

2013-05-20T17:51:40Z

Title: A Million Petty Annoyances
Words: 960
Characters: All prosecutors except Manfred von Karma
Summary: It's not easy being the chief prosecutor, especially when you don't really understand how things work.

AN: I know the timeline doesn't work, it's just a silly thing. For the Phoenix Wright kink meme http://pw-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/884.html?thread=183156#cmt183156

----------

Chief Prosecutor Unwyn Sless sat in his car in the underground parking lot beneath the Prosecutor's Office and wondered what was going to go wrong for him today. Back in his home country his luck had never been this bad, but all of last week, things had just been going... wrong.

Monday, he'd been stopped in the hall for a chat by Prosecutor Godot. The man was easy enough to talk to, but he insisted that Unwyn drink coffee while doing so. Which hadn't been a problem until Unwyn spent the next four hours on the toilet.

(Godot insisted that he wouldn't stoop so low as to lace the dark, bitter delight that is coffee with anything, it was just that some people couldn't handle the strength he was used to. And the fact that he'd been assigned on a case against his former employer, Attorney Grossberg, had nothing to do with the extra-strong brew.)

Tuesday, Unwyn had caught Prosecutor Edgeworth on the way in and started what would hopefully be a long conversation about the next cases Edgeworth would be handling. Unfortunately for Unwyn, Edgeworth didn't even look at the elevators and instead started climbing the stairs. All twelve flights.

After getting winded by the third story, Unwyn made the mistake of asking Edgeworth why he didn't take the elevator. The resulting sob story made Unwyn take Edgeworth off all the cases he'd intending on putting him on and promise to give him his choice of any case he wanted.

("It wasn't as though he was going to let me anywhere near a difficult case otherwise," Edgeworth said to Franziska later, "Apparently he thinks that I've been doing nothing abroad and wants to ease me back into things gently.")

Wednesday, Unwyn made the mistake of interrupting Prosecutor von Karma when she was talking to someone on the phone (specifically, he wanted to know who exactly she was talking to, since the number of outside calls made by von Karma had increased significantly over the past month). Instead of putting the other person on hold, von Karma didn't break the flow of her conversation as she made it clear that her whipping skills were as good as ever.

Unwyn thought that there surely had to be some kind of rule against whipping the chief prosecutor, but he didn't want to bring it up while he was still within whip range.

("If such a foolishly foolish fool believes I, the prodigy, cannot get my work perfectly finished and talk to whomever I wish at the same time, he brings such a punishment upon himself with his foolhardy foolish actions," Franziska told Adrian, the phone clamped between her shoulder and ear while she signed off a document.)

Thursday, Unwyn had made it to lunch without a single incident. He was getting very nearly hopeful that today was going to be fine when an earsplitting racket started up. Shoulders slumped, Unwyn made his way to the source of the cacophony.

Prosecutor Gavin's office was rather centrally located, yet Unwyn didn't run into anyone else on his way there. It took several minutes of knocking on the door and shouting for Gavin for the noise to cut off and Gavin to stick his head out.

In exchange for more flexible working hours, Gavin agreed to stop his band from practicing in the prosecutor's office. Unwyn made his way back to his own office with his ears still ringing and seriously considering Gavin's request for a soundproof office.

(Down the hall, Godot took off the noise-canceling headphones he'd been given that morning and decided that Klavier was owed at least two cups of coffee.)

("He's acting like being young means I have to be told when to go to bed," Klavier groused to his band just before they plugged in the amps, "'Get here on time.' 'Hand in your case files.' Achtung, it's enough to make you go mad.")

Friday, Unwyn spent a good ten minutes staring at a conversation happening between Prosecutors Godot, Edgeworth, von Karma, and Gavin. He wasn't imagining it, they weren't speaking English.

Von Karma, Unwyn knew, had grown up in Germany, and Gavin threw out random German all the time, but Godot and Edgeworth speaking fluently? Unwyn wished he knew what they were talking about, but he decided against asking when he noticed that von Karma still had her whip.

Unwyn hoped that he could find an English-speaking prosecutor to hand off this incredibly easy case to.

(In actuality, Godot had been speaking Spanish, Franziska German, and Klavier had been mashing up every random foreign phase he knew. Edgeworth had been translating between Franziska and Godot and telling Klavier off for giving him a headache. It had been staged so that none of them would get the case with the obviously-innocent suspect.)

After last week, Unwyn was seriously considering not coming in. But he was chief prosecutor, he couldn't set a bad example for his subordinates. It was a new week, things should start looking up. With one last deep breath, he opened his car door...

...only for it to be torn off by another car parking next to him.

"Oops," Prosecutor Payne said, barely looking sorry, "Must be these ancient glasses of mine. It's been difficult waiting for a new pair to be made after that witness you assigned me knocked my old ones off."

Chief Prosecutor Unwyn Sless rested his head on the steering wheel and wondered if they'd miss him if he transferred back to his home country.

Parseltongue

2013-03-09T11:22:51Z

Does anyone else find it odd that in Harry Potter fanfic parseltongue is regarded as sexy? Let me outline three key points why I think that makes no sense:

1) Your average witch/wizard is going to immediately think Dark Wizard - remember what the dueling club was like when Harry spoke to that snake in CoS. They weren't aroused, they were scared.

2) More specifically, there's a couple of generations worth of witches and wizards who will not only think Dark Wizard, but also Voldemort, considering he was the most recent parselmouth that had actually gone out into the wizarding world. Now, maybe it's just me, but Voldemort is far from sexy.

3) Now, I don't actually have my copy of GoF with me right now, but if I remember correctly, when that caretaker went to see what was going on in the Riddle House and overheard Voldemort and Wormtail, Voldemort's parseltongue was referred to as 'hissing and spitting' to a point that the caretaker wondered if Voldemort was having a seizure. To the general populace, seizures aren't sexy.

So yeah, parseltongue, not sexy in my book.

Aftermath and Consequences

2013-02-07T11:13:43Z

It's all Wright's fault.

Title: Aftermath and Consequences
Words: 3964
Characters: Miles Edgeworth, Maya Fey, Phoenix Wright
Summary: It's all Wright's fault, you've got to keep telling yourself that. Edgeworth/Maya.
Warnings: Non-explicit sex

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

But then, isn't everything that happens to you nowadays?

Wright was involved in a traffic accident and is now laying not ten feet away in a mess of bandages, tubes, and wires. It's a pitiful sight, and that's why you're sitting in the hallway outside rather than in his room with him. Something burns in the back of your throat when you look at him and you can't bear it.

Wright's assistant is in the chair next to you, sniffling to herself softly. Perhaps she can't stand to look at him either. She'd been crying full-out when you first arrived, but, after going through most of the box of tissues you bought her from the hospital gift shop, she's calmed down enough.

You've read over the report – a medical one, not an autopsy one, and so help the men involved if it turns into an autopsy report – so many times that it's burned in the back of your eyelids. You'll be prosecuting those responsible two days from now, so you need to know all the details. It's important to get it right.

You ignore the niggling voice that tells you that you would have read the report even if you hadn't been involved in the case.

Visiting hours have been over for some time, but you're only just now being asked to leave. Maybe it's because Wright's assistant has stopped sobbing any time a doctor or nurse approaches. She's probably fearing the worse and a small part of you can't help but be grateful that she's expressing what your numb body can't.

You offer her a lift home. It's only when you pull out of the hospital car park that you realise you don't know where she lives. She asks that you drop her off at the office. His office. It feels like a bad idea, but you don't know where else to let her out.

You know the way to his office. The traffic is sparse at this time of night, but still not sparse enough for your liking. How can people be so blasé and be partying when... when...

But then, they don't know him. The world turns on for everyone even when it feels like it should have stopped for one or two.

You're not sure what prompts you to stop the engine running and accompany her up to the office. Maybe it's the desperate eyes she turns on you before she gets out of the car. Maybe it's the way her sniffling has increased threefold since the building came into view. Maybe the masochistic side of you wants to see this place, the place he should be, as much as she does.

Whatever the reason, the car locks with an almost too cheerful bleep bleep and the keys are slid into your pocket as you ascend the stairs.

The girl doesn't break down again and you hate how thankful you are for that. She turns a full circle in the middle of the office, taking in everything. She lingers longest facing his desk, but manages to tear her gaze away from it to come and thank you for the ride.

She says there are enough amenities for her to stay the night here. You make sure to tell her she can call you for whatever she needs – you're fairly certain he has your number somewhere in the clutter on his desk – and wish her goodnight.

You find yourself with an armful of gently shaking assistant. You're never entirely sure how to deal with situations like these, but her face is pressed hard enough into your chest that she can't catch your look of utter panic. You manage to put your arms around her in turn without causing her to flinch away or sob more and count it as a minor victory.

Your cravat's probably ruined with tears and snot, but you can't begrudge her for that.

She relaxes and pulls away enough to see your face. Then you're not sure who moves first. Maybe the fact that you've been too long without female company and a woman in your arms, even one that's crying, is enough to tip your head down. Maybe she's pretending that you're him and that's why she's got her eyes closed as she presses up on tiptoes. Maybe it's both and neither.

Bad reasons or no, your first kiss with Maya Fey is sloppy and bitterly salty with her tears.

You find her medium garb as difficult as she finds your layers and cravat. She gives a wet snort when you finally give up on her and gently slap her hands away to undress yourself. She's naked quicker than you, but then you've got far more layers to deal with.

Your jacket's on the floor somewhere with your shoes, but your shirt and waistcoat are only unbuttoned and you haven't even started on your pants when she's pressing against you again, demanding more kisses with an insistent mouth. She feels delicate under your hands as they roam her back and hips, letting her get used to your touch before moving elsewhere. You stop touching her only to let her push the clothes from your shoulders and let them fall to the floor.

You pick her up by her thighs and press her into the office sofa. The blanket over the back gives the impression that it's been used as a bed several times in the past, though maybe not for this particular use of bed.

She wraps her legs around you eagerly and moans when you grind against her. She's smaller than you, so it's easy to reach her mouth with yours, even though it's a shame to quiet the noises she's making.

You can't wait any longer and sit back up on your knees to finally push your trousers and boxers down. There might have been a flash of uncertainty on her face, but she's quick enough to pull you back down on top of her. You ignore the part of your mind that screaming about precautions, she's a girl so there's pregnancy to consider – you find it difficult to imagine her on any kind of birth control – or STDs – even though you can't picture her with any, which is a stupid, stupid thought to have, since that's how they're spread so easily – as you push into her.

What you don't ignore is her wince and the flash of pain that passes over her face.

You pull out and sit back on your heels. She's up beside you almost instantly, asking – begging – you not to stop. You don't want to stop either, but you rearrange your legs and her until she's in your lap and can set the pace herself.

She pushes through the pain and you distract both of you by taking her face in your hands and kissing every tear stained inch of it, murmuring softly about how beautiful and brave she is. She shakes her head, but doesn't offer a rebuttal as she moves slowly up and down.

You don't want to think about this being her first time with a man. You don't want to remember how old she is, because she can't even be twenty yet and you've always been old for your years. She's Wright's assistant and deserves far better than a battered couch and you.

You keep kissing her, because you have the horrible feeling you'll lose your nerve if you look at her, but you let your hands explore. Her breasts fit easily in your large hands and she makes encouraging noises when you rub them lightly. It's easier to focus on her noises and you find yourself trying to make her moan more.

You only let your hands drop her her hips once she's moving more comfortably. Your first active thrust up makes her gasp and bite your lip. Her tongue flickers over the cut in apology. She's more prepared for the next one and only kisses you harder when you pull her down to meet your thrust. There's a rough scrape of teeth with the next one and you find yourself glad you've pulled your tongue back into your own mouth.

She breaks off the kiss with a soft cry and the beginnings of a shiver in her legs. She buries her face in your shoulder and neck instead, biting soft flesh as the shiver morphs into quake. You don't let up and she lets out a loud keening noise, muffled only by your shoulder, as the quake turns into a shudder that racks her whole body.

You bury your own face in her thin shoulder as her body clenches around you. It's been too long for you to just shrug it off and by the time her shudders have turned back into intermittent shivers you've pulled her down hard and finished.

You both stay like that, just breathing, until she pulls her head up enough to kiss the side of your jaw. You let your own head fall back and this time you realise that the kisses are salty from more tears than just hers.

You whisper an apology when she winces as you pull her off you. She kept the box of tissues you bought her and you thankfully find them nearby. The last thing you wanted was to have to stumble through an unfamiliar office for something to clean up with.

She looks vulnerable, sitting on the couch with her arms tightly wrapped around legs pressed against her chest. Her gaze is pleading and instead of getting dressed and returning to your own home to worry in piece, you find yourself kicking off the tangle of pants around your ankles and finally removing your socks before sitting next to her and pulling the blanket off the back of the sofa and around both of you.

She curls up against you instead, her arms wrapping around your chest and her legs across your lap. She's warm and shaking. You can feel a wet patch of her tears against your skin and you pray that it's for Wright, because you don't want to think about what else it could be.

Your own tears have already dried up. You hold her tight and let her cry for both of you.

You both eventually fall asleep, though you start awake several times in the night when she shifts in her sleep. Morning comes too early in the form of sunlight peering in through half-open blinds. You wish that you'd had the foresight to close them yesterday, there's no telling who could have pointed a camera at the pair of you last night.

She wakes up when you get up to close the blinds. She rubs her eyes and yawns widely, until she catches sight of you, where upon she chokes and blushes a bright red. She starts to stammer, stopping only when you kneel in front of where she's sitting and press a soft kiss to the side of her mouth.

You murmur that it will be okay and tell her you're taking a shower. Thankfully you spotted it earlier when you used the toilet and you gather up your discarded and wrinkled clothes before heading for the bathroom.

You're halfway through the door where there's a rush of footsteps and she pulls at your shoulder so she can turn you around and kiss you again. And if last night felt like it was for him, this morning is for just the pair of you. You're seeing her clearly now.

You mutter that this is a bad idea, she just smiles and says it will be fun anyway. Your clothes end up discarded outside the bathroom as she pushes you as much as you pull her into the tiny bathroom and even tinier shower. You thank goodness that she's small, certainly not the size of her sister, as you have only just enough room to press her against the wall of the tiny cubicle and even then you keep knocking your elbow off the soap shelf.

She's stretched up on tiptoe with one leg hooked over your hip. The water's warmth is nothing compared to hers and this time there are words with the noises. Sometimes praise, sometimes a plea for something just a little different. It feels better, more relaxed, more like it's meant to than whatever pity had driven both of you last night.

Neither of you last much longer than you did last time, which is probably for the best, since the hot water runs out as you're finishing up. She doesn't seem bothered by the change in temperature, but then you can vaguely recall something about meditating under a freezing waterfall.

You wash up quickly and let her spend longer under the cold spray as you use the only towel to dry off. She dries herself as you get dressed, trying to press the wrinkles out of your clothes with your hands and failing. You give up and tell yourself they would have gotten like this anyway, since, sex or no, you would have been there for her and likely not gotten home anyway.

The night's rest and the shower have washed away the tear marks from her face and if you weren't looking for it you wouldn't have noticed the uncertainty under the bright smile she gives to you. You don't know what to say, so you end up offering breakfast. The uncertainty vanishes in an instant and you fear for your eardrums at the cheerful yell she gives.

It's still early, but you find a decent-enough looking café that's open and let her pick whatever she wants from the menu.

You're not sure where someone of her size can fit all that food.

You excuse yourself while she's still eating and head into the pharmacy just down the road that's only opening up now. Thankfully you find what you're looking for easily enough and return to your tea and danish before she finishes her own food and starts eyeing them up.

You pass the bottle over, then feel extremely awkward explaining exactly what morning-after pills actually do. By the end of your explanation she's a red as you are, but dutifully takes one and you breathe a sigh of relief. You're not sure what Wright would have to say if you impregnated his assistant.

You leave her at the hospital, with some money so that she can buy herself food, and head into work. Your rumpled clothing gets you fewer glances than you thought it would, but then it's early and you've slept in your clothes while researching an important case before. You're just glad that you could tie your cravat in a way that doesn't show her tear stains.

The day passes almost unrealistically normally. Wright's case feels like any other; his name in the wrong field on the report is the only thing that makes it different. It's open and shut, the suspect has already confessed. You spend some of the day out with the police on the crime scene, calculating if there was any ambiguity that could lessen the suspect's sentence. You want the maximum possible and when you catch yourself thinking this you consider handing the case over to another prosecutor, one that doesn't have a vested interest in it.

You push on anyway and spend the rest of the afternoon going over similar cases to find a precedent.

You finally stop reading for the day when your stomach's arguments for food – real food, not just the biscuits the secretary leaves with your tea – become too much. You're confident you've got everything you need for the trial tomorrow and take only the case report out with you.

You get a surprise when you reach the underground parking lot and find her waiting by your car. She's sitting on one of the oil drums, swinging her feet as she hums a tune you recognise.

Her face lights up when she sees you. That hasn't happened since you were a child. It suddenly feels like a really bad idea to let her hug you and start telling you how much better the doctors think Wright's doing, however she does all that before you can even begin to form a protest.

You find yourself offering dinner and her smile widens even further. She skips – oh god she's so young – over to the passenger side door of your car and you wonder outloud how she even knew which car was yours. She laughs and you notice that everyone else has left the offices already and the only other vehicle in the lot is a maintenance van in the visitors section.

She talks about everything and nothing through the drive to the restaurant and through the meal. You've never been good at small talk and the unease sitting in the pit of your stomach isn't helping. You choke on your half-glass of wine when she pulls a face at a sip of hers and you remember that she's not actually old enough to drink.

She's young and she's his assistant and you shouldn't –

She turns serious for a moment when she asks you if she can be your legal aide in the trial tomorrow. You're not sure if it's a good idea, she's used to Wright and being on the side of the defendant. However, she wears you down and you finally agree, though only after you've extracted a promise from her that if you have reason to tell her to leave the courtroom, she'll leave.

She's oddly shy when you leave the restaurant – and you're not entirely sure she isn't part squirrel and has secretly stored all that food for later – and you realise what she wants. You shouldn't be encouraging this, from either side, but you can't bring yourself to tell her no.

There isn't sex this time. However, even though you're in your own bed this time, you find it harder to fall asleep than you did last night. She falls asleep quickly, one arm stretched across your chest and her head pillowed on your shoulder. You've got your own arm looped around her waist and it should be a loving position that those involved are comfortable with.

It is and you are, and that's the problem.

Dawn comes too slowly and you're jolted awake by the much more familiar sound of your alarm. She groans when you stretch out to turn it off and sits up, her hair messy from where she's been laying on it.

She brightens the instant she sets her eyes on you properly and you find yourself muttering about a shower and trying to escape from her as quickly as possible. She nods, still sleepy, and stretches as she lays back down in the nest of covers. You watch her, then feel dirty for doing so.

You leave the water temperature low and go over today's case in your head. By the time you're dressed you're feeling much more like yourself. You hear the shower start up again as you put the kettle on and forcibly ignore the images that spring to mind.

Thankfully when she comes down for breakfast, she's dressed and has sorted her hair for the day. It's easy to make small talk when the topic in question is today's trail. You've almost convinced yourself that things are back to normal, then she pulls you down for a 'good luck' kiss just before you leave.

You're doomed.

You're grateful that it's a very simple case and the defence attorney's an idiot. You keep getting distracted by her standing next to you behind the prosecutor's bench and any reasonable defence attorney would have pressed through the holes in the witness' testimonies with far too little resistance from you.

The trial's over within an hour and instead of taking the paperwork back to your office and starting on a new case, you find yourself giving into her wishes to go and visit Wright first. No one looks twice at you for it, but then everyone thinks you're best friends with him – and it's not that far off the truth, to be honest, but that's mostly for lack of any other relationships in your life than to a particular bond shared with him – and they seem to think it's natural for you to be visiting him.

According the to nursing staff, he woke up a few times in the night, but was barely conscious even then, though he's apparently getting more and more aware each time. She looks dismayed that she wasn't here for it and thankfully the nurse points out that she wouldn't have been here because of the visiting hours anyway and you don't get blamed.

Wright opens his eyes not five minutes after you both enter the room. He's looking a lot better than the last time you saw him, but that could just be because sunlight is coming in through the windows rather than him being lit by the ghastly fluorescent lights the hospital has. He manages to recognise you both and croak out your names.

Then he blinks in surprise and stretches his mouth into as wide a grin as his bruised face can manage.

"...So..." he rasps out, looking directly at you, "...Maya..."

You clutch your arm and look away defensively. Stupid Wright and his stupidly amazing ability to see exactly what you want to hide from him, in the courtroom or out of it. He laughs and it quickly turns into a cough. She's there with a cup of water with a straw before you can even think of it and you feel a stab of pain that isn't your heart breaking. It isn't.

"...Hey..." he catches your attention again, "...Good f-" he coughs, "...good for you..." he pauses and this time his smile's friendly rather than teasing, "...My blessings..."

She's looking confused, but he's looking as serious as you've ever seen him. She starts to explain to him everything he's missed. You mutter your thanks and make an excuse about paperwork to leave. She stays, but this time the pain is less.

You really do have paperwork to do and busy yourself in your office until long after everyone else has left. You've got court again tomorrow for a double-homicide and find plenty to occupy yourself with.

You're surprised and far more than simply pleased when you find her waiting by your car again. It's almost worse now that you've been given permission to feel this at all. Still, you invite her out for dinner again and the smile she gives you makes you feel... happy.

Damn Wright, it's all his fault anyway.

Burnout

2013-01-11T14:19:20Z

Title: Burnout
Words: 4413
Characters: Tooth, Bunny
Summary: Tooth has to deal with an exhausted Bunny, and convince him that he doesn't have to wear himself to the bone to get Easter back.

AN: For the Rise of the Guardians kink-meme http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/1511.html?thread=663015#cmt663015. More of a day-to-day fic than my last one and not in the same 'verse.

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It would've been enough, Tooth thought, with a roll of her eyes, if he'd just stopped at Easter.

Not that it was her place to say how Spring should work, but even she – she who wasn't connected with any particular season – could tell that it was a losing battle. Even her fairies – who, though loyal and hard-working, weren't exceptional at independent thought – sighed at the overabundance of fresh growth and flowers around the tooth palace.

I already believe! Tooth thought indignantly.

Tooth was usually too busy to appreciate her fellow Guardians' efforts, be they snow or dreams, but this was right in her face and downright insulting really. Bunny was taking this too far and since North and Jack were likely to just get him in a rage and Sandy was really far too busy, it looked like it was up to Tooth to sort this out.

Like I haven't got enough on my plate.

With one last frustrated sigh at the plants attempting to overtake the palace, Tooth set out with a small collection of helpers in tow.

----------

It took Tooth longer than she liked to finally pin Bunny down. Admittedly she'd made a few stops in towns on the way and had gotten a little distracted with a child who'd taken a baseball to the face and lost half his baby teeth in one go.

Even with the innate sense of teeth, both baby and adult, in the world, the search for Bunny was confusing. If he was in the warren she'd know, but he wasn't in a consistent place.

Eventually Tooth lucked out. Of course the extra delay had only strengthened her anger at Bunny. He shouldn't be that had to get ahold of so soon after they'd had so much trouble with Pitch. What if there was another situation that needed all the Guardians to deal with it?

“You'd better have a good explanation for this,” Tooth said sternly, flitting down to where Bunny was resting.

Bunny twitched an ear, but otherwise didn't appear to notice Tooth there. Oh, that was it!

“Don't you ignore me!” Tooth snapped, “I've had it up to here with your Spring! And don't think I'm the only one!”

Bunny turned his head to look at Tooth. There was a long silence before he spoke and when he did each word was both oddly quick and deliberate.

“There needs to be more belief.”

“You need to stop this, Bunny.”

In a blink he'd vanished. Tooth hadn't seen a tunnel open or even a flash of fur as Bunny ran away. She shivered as a chill crept over her wings. Something wasn't quite right here.

Thinking about it, now her anger had calmed somewhat, Bunny had been oddly flickery. An inconsistent red or blue edging to his fur, like he wasn't really there.

That's not right, Tooth thought, even if he'd lost believers, Bunny shouldn't be fading out of existence.

Bit by bit, Tooth's fury was replaced by a niggling doubt and worry as she started her search for Bunny again. This time she focused on her fellow Guardian and her fellow Guardian alone, entrusting the collection of teeth and returning of memories to her helpers.

Tooth chased Bunny down, pushing her wings to their limit to try and keep up. She'd never be able to catch him by just following, but she could be smart about this...

----------

Spots danced in front of Bunny's eyes as he ran. The edges of his vision keep sparking black and his breaths already coming in short gasps. He should've eaten more when he stopped earlier, but Tooth had threatened to stop him and if he took another break now, he wasn't going to get everywhere he should and that couldn't happen.

The world blurred blue as he got faster and faster. Forest, then savannah, then beach, then water, then fields. It all flew past beneath his feet. Spring right on his tail, pulling fresh life from everything his paws touched.

He had to keep going. Had to keep going. Had to keep going. Had to –

ROPE!

Bunny tripped over the rope that was suddenly pulled taut before his feet. He flew several metres, ears over tail, throwing up mud and plants everywhere until he came to a complete stop upside-down against a tree.

Bunny groaned. The world went black as something slipped over his face. His tired, tired body took advantage of the pause and darkness and lost consciousness.

----------

“Well done girls,” Tooth said, tying the top of the sack of Easter Bunny closed, “Let's get back home.”

By the time Tooth reached her palace she was flagging. Carrying Bunny a quarter of the way around the world was tiring work, even with the stops she made to rest and send out more of her fairies to the children.

The palace had guest rooms for all the other Guardians – with proper dental supplies in each of course. There was even a cool, sunless one for Jack that had been included when Tooth had to rebuild the palace over the last year. Bunny's was near the ground, with a view that took in the bright plants and warm light of the outdoors – or it would if said plants hadn't been force-grown into covering the window.

Well, it's his own fault, Tooth decided. Nevertheless she asked a few fairies to try and tackle the vines, so the sun could shine in when it was bright in the sky.

“Now, listen girls,” Tooth called, a small swarm of fairies fluttered over to hear what she had to say, “Bunny is not allowed to leave this room, understood? The minute he wakes up I want to know.”

There was a collection of nodding and humming from the fairies, before they flittered around the room, taking up guard posts to watch over their captive.

Despite how tired she was, Tooth pushed herself on. There were still teeth to collect and things to sort out for her friend.

----------

Tooth was taking a short nap when a fairy flew up to her in a hurry, squeaking loudly. Tooth sighed at her interrupted sleep and followed the fairy down to Bunny's room. She heard the other Guardian before she saw him.

“Look, just – ow! Stop it! Just let me out and – ow! Right, I've had it!”

Tooth fluttered into the room to see Bunny swiping at her fairies. The fairies were mostly hanging back, but whenever Bunny tried to advance, they drove him back with lots of pecking of their sharp little beaks.

Good girls.

“You're awake,” Tooth said.

Bunny turned to look at her, surprised; he hadn't noticed her come in. He was usually more observant than that.

“Can you tell your sheilas to leave me alone?” Bunny asked, trying to take a step, but being driven back with a flurry of feathers and beaks, “Stop it, you bloody –”

“Bunny,” Tooth interrupted before he could curse her fairies further, “They're only trying to make sure you get some rest.”

“I don't need rest,” Bunny snapped, keeping a wary eye on the fairy guard, “I need to be out there.”

“You're not leaving until you calm down and get some rest,” Tooth said forcefully.

Bunny took a step back, eyes wide. “Crikey, no need to get mad as a cut snake, Tooth”

“No need?” Tooth asked, balling her fists, “Look what's happened to my palace!”

Bunny looked at the vines twisting over the window and winced. “Might've gone a bit overboard there. Sorry, Tooth.”

“It's not just my place,” Tooth said, folding her arms to keep herself from grabbing and shaking Bunny, “It's all over the world. We could let it go on Easter, but that was a week ago!”

“Really?” Bunny asked, sounding a little too pleased, “Thought it was longer than that. Must've been going at quite a pace.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Tooth snapped.

Bunny flinched again, which wasn't right. Tooth moved forward and put her hand on his chest. His heart was beating quickly, quicker than it should, and she could feel his ribs too well through fur that had seen better days.

“Get some rest,” Tooth ordered, pushing Bunny back toward the bed, “And if I find you took so much as one step out of bed, you'll be sorry.”

Bunny settled down into the soft earth and grasses that made up his bed in the corner. Tooth watched him carefully, he'd acquiesced to that far too easily.

“If you need anything, like food or blankets, my fairies can provide it for you,” Tooth said, “And once you're feeling better, we can talk.”

“I'm feelin' fine,” Bunny grumbled.

Tooth gave him a hard look. “Don't make me bring Sandy into this,” she warned.

“I'm restin', I'm restin',” Bunny sighed, curling up further in the earth.

“Bring him what he needs,” Tooth told her fairies, “But don't let him out of the room.”

There was a mutter from Bunny as Tooth left the room, but she ignored it to focus on the teeth that had to be collected.

----------

A niggling feeling caused Tooth to check back on Bunny an hour later, only to find several distressed fairies flittering about and squeaking despondently. Most of them were clutching carrots or other vegetables, and three had a blanket held between them.

And there was no sign of Bunny except a few pieces of leftover carrot.

He's going to be the death of me.

“Girls! What happened?” Tooth asked.

Piece by piece, Tooth got the whole story. Bunny had sent off the fairies a few at a time to get him food, until they were all out searching for something. Then he'd obviously slipped out the window and ran off.

“Alright, girls, it's not your fault,” Tooth said, soothing the more hysterical ones, “I should have been more specific. Don't worry, we'll find him.”

We will find him.

----------

It was easy enough to follow the trail of fresh growth, even if Tooth would've had no chance whatsoever at pushing through it herself. It left a bright smear on the landscape beneath as she flew over.

Tooth was following it as fast as her wings could carry her when the trail suddenly stopped somewhere in the South American jungles. Praying that Bunny hadn't decided to return to the warren, Tooth fluttered down to ground level.

Bunny was still on the surface, but that wasn't a good thing.

He was barely visible under the thick grasses and flowering plants that had grown around him while unconscious. Considering the way he was lying, it was far more likely that he'd passed out while running than actively chosen to stop here.

Tooth sighed. What are we going to do with you?

She frowned as she looked closer. Bunny was shivering despite the humidity of the rainforest, a fine tremor that kept his fur on end and was too strong for anyone who wasn't stood next to Jack when he was in a playful mood.

A panicked squeaking came from the fairies that had followed Tooth. She looked up quickly to see a jaguar cub on a branch, batting at one of the fairies. There was a scrape and Tooth turned to see another cub clawing its way up a tree, obviously intent on going after the fairies too.

“Get out of here, girls,” Tooth ordered, “I'll be right along.”

The cubs whined as their playthings flittered up above the tree canopy. Tooth sighed then froze as a low growl sounded from behind her.

Tooth turned slowly, hoping against hope it was something friendly. She found herself face to face with a much larger jaguar, its teeth bared in a hostile snarl at Tooth.

“You're probably the mother,” Tooth said with an awkward smile, trying to keep her voice soothing, “Your canines are wonderfully sharp.”

Apparently not a fan of compliments, the jaguar pounced at Tooth, who quickly flew out of immediate reach. Given the relatively dense trees in the rainforest, the jaguar could probably get up to Tooth's level without much difficulty, but at least she'd get some warning.

The jaguar didn't look to be that interested in following Tooth, however. Instead it gave a growl that had its cubs scrambling back. It was probably trying to teach them to hunt and had only interceded when a larger threat had presented itself.

The jaguar appeared to lose interest in Tooth and nudged its cubs toward Bunny's sprawled form.

“Oh no you don't!” Tooth said sharply. She glanced around for a weapon and saw a thick branch on the forest floor. Not perfect, but it would do for now.

Not for the first time since putting the blades away, Tooth wished she'd kept her swords on hand. However the image of the Tooth Fairy was more and more becoming an exceptionally benevolent one. She would really have to look into a dagger of some kind when this mess was sorted out, something that wasn't immediately visible or the children that caught sight of her wouldn't believe she really was the Tooth Fairy.

Tooth darted down and hefted the branch off the leaf-littered ground. Unwieldy and a little slimy, but she'd worked with worse.

The first cub to pounce was batted away by Tooth. It gave a whimper, but it was still moving, so Tooth assumed it was fine, if a little stunned. Though truthfully, if it came down to it she'd keep Bunny alive over any wild animal to cross her path.

The second cub, the smaller of the two, backed up against its mother, who snarled at Tooth, displaying a full set of wickedly sharp fangs. Tooth held the branch back, ready to swing when the jaguar made a move rather than flailing wildly with it, which would just get both her and Bunny dead.

The jaguar coiled up, took a moment to decide the most vulnerable part of Tooth, then pounced in a powerfully fluid movement.

As quick as it was, it was still laughably slow compared to what Tooth had been hunting recently. The branch caught the jaguar squarely in the left shoulder, deflecting its pounce into a skittered landing on the forest floor. It snarled, but wasn't putting its full weight on its left forepaw anymore.

With one last growl at Tooth, the jaguar slunk off, its cubs scrambling clumsily after it.

Phew, Tooth let out a sigh and lowered the branch. Bunny still slumbered on, oblivious to how close he'd come to becoming dinner just now.

“You're going to make far more trouble than you're worth one of these days,” Tooth scolded her unconscious friend, “Looks like I'm going to have to do something a smidge more drastic when we get back to the palace.”

With one last sigh at the mess, Tooth dropped the branch and picked up Bunny. She already knew he was far lighter than he should be, but the feeling of bones through his thinning fur was still worrying.

Tooth set off to her palace as fast as she could fly.

----------

Tooth was building tooth-boxes when a muffled noise told her Bunny had woken up. She put the pieces down and turned to face him.

“Tooth?” Bunny said groggily.

He stood up and tried to move. His eyes shot open as his foot encountered resistance.

“What's the bloody idea, Tooth?” Bunny snapped, tugging at the chain around his ankle.

“You need rest,” Tooth said.

“I need to get back out there,” Bunny insisted.

Tooth shoved Bunny and he went down. He stared at her in surprise.

“Stop it,” Tooth said, “Now, since you tricked my fairies, I'm going to be keeping an eye on you.”

“How long are you gonna keep me here?” Bunny demanded.

“Until you're better,” Tooth replied, getting back to work on her tooth-boxes.

“I'm –”

There was a thump. Tooth glanced back to see Bunny unconscious again.

“This might be more serious than I thought,” she muttered as she shifted him back onto the bed.

----------

It was another whole day before Bunny could stay awake long enough to do more than eat everything in sight and pass out again. Tooth kept her vigil, trying not to disturb his rest as she whispered locations of newly lost teeth in need of collecting and individuals' memories wanting to be brought back.

“You really aren't gonna give this up, are you?” Bunny asked around a mouthful of carrot.

“Manners,” Tooth chided. She'd seen enough devastation in the past twenty-four hours to be put off of carrots and most other vegetables for a lifetime.

“Says the sheila who tied me up,” Bunny snorted.

“You know that's not strong enough to hold you,” Tooth said, “Or it couldn't if you were at full strength anyway.”

Bunny gave the chain a vicious yank, but it held firm. He turned a circle, muttering, then plonked himself down on the earthen bed. He was still far too thin and Tooth had noticed more fur littering the room than usual.

“Could at least give me somethin' to do,” Bunny grumbled.

He jumped when Tooth dumped a sack of pieces of tooth-boxes next to him. She dusted off her hands and gave him a satisfied look.

“There's always boxes to be made,” Tooth said brightly.

Bunny peered into the sack, his nose wrinkling at the sight of metal pieces.

“You've got me mixed up with North there, Tooth,” Bunny said, “I don't build things, I make 'em grow.”

“And I collect,” Tooth said, “We all have to do things we don't usually do to make sure our jobs run smoothly. As my guest –”

Bunny snorted.

“As my guest,” Tooth repeated sharply, “It would be nice if you could help out. I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to –”

Bunny snorted again.

“– but I would like you to make an effort and put together some boxes for me,” Tooth finished, taking the high-road and ignoring Bunny's interruptions.

“Maybe if you'd loosen this a bit,” Bunny said, giving his foot – and by extension the chain – a shake.

Tooth rolled her eyes and turned away to start giving instructions to the fairies that had flittered into the room while she'd been talking to Bunny. Behind her, Bunny grumbled, but there was clanking as he started rummaging through the bag.

Tooth hid a smile and quickly directed her fairies out into the world.

----------

Bunny managed to spend an hour assembling tooth-boxes before his exhaustion got the better of him and he curled up to get some more rest. Though there was evening sunlight streaming into the room, he was starting to shiver again.

“M'fine,” Bunny mumbled when Tooth tried to put an extra blanket over him, “Jus' aftershocks.”

“Aftershocks from what?” Tooth asked, tucking him in despite his protests.

“Speed,” Bunny replied, then gave a huge yawn.

Tooth resisted the urge to put her hands in his mouth. There would be time to look at his teeth later.

“Weren't there meant to be pictures of the ankle-biters on those boxes?” Bunny asked sleepily.

“Only when the first tooth is put in,” Tooth replied, “Then the memory of the child creates an image to appear on the boxes and...”

She stopped talking when a soft snore came from Bunny. With a smile, Tooth tucked the blanket around him tighter.

“Goodnight, Bunny.”

----------

“You haven't called in anyone else.”

Tooth jerked out of her doze, automatically tensing up and ready for a fight. It took her a moment to place herself. Bunny's room, that's right.

Bunny was sat up, examining where the chain met the wall. One ear was swivelled around, focusing on Tooth.

“What was that?” Tooth asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“You haven't gotten North or Sandy involved,” Bunny said, not looking away from the chain, “Remind me to thank you for that.”

“Why's that?” Tooth asked, moving over to hover next to Bunny, “I know you and North argue a lot, but he's got everyone's best interests at heart. And Sandy's hardly likely to make a fuss.”

“All the same, I'd prefer to keep this quiet,” Bunny replied, “Last time I sped like that it was Sandy who got me. He made me swear to never do it again.”

“And yet here you are.”

“It's an emergency,” Bunny snapped, shooting Tooth a glare over his shoulder.

Tooth sighed. It could be hard to reason with Bunny when he got like this. She sat back to watch him tug at the chain futilely.

“What do you mean by 'sped'?” Tooth asked after a while, “You mentioned 'speed' wearing you out earlier too.”

Bunny sat back on his haunches and gave Tooth an assessing look. Then he scratched behind his ears, delaying his answer.

“It's... difficult,” Bunny said at length.

“Make it simple.”

“Keep yer feathers on, I'm gettin' there,” Bunny said, not looking at Tooth anymore, “Look, when I say I'm quick, I'm not just sayin' that.”

Tooth waited patiently for him to continue, sensing that she was finally getting somewhere.

“It's hard to go that fast without burnin' out though,” Bunny explained, “Once I kick into top gear, I wear out quick. I have to keep fuelled up and sometimes...”

“Sometimes...?” Tooth prompted, when Bunny didn't say anything.

“Just leave it that there's a reason Sandy made me stop.”

Bunny was looking tired, so Tooth made a note to pick it up later. For now though, she could let him rest; several fairies had reported a lack of correct currency within the palace and had to be sent out to find dropped change. That was always trickier than teeth and memories, since Tooth didn't have an innate sense for money.

----------

“What do you know about time-travel?” Bunny asked out of the blue the next time he was awake.

Bunny was still assembling boxes and didn't look up when he spoke. Tooth, currently taking a short break, took a careful sip of her sweet tea while she mulled over the question. Eventually she shook her head.

“It's not something I'm personally familiar with,” she replied, “If Sandy hadn't told me that The Traveller's story was true, I would've assumed they were only tales.”

“Well that's one way about it,” Bunny said, “The Traveller with his machine or Urashima Tarō and Honi Ha-Ma'agel skipping years forwards. But there's another way... If you can build up enough speed and go faster than light...”

Tooth sucked in a breath through her teeth. “That's why Sandy made you promise never to go that fast.”

“He wasn't too happy with one of me running around at those speeds, let alone half a dozen,” Bunny said, “Last time I was tryin' to expand the warren and prepare for Easter all at once. Which, as you've seen, is a kinda hectic time all on its own. I needed the extra help and nearly ran myself to nothin' tryin' to get it.”

“And you broke your promise,” Tooth said sternly.

Bunny flicked an ear irritably, but he kept his gaze down. “I wasn't goin' that fast.”

“But you were getting close,” Tooth said, “Swear to me that you won't wear yourself out like that again. Sandy might not be able to see everywhere, but my fairies can.”

“I need to get Easter back on track,” Bunny argued.

“Easter, yes,” Tooth said, “The rest of Spring? You're outside your assigned days and, if anything, that's going to hurt Easter.”

“Tooth...”

“Please,” Tooth said, “I don't want to lose you, Bunny. It was a miracle we got Sandy back, but please don't make me go through losing another dear friend.”

It had been scary, Tooth could admit that herself, with no Sandy and the rest of them reduced to barely anything without their usual belief. She could understand Bunny's fear that last Easter would happen all over again, but she wouldn't let him put himself in danger for something that would take time to fix.

There was silence. Then large warm paws covered Tooth's hands where she had them wrapped around her teacup.

“I won't let that happen, Tooth,” Bunny said solemnly, “I swear by the children I won't run myself down that far again.”

“Thank you,” Tooth whispered.

Bunny didn't remove his paws, but he did give the chain on his ankle another shake.

“So, any chance of this bein' taken off?” he asked hopefully.

That startled a laugh out of Tooth, which made Bunny frown. His smile returned quickly enough when Tooth produced a tiny golden key from her decorative crest and unlocked the shackle.

“Ta,” Bunny said, stretching out his leg and giving the place the shackle had sat a good rub.

“Remember,” Tooth said, getting up herself and automatically hovering at eye level, “You're going to do a great job with Easter, just keep it within Easter-time.”

“Gotcha the first time, Tooth,” Bunny said with a roll of his eyes, but his tone was good-natured.

He hopped to the window slowly and leant on the sill. The freshly cut swathes of greenery that Tooth's fairies had only just finished chopping back were plain to see.

“Crikey, I really did a number on the gardens, didn't I?” Bunny muttered, loudly enough for Tooth to hear. The chain hadn't been long enough for him to reach the window and this was the first time he was seeing the full damage after completely coming down from his speed high.

Tooth fluttered over to join him. “It's fixable,” she said, “But you've got a lot of cleaning up and apologising to do.”

“S'pose I do,” Bunny said, “Hey, Tooth... Nah, never mind.”

“What?”

“Forget it.”

“Tell me,” Tooth ordered, “You still owe me.”

“Dirty trick and it won't work forever,” Bunny tutted, “Anyway, I'm not all that fussed to go back to the warren just yet, so could I stay here when I need to nap?”

“I would've thought you'd want to stay as far away from the palace as you could,” Tooth said, somewhat thrown by the request.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Bunny asked, staring intently out of the window.

“Yes of course, you're always welcome here,” Tooth replied.

“Thanks, Tooth.”

Something had changed subtly in the air between them. Tooth wasn't sure how, but she foresaw a lot of fun figuring it out over the next few weeks.

Snowfall

2013-01-04T14:37:25Z

Title: Snowfall
Words: 1819
Characters: Mark Mardon, Evan McCulloch, Axel Walker, Len Snart, Mick Rory
Summary: It's beautiful when it snows in the twin cities, especially when it isn't Mark's fault.

AN: This was for the Flash secret santa on tumblr. My prompt was: "late" era Rogues (Evan, Len, Mark, Axel, Mick, possibly Digger). Mark/Evan, Mark/Len, Mark being a "role model" to Axel. For cooltrainershells. I received this: http://flashsecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/38805415148/poker-night for my own present.

This is set after Flashpoint, but assuming the world went back to how it used to be rather than rebooting.

Warnings: non-explicit sex.

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

It's December in the twin cities. It's been a couple of months since the Central Flash did a run through time and everything's only just settled into place. Things from the wrong time period have stopped falling onto the cities and Flash appears to have his head on straight again.

Unfortunately for the Rogues, the Central Flash being back in the game brings the total number of speedsters up to too many for them to handle in one go. Most of their planning comes down to ways to distract or incapacitate the Flashes, not the score. It's plain annoying and tempers are rising all around.

Mark, of course, is the first to notice the snow falling out the window. He's not responsible and it's beautiful.

Mark just gets up and leaves from the rickety poker table they currently have the plans on. Len's arguing with Mick over something, Evan's busy with his mirrors, and Axel barely pays attention during planning anyway. Mark makes it to the roof without being called back.

It's a good flurry right now. Thick, white, soft snowflakes spiralling down and obscuring everything more than ten feet away. There hasn't been any rain for a few days so it's sticking nicely and will likely stay for a while.

Provided Mark doesn't mess with it.

Already there's the compulsion to interfere. Like seeing a field of unmarked snow, you just have put your footprint on it, sign your name, ruin the perfection. The weather wand buzzes in anticipation in Mark's hand. Sometimes it scares him that it's always ready when he is, but then he's the Weather Wizard, never Mark Mardon. Not any more.

He starts off small, adjusting a few gusts of wind, thickening the fog. He wonders if the Flashes think it's already him. Mark laughs as he sweeps the weather wand up, pulling the wind and snow with it.

"Laughin' on yer own's a wee bit mental, ken?"

Mark turns his head to see Evan watching him from a tarnished chimney pipe. Mark thinks he should be surprised that the Mirror Master's found enough reflection in the gloom and dull metal to work with, but Evan's always been good at finding his way through impossible places.

Mark tilts his head back and lets the hand holding the wand drop. The wand's buzzing and Mark can feel the charge running through his whole body.

"Coming out?" Mark asks, raising an eyebrow – not that it can be seen beneath the mask.

"Think I've got a fair view from here, ta," Evan says.

Mark grins and lounges back on the roof. He can feel the snow cold through his outfit, but the weather wizard costume is waterproof enough to keep the wet out. He closes his eyes and listens to the howl of the wind and thrum of the wand.

Mark runs a hand down his body, feeling lightning dance on his fingertips and arcs over the green and yellow fabric. He shivers, and not from the cold.

A warm hand on his thigh jolts Mark's eye open again. Evan's leaning over him, specks of white melting into damp all over his outfit. It doesn't look like he minds the cold, at least not until Mark twists them up and over, straddling Evan's hips as the Mirror Master is pushed onto the roof tiles.

Evan yelps. "This getup's no made fer rollin' in snow, ye ken?"

Mark laughs and shuts Evan up with a kiss. It's a sharp meeting of teeth more than lips and the clouds thicken above them with the savage meeting. There's a rumble of thunder as Mark presses down on Evan. A crash of lightning as cowl and mask get torn off.

The wand and the weather it calls to want to destroy, to smash upon the earth beneath. Mark follows its call, digging his fingers into Evan's biceps. There's a hard edge of grit against his palms. A mirror-duplicate then. Mark doesn't care, he only presses harder.

It's over in a burst of wind, one that pulls the disintegrating duplicate away out of Mark's grasp. He rolls onto his back and smirks over at the chimney.

"A fair enough view, aye," says Evan, returning the smirk.

The snow falls.

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

The winds are howling, driving the few snowflakes that dare fall practically horizontal. Times like this Mark hates living in a warehouse, what with all the unsealed windows and cracks in the walls. At least the snow is helping block up the worst holes and keeping some of the wind out.

Axel's sat cross-legged in midair as usual, poking one of his airwalkers with a screwdriver. Mark can't tell if it's helping or not, but then all he's ever done with electronics is create a working weather wand from his brother's blueprints. Even after all this time, Mark can't say how the wand works.

"'Sup," Axel says, looking up from his work and noticing Mark nearby.

Mark gives him a nod in return. The wind's howling is muffled over here, but the sound is still causing Axel to shiver involuntarily whenever it picks up.

Mark's lost in ideas for the snowfall when Axel next speaks.

"So, do you guys do anything special for Christmas?" Axel asks, staring intently at his screwdriver and shoe.

"Christmas?" Mark repeats, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

"Yeah, you know, Christmas," Axel says, hunching his shoulders in, "Twenty-fifth of December. Presents and carols and shit."

"You're asking if we... give each other presents?" Mark says slowly, a smile playing around his mouth.

"Shut up," Axel says petulantly, "I'm not expecting anything sissy like that. I just haven't been around you guys for Christmas before, I just wanted to know if there's any special heists or plans going down, 'sall."

"We don't do Christmas," Mark says, "Capes tend to be extra pissy if you take them away from their 'special time' with their loved ones."

"So it's just a regular day?" Axel asks.

"Cold might break out the good booze and if there's a villain you'd like to invite over, Christmas is the one day you'll get close to a free pass," Mark replies, "Otherwise normal."

"Cool," Axel says.

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

The weather warms up enough for the falling snow to turn into sleet. The freezing slush keeps far more people indoors than the snow ever did.

Unless your name's Captain Cold, then you spend every minute you can out in the icy weather.

Mark's watching the sleet from the upstairs office windows when Len walks in, shedding water, slush, a soaked jacket, and boots that must be at least half ice by now. Mark raises a hand in greeting, but doesn't look away from the windows and the weather beyond.

"Your doing?" Len asks. He's closer than Mark realised, watching the sleet outside too.

"No," Mark replies.

"Hmm," Len places a hand on Mark's hip, cold enough that Mark can feel it through his trousers.

"Good mood?" Mark asks, letting his forehead touch the icy glass of the window.

"Very," Len growls, pressing up against Mark's back.

Mark groans as Len's other hand twists in his hair and pulls his head back to bite at his neck. It's rough, but then Len's never gentle.

Mark doesn't look away from the sleet as they get into it. He doesn't know where Len gets the necessary supplies from, but he gives a grunt when Len pushes into him.

It's harsh and amazing, like being out in the winter weather. Len finishes with a shudder and moan, then, without pulling out, reaches around to help Mark finish off. Mark comes with a drawn out groan, his head pressed against his free forearm against the damp window.

"Here's hope for more of this weather," Len says, still against Mark's back, one large hand pressed flat against the window.

Mark snorts. "Hope?" he says derisively. It's a stupid word for a stupid concept.

Len chuckles. He doesn't say anything else on that topic, instead getting dressed and striking up a conversation on films. There'll be time enough for heists after the storm.

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

The weather takes a turn for the worse, to the point that Christmas day is during the coldest snap Central City has seen in decades. Mick only moves away from his oil barrel fire in the main room to use the bathroom or get food.

Mark and Evan don't comment on the perpetually burning fire. Axel toasts marshmallows over it and Len only gives vague warnings as to what would happen if Mick decided to spread the flames.

Like Mark said earlier, Christmas day is nothing special. In the evening, Mick makes a large batch of hot chocolate that's mostly whiskey – Len gets a handful of snow from outside to cool his down, earning much bitching from Mick – while Evan uses the reflection on the TV screen to find entertainment for them, mostly consisting of family rows over Christmas dinner from the Twin Cities' residents.

After a few broken plates and a near-killing, Evan comes across a large family with a blond guy just walking in and apologising for being late. It's not the first time by the looks on the rest of the family's faces.

"Skip it," Len growls.

Evan does as told, they've all got some people they'd prefer not to see celebrating the season and there had been at least two reporters there that Len had crossed in the past.

There's a rather good food fight, a spectacular disowning, and a fire – that Mick particularly enjoys – in other households, so no one's bothered that they missed that guy being chewed out for being late. At some point Axel gets sent to find the brandy (it's the good stuff, Evan had stolen it from one of those houses that everything in it is worth more than an average person makes in a year) and the stories start flowing with the alcohol.

Somewhere between Len going over the tale of a Christmas party they'd invited Flash to – to try and do him in, of course – and Mick lighting several candles around the battered settees they're on, Mark finds himself nodding off. It isn't particularly late – though he can't be sure, he'd broken all the clocks in the place with a wonky bit of lightning once and the time display on the dvd player had never been set – but Mark is boozed up and warm.

He's jolted awake a bit by Axel slouching sideways and winding up with his head on Mark's shoulder. Mark makes a half-hearted attempt to push the kid off, but ultimately gives up.

"Best Christmas ever," Axel declares sleepily, just as Mark falls asleep again.

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

January brings a warm spell and the ability to see the pavements again. Mark feels somewhat despondent as the weather and its effects clear up.

Things are back to normal then.

The End of Easter

2012-12-17T11:53:11Z

Title: The End of Easter
Words: 10849
Chacaters: Bunnymund, Pitch Black, Jack Frost, North, Tooth, Sandman
Summary: In the years after Pitch's attack, Easter's been having trouble getting back on its feet. Pitch just makes things worse for Bunnymund.

AN: For the Rise of the Guardians kink-meme: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/1511.html?thread=94695#cmt94695f

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

It's been a rough couple of Easters since Pitch's attack. Sandy and Tooth have been forgiven, their lapse forgotten by the children of the world since they'd been back to work within a few days. However, Easter only comes once a year and even though Bunnymund's put more effort into the past three years than he has in centuries, there still aren't half as many children believing in him as he'd gotten used to.

It's going to take years to straighten the whole bloody mess out.

If the other Guardians notice anything, they don't mention it, they just chalk it down to Bunnymund being his usual snappish self. He'd like to see them keep a happy face on when being the sheer embodiment of hope and everything that entails.

Bunnymund knows he's not going to be able to stand many more Easters that involve losing more believers to age than he gains. He's already feeling short, which is more than a bit annoying.

The other Guardians know better than to bother Bunnymund in the days before Easter, but he notices them out of the corner of his eye sometimes, though he ignores them to focus on his painting. They help a little, painting a few eggs here and there, herding the masses into the river or down the right paths.

Tooth favours green and purple patterns of feathers, while Frost likes his blue and white snowflakes. North's brush always has a bold shade on it, usually red, and Sandy's eggs turn out golden-yellow and occasionally glittery.

Bunnymund is grateful, but he's too busy to thank them right now.

A black-painted egg wobbles its way in front of Bunnymund, who tears his gaze away from his paints and brush for the first time in hours. What kid's going to want a black egg? Bunnymund gets up, stretching out the kinks in his back as he does so, and goes to catch the rogue egg that's probably Frost's idea of a joke.

The black egg scuttles away, bumping into a freshly painted orange egg nearby. To Bunnymund's horror the orange egg starts to turn black where it was hit. Like a disease the darkness spreads, until there are two black eggs.

Bunnymund lunges for the first black egg before it reaches the clump of eggs on the riverbank. It crumbles to dust in his paw, leaving his fur feeling grimy. There's only one person who could've done that.

“Pitch,” Bunnymund snarls.

“I'd pay more attention to that little one bumbling through the others,” Pitch's voice comes from every shadow the warren has to offer, which – though brightly lit – is quite a few.

Bunnymund whips his head around to see the previously-orange-now-black egg well into the collection of brightly coloured eggs, the blackness spreading behind it.

Bunnymund springs into action, plucking the unaffected eggs from the batch and trapping the infected ones under baskets. He's quick, but it's still fifteen minutes work down the drain and that's not time he's going to be able to make back up before Easter Sunday.

“Oops, there goes another one,” Pitch sounds like he's enjoying this.

“Blast it,” Bunnymund manages to catch the infected egg before it touches any others this time, “You bloody whacker.”

Pitch's laugh echoes through the warren, which feels cold and... dull.

“Happy Easter,” Pitch says and though Bunnymund knows he's vanished, the warren doesn't recover its brightness.

Bunnymund takes time he can't afford to check through his stores of eggs to make sure there aren't any black eggs hidden and waiting to spread their infection.

Even if he calls the other Guardians for help, it's still going to be worse than '68. Bunnymund sighs and starts the eggs down the tunnels, before heading out himself for backup.

He's tired and it feels like he's lost another inch. He'll be shorter than Frost in no time if this keeps up.

----------

From the growing shadows in the warren, Pitch looms over a clutch of eggs. The grass around his feet withers and twists. The black infection dances on his fingertips, but he decides against it.

“No,” Pitch murmurs into the still warm but darkening tunnels of Spring, “This won't be my fault.”

After all, it's easy to hold onto hope when there's something you can fight. If Easter falls on its own then that's something else entirely.

Pitch fades back into the darkness and waits for the collapse of hope.

----------

Easter Sunday dawns and it's not enough. Despite the preparation, the effort, and the help; there aren't enough eggs, plain and simple. Not enough to appeal to all the children at any rate. There can't be intricately hidden ones for the older kids if the younger won't be able to find any easily, just as there can't just be simple hiding places or the older children will get bored of the day too early.

Bunnymund does what he can, but even someone as fast as him can't be everywhere at once. A few parks benefit and most of the children in them look up and gasp when Bunnymund darts past them, but there's just as many, if not more, places where kids that should believe walk through Bunnymund like he isn't there.

The others try to help, but it's like propping up a collapsing tunnel with twigs and prayers. Not gonna happen.

When night rolls around on Easter Monday and Sandy returns to his dreamsculpting, Bunnymund's knackered. His fur feels like it's too heavy for him and he itches at the lack of hope that's been inspired today.

“Hey, Kangaroo,” Frost drops out of the sky – or possibly a tree, Bunnymund wasn't paying attention – with a familiar grin and taunt. Normally it would get Bunnymund riled up, but he couldn't care less right now.

“Rack off,” Bunnymund sighs without heat.

“Bunny?” Frost sounds concerned. It's an odd look on him.

“I'm losin' my touch,” Bunnymund says dejectedly, “Can't even make enough provisions to deal with Pitch messing up a few and you lot not puttin' them in the right places.”

“Hey,” Frost protests, “I did what you said!”

“Maybe I should just give it all up,” Bunnymund continues, ignoring Frost, “Easter's not been the same for decades. People ain't talking about the Easter Bunny anymore.”

“Don't talk like that!” Frost's starting to sound downright alarmed now, “We can put more time aside to help next year to help.”

“I'm the bloody Easter Bunny, I should be able to make Easter happen on my own. I've done it for years,” Bunnymund says.

“Then maybe it's time you took a break,” Frost tries to reason, and if Bunnymund wasn't feeling so down he'd laugh at the thought of Frost being the voice of reason, “Kick back and relax, we can take care of it.”

Bunnymund just shakes his head and thumps a foot on the ground to open his tunnels. It takes longer than it should for the tunnel to respond. He's just tired.

There's hope that things will get better, but hopes have a nasty habit of being disappointed recently.

Frost doesn't follow down the tunnel, but Bunnymund has the feeling that he's going to be bombarded with visits from the other Guardians soon enough. He runs without a fixed destination through the warm green warren –

– right into a net of shadows and darkness.

“What the –” Bunnymund yelps, his struggles to get out only twisting himself up in the dusty black ropes further.

“Did you have a good Easter?” Pitch asks, stepping out of Bunnymund's shadow.

“You!” a hot surge of anger shoots through Bunnymund, “This is your fault, you slimy, connivin' –”

“What? That bit of fun?” Pitch leans down, his usual dark smile firmly in place, “I thought you could stand to lose just one tiny clutch of eggs. Did that really make or break Easter?”

Bunnymund has to fight to keep the anger there. Luckily Pitch always inspires frustration along with his fear.

“Face it, this wasn't my fault,” Pitch says, “Not when your friends broke as many eggs as they painted.”

“They wouldn't've...” but there's a stab of doubt from Pitch's words.

“Really? After Jack's spent so many years making it a white Easter?” Pitch presses his advantage, “And North always arguing for Christmas being better?”

“Stop it,” Bunnymund demands.

“Teeth are quite a bit smaller and lighter than eggs, aren't they?” Pitch muses.

“Stop it.”

“And dreams rarely feature eggs or the right colours,” Pitch says.

“Stop it,” Bunnymund snaps, further entangling himself in the net in his attempt to get to Pitch.

“You just couldn't pull together a real holiday this year,” Pitch says, “Do you really think you're going to do better next year?”

Bunnymund flinches and that's when Pitch strikes. He blows a handful of black sand Bunnymund's face. Sandy's sand feels like warm sunshine washing over Bunnymund's fur, this feels like pure unadulterated terror creeping up his spine.

Darkness pulls Bunnymund under and the last thing he remembers is Pitch's unnerving grin.

----------

Pitch pulls the net of shadows up and forms legs for it to scuttle on like a spider. Its prisoner sleeps fitfully as Pitch leads it deep into the earth. Deeper than even the most persistent sunlight can reach.

As he opens a dank and dismal passage to a well of secrets that nothing has ever returned from, Pitch hesitates. Even down the well, it'll take time for hope to be extinguished and Pitch doesn't fancy his chances against the other Guardians when they inevitably come to him once their friend turns up missing.

Fear without hope is beautiful, but what if hope can be convinced to lead to more fear?

The entrance to the well closes off and Pitch waves the creature back into the midst of the lair.

“Over here, I've got a better idea.”

The creature of shadow, net, and spider's legs follows its creator. Its captive's dreams take a turn for the worse.

----------

When Bunnymund comes to he finds himself in a cage. One of Pitch's creations that holds its prisoners with more than the twisted bars. He knows he's deeper underground than any of his tunnels go. Knows this because he'd gotten this far down once or twice before and Pitch had promptly chased him back into the warm light of the warren.

The Boogeyman himself is nowhere in sight. That doesn't mean he can't step out at a moment's notice from any of the many shadows that make up the place under children's beds.

He can't open a tunnel this high off the ground, so Bunnymund pushes at the bars and tries to reach a paw through to get at the lock. Neither attempt works, but Bunnymund keeps trying anyway. Hope sparks brightest in the dark before dawn after all.

He's got his hindpaws pressed against one side of the cage and his back firmly against the other to try and bend the bars out when Pitch makes his appearance. Pitch watches silently until Bunnymund has to give up the attempt and stretch out his shoulders as best he can in the cramped space.

“Given up yet?” Pitch asks.

“Never,” Bunnymund replies, looking for another way to break out, “Hope doesn't give up ya know.”

“You're not leaving there without my say-so,” Pitch says.

“That's what you think,” Bunnymund says, trying to reach the chain that's suspending the cage from the ceiling. Even if the cage doesn't break when dropped, he'll still be close enough to the ground to burrow out. “Never had anyone hopin' you'd leave them alone before?”

It shouldn't take an encounter with Pitch to make Bunnymund feel like himself again, but so far it's the only thing that's given him clear lines in the sand to work with.

Judging by the frown on Pitch's face, Bunnymund's remark hit home. However, Pitch shakes it off and returns to his creepy smile.

“Maybe if you'd merely stayed the spirit of hope,” Pitch says, “Then you might've been a threat to me. But with your decision to join the Guardians you don't channel hope properly anymore. You'll never get that back. Was it worth it to rely on fickle beings whose belief is so hard to cultivate?”

“Oi! Don't talk about the ankle-biters that way,” Bunnymund snaps, trying to ignore how accurate Pitch can be when he puts his mind to it, “They're mine to protect and I won't hear you slagging them off.”

“Protect them... from in here?”

“Stuff it,” Bunnymund stops his escape attempts for the time being and turns to face Pitch with a scowl, “Let me out and I'll show you exactly how I can protect them.”

Something gives a whispery whinny from the shadows behind Bunnymund and he turns as fast the the cage will allow him to. There isn't anything there, but he slips a boomerang into his paw anyway.

“That's not how this works,” Pitch says, right by Bunnymund's ear.

The boomerang gets thrown reflexively and ricochets against the side of the cage and into Bunnymund's shoulder. Pitch laughs from the other side of the bars. He's standing a lot closer and if Bunnymund's arm could fit through the bars, his paw would be able to reach Pitch.

“Not funny,” Bunnymund huffs.

“I thought it was,” Pitch says, “And I'll bet Jack likes that kind of fun too.”

“You gonna do anythin' or just talk me to death?” Bunnymund asks, because Pitch is far too effective when he talks and shutting him up's the only thing Bunnymund can try right now.

Pitch laughs. It's cold and echoes around the cavern until it sounds like it's everywhere. “That will do for now,” Pitch says, stepping back into the shadows, “But we'll have lots to talk about soon enough.”

Bunnymund allows himself to slump in the cage and cradle his head in his paws. He's not strong enough to defeat Pitch on his own, might not ever be if he can't get Easter up and running again. He thinks of the warren, tries to picture its life and colour, but all he can remember is faded greys and dying plants.

Bunnymund kicks the side of the cage harshly. He's a doer, not a thinker, and the last thing he wants is to sink into despair. He looks for another way out of the cage and tries to ignore the fact that maybe, just maybe, Pitch had been right.

----------

Jack skips into the workshop, purposely leaving patches of frost where his footsteps land to make the elves slip. It's always fun to watch the little guys trip and fall and blame each other for it. Sometimes it catches a yeti off guard, however they barely tolerate Jack as it is, so he only lets that happen every now and then rather than every visit.

“Jack Frost!” North's greeting is as cheerful as ever. He slings a heavy arm around Jack's shoulders and sweeps him through the organised chaos that is the workshop, “What brings you here? We are on time for Christmas this year, no worry there.”

“It's about Easter,” Jack says.

North's face twists in a moue of distaste. “Should you not be speaking to Bunny about that?”

“That's just it,” Jack says, “I tried, but he didn't listen to me. It's, well, Easter hasn't been the best recently and I think Bunny's feeling down about it.”

“True,” North says, nodding, “He has not challenged Christmas's worth for many months. Is possible he feels Easter has been let-down this year.”

“Do you think we could cheer him up?” Jack asks.

“Perhaps,” North replies, “It will be good excuse for feast, yes?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, “That sounds good. I'll go fetch him and pass the word onto Tooth and Sandy.”

Jack leaps out of one of the windows and tumbles toward the thick snowdrift beneath. He laughs as the winds catch him at the last second, kicking a flurry of snow into the air behind him. He directs the winds to take him to Tooth's palace.

Tucked into Jack's hoodie pocket, hidden from the days of Easter and coated with a thin layer of ice, there's an egg with a splash of colour on it.

----------

It's been a few days in the shadow realm and Bunnymund's only contact with anything other than the cage bars is Pitch's random visits. Sometimes it's the same arguments, sometimes Pitch arrives with a particularly nasty grin and he presents Bunnymund with a new angle.

“Your friends don't even care that Easter's been declining.”

“What's a few thousand eggs to the millions of teeth and dreams that the others deal with every night?”

“There's ice around again, and so soon into Spring. It's like Jack doesn't consider you enough of a threat to stay out of your territory.”

“Have you looked in a mirror recently? I wouldn't believe in you if you tried to deliver eggs looking like that. What are you, Jack's height now? Tooth's? Sandman's?”

“No one mentions the Easter Bunny. They probably won't even be surprised if you just didn't show up.”

The problem with Pitch's words is that they're always drawn from personal fear and truth. No matter how much Bunnymund argues and snaps, every word leaves a niggling itch of doubt and worry behind. The itch only gets worse when Pitch leaves to do whatever he does and Bunnymund's left alone with his thoughts.

Only a few days since Easter, but it feels like so much longer. A few nightmares have braved Bunnymund's boomerangs and a couple get through and give him a few fitful hours of unconsciousness filled with dark dreams. It helps Pitch's words burrow deeper and it's all Bunnymund can do to keep hoping.

His escape attempts slow, then stop entirely. Pitch lets him out of the cage when he next returns and when Bunnymund straightens up on the dark ground it's clear he's a good foot shorter than he should be.

“Look at you,” Pitch practically crows, “Why choose fickle belief over hope?”

Bunnymund's just too tired to retort with more than an angry glare. Pitch twists his face into something that could be called sympathetic if the person calling it so had never been shown the slightest bit of kindness.

“I know a way you can change that,” Pitch says, his voice dropping low as though he doesn't want anyone else to overhear, “A way you can rely on hope and only hope. And what's better to give hope than fear?”

It shouldn't be tempting, it shouldn't be something Bunnymund considers, but it is. Easter hasn't been working and nothing the other Guardians have tried has made any progress either.

Maybe it's time to try something different. Bunnymund says a silent goodbye to his friends before sizing Pitch up.

“You won't hurt the ankle-biters,” Bunnymund bargains.

Pitch takes a long moment to think about it, then slowly nods. “Pain isn't necessary for fear.”

“And you won't try to kill the other Guardians again.”

Again, it takes a while for Pitch to agree. “You have my word.”

Bunnymund sticks out a paw and this time there's no hesitation from Pitch before he grasps it with his hand, which has the chill of sunless gravestones to it. They shake and the bargain is sealed.

“Alright, I'm in,” Bunnymund says, “But there's something I've gotta do first.”

----------

The shore is empty when Bunnymund steps out onto it from his tunnels, shivering in the breeze. A dark, clouded night leaves no reason for people to be at the beach.

Bunnymund straightens and walks slowly across the sand and into the waves. The water's cold and makes his fur clump unpleasantly. Still, Bunnymund pushes forward until he hits the edge of the shelf. The water's up to his chest now, but another step will send it straight over his head.

Bunnymund takes a breath and dives in. The salt stings his eyes and he has to close them, but it's still an easy matter to find the seabed. A couple of thumps on the silty ground then a powerful kick-off to escape the sudden current and Bunnymund's done what he came here to do.

He reaches the surface and swims back to shore quickly, before he can change his mind. The water will wash out the drab shades that once were colours. The salt will kill the twisted mockery of shoots and buds. The journey here had shown that there's nothing worth saving in the tunnels that wind from one end of the Earth to the other.

The warren will be drowned and Bunnymund tries to kid himself that he's glad about it. It needed doing, there's nothing left for him there, but it still hurts like nothing ever has before.

Pitch is waiting for Bunnymund when he steps out of the cold ocean water.

“I appreciate that must have been hard for you,” Pitch says.

“Like you'd bloody well know,” Bunnymund snaps, not in the mood to deal with sympathy, false or otherwise.

Pitch gets a faraway look as he speaks. “I had to open a home of mine to the sunlight once.”

He doesn't say anything else on the subject, but he puts a hand on Bunnymund's head and it doesn't feel as grimy as it used to. Pitch lets Bunnymund watch the sea swirling into the warren's tunnels as long as he needs to before drawing him into the shadows and away from this place.

----------

“Do you guys hear that?” Jack asks, his head cocking to try and pinpoint the roaring sound.

Jack, North, and a small collection of Tooth's helpers are combing the warren for any sign of Bunnymund. It's been a few days now and Jack is beginning to wish the meandering tunnels were less prevalent.

He's also wishing that Bunnymund could be found, he's never been missing for this long before, not when people are actively searching for him anyway.

North doesn't respond to Jack's question, busy with shifting rocks out of the way of yet another winding tunnel, and the fairies are nowhere in sight. Jack gets up from where he's crouched up high as a lookout and lands lightly on the ground. The sound is familiar and getting louder every second. Jack tightens his grip on his staff.

Jack finally recognises the sound the moment he sees white froth and water rushing for him.

“North!” Jack yells, freezing the oncoming wave, but hearing the roaring of fast-travelling water coming from other directions too, “We need to leave!”

Tooth's helpers flitter out of a side tunnel as fast as they can, squeaking desperately. Jack doesn't have to speak fairy to understand what's behind them. Another twist of his staff and the water chasing down the fairies is frozen too.

“Everyone through!” North calls, accompanied by the whoosh of one of his globes breaking into a portal to the workshop.

Tooth's helpers are first through. North waits for Jack to get close before entering the portal himself. Jack tries to fend off the many many rivers of water with ice, but misses one behind him and is blasted through the portal in a spray of water and slush.

The portal closes behind Jack, cutting off the water. Unfortunately a good deal still got through with Jack and there's going to be a lot of clean-up for the yetis.

“What -” Jack coughs up some slush and rolls onto his back, “What was that?”

“That was bad sign,” North says gravely, putting a hand against his belly, “We must contact other Guardians.”

Jack watches his reflection in the spilled water as North goes to light the beacon. He thinks of the darkened tunnels and dead grasses in the empty warren. He worries.

“Hold on, Bunny.”

----------

Travelling within shadows is nearly as bad as North's bloody sleigh. There might not be the sickening lurches and sudden drops, but there's complete lack of sensation to tell which way's up in the darkness. Bunnymund doesn't know how Pitch can tell where he's going, but they always wind up where they want to go.

The shadows sink through Bunnymund's fur too, leaving him feeling like he's been dragged through a chimney and covered in soot – yet another way North gets around that Bunnymund just doesn't understand. It all makes him homesick for his tunnels, but he can't got back to them now.

Pitch waits for Bunnymund to shrug off the feeling, but it's clear he's impatient to get started. The man can be as giddy as Tooth over a child's first perfectly taken care of tooth.

“Keep ya fur on,” Bunnymund says, giving himself a final shake, “I'm ready.”

Pitch leads the way, slipping from shadow to rooftop shadow. Bunnymund chases after, muscles burning with the exertion, and he can't stop. Even though the dark of night strips the world of its colours, it's good just to get out and race again.

A cheerful laugh sounds through the night air and Pitch's head snaps to the side to look for the source as Bunnymund's ears perk up. Between them it's an easy feat to find a tent pitched in a back garden and full of children. Probably a birthday party.

It must be the lamp they're using in the tent, but there a ghost of a colour that could be blue and not blue at the same time shimmering around the children. It's hard to focus on and Bunnymund just puts it down to being tired and missing the colours that used to decorate the warren.

Bunnymund and Pitch crouch on the roof, watching over the children as they play games and laugh. It makes Bunnymund uncomfortable in his gut to even be considering spoiling such innocent joy, but he's trying this Pitch's way and this is what Pitch has planned.

“Shall we?” Pitch asks, already slipping off the roof and landing on the lawn silently.

Bunnymund follows. The grass under his paws pulses with life, but doesn't take its usual opportunity to grow buttercups and clover where he treads. Bunnymund tries to ignore it, reasoning that it'll start happening again once he's got some power back.

Pitch is in his element as he circles the tent. With a snap of his fingers the light goes out and the children scream at the sudden darkness.

Bunnymund takes his turn to open the back door, making a point of it, as though a parent's coming to help, the colour ghosting over the children brightens and Bunnymund frowns at it.

Pitch makes the zip on the tent stick and the children have to wriggle out through the opening at the bottom. There are tear-streaks on a couple of their faces. The blue shimmer dies down on most of them when they see that there's no one at the door.

Except on one little girl in pigtails, instead the blue flares up on her as her gaze falls on Bunnymund, who hasn't quite hidden himself yet.

“Look!” she gasps and runs over to him.

The blue lights up on the children, one after another, as they too see Bunnymund. He can taste the hope and feel the rush of belief the children inspire. They all start talking at once and Bunnymund can barely keep up.

“Good, you've finished snivelling.”

The children scream again and hide behind Bunnymund as Pitch steps out of the shadows. He's enjoying this and, heaven help him, Bunnymund is too.

“Will you protect us?” the first little girl asks Bunnymund, tugging on his fur, “Please, Mr Easter Bunny.”

The blue-not-blue is flickering on and off on all the kids, though it's still brightest on her.

“'Course I will,” Bunnymund answers. He stands up straight and stares down Pitch. “You'll have to go through me to get them.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the blue flare up again, only to dim down when Pitch laughs.

“I'd like to see you try,” Pitch says, snapping his fingers again and taking out a nearby streetlight. The new shadows draw themselves around him and make him seem bigger. The children press together and one or two whimper.

That's a challenge Bunnymund can't pass up and, quick as a blink, he flings a boomerang at Pitch. It's unreheased, but Pitch catches the boomerang with spare shadow and stumbles back as though it hit home. The children cheer and the blue ignites.

Pitch makes a show of sending shadows and Bunnymund fights back, eventually barely winning out. Pitch fades away into the dark, vowing revenge and the blue-not-blue around the children is bright.

A light goes on in the house. “What's with you kids?” a well-worn voice calls out.

“Time for me to go,” Bunnymund says and darts away from their grabbing hands and protests.

He finds Pitch on a rooftop several houses away. He can tell because the shadows are particularly dense and flickering in the moonless star-filled night sky.

“Did you see how scared they were?” Pitch asks gleefully, he's moving rapidly, making half-formed motions to accompany his words, “They were crying from the dark! Oh, yes! Hahaha! That's what I want to see!”

“They believed in me,” Bunnymund says, more to himself than Pitch, “And I felt it. Their hope too, it was blue.”

Pitch looks contemplative. “Blue?” he asks, “How strange.”

“Sort of blue. I can see it,” Bunnymund says, excitement growing, “I've never seen hope before.”

“Fear's not quite like shadows, more like ash,” Pitch puts in, “I've always been able to see it. Given time you may even be able to tell what drives those hopes.”

“It's amazin',” Bunnymund says. Like Pitch, he can barely keep back the joyful laughter or stay still. His ears are upright and swivelling to pick up any new sounds, “C'mon, let's find some more.”

Without thinking, Bunnymund grabs Pitch's hand with his paw to drag him off in search of more children. Pitch yanks his hand back and cradles it against his chest, something close to fear on his face.

And Bunnymund's seen the Boogeyman scared and hunted by his own nightmares, he knows what fear looks like on Pitch Black.

“You comin' or what?” Bunnymund asks, trying to keep things light and easy.

“Yes,” Pitch says quickly.

Bunnymund must be more tired than he thought, because there's no way a spark of blue-not-blue just flickered over Pitch's shoulders.

Pitch takes the lead again and fear and hope laugh as they run through the night. Exhilaration filling both of them as they search for those in need of blue-not-blue and ash-black. A boy of nine. Another sleepover of several kids, this time indoors. Twin girls in fear of what lay beneath their bunkbeds. A small boy of maybe three and his older sister, both brave and wary of the wardrobe.

Bunnymund is racing after Pitch, when a familiar scent fills his nostrils and his ears catch fluttering and the crackle of newly-formed ice.

“Look out!” Bunnymund calls, putting on an extra burst of speed to grab Pitch and pull him out of the way of a snaking tendril of golden sand.

They tumble to the ground in the alley. Bunnymund's on his feet in an instant. He doesn't reach for his boomerangs, he can't, these are his friends. However, he makes sure there's definitely shadow behind him and Pitch, in case Pitch wants to make a quick getaway.

The ghostly blue flare is bright around the Guardians as they form a sloppy semi-circle around Bunnymund and Pitch. North and Jack are on the ground, each with their weapons held loosely in their hands. Tooth flutters in place on the other side of North while Sandy floats next to Jack.

Looks like that's their plans well and truly scuppered.

----------

When Jack sees Bunnymund for the first time since Easter it's a shock. Jack won't ever forget the difference he'd seen on the Easter he became a Guardian, when Bunnymund turned into a normal-sized rabbit from lack of belief.

This is worse.

Bunnymund's hunched over, his fur drab from more than Pitch's shadow. If he stands up straight the top of his head might just reach Jack's chin. Even his eyes, once a bright spring-green, have lost their lustre. There's something feral about him and Jack wonders how much of his friend's still in there.

“Pitch!” North says angrily.

Pitch flinches the tiniest amount at that and Bunnymund straightens up just as much.

“Easy there, mate,” Bunnymund says, “Gonna tell us what's got your tail in a twist?”

It surprises most of them. Jack knows better, he's got first-hand experience of how persuasive Pitch can be when he wants to be and with how down Bunnymund's been recently, it's no real shock that Pitch managed to get involved to make things as bad as they could be.

They've made rough plans for getting Bunnymund to North's workshop and working out things from there, but given the way Bunnymund is tensed up, ready to run, it's going to be difficult catching him. After all, no matter how Jack might argue about it, in a straight race Bunnymund has the edge, since he's much more used to running than Jack is.

Add in Pitch willing to help the escape with his shadows and they'll have to play this carefully to win.

“Bunny, we have been worried about you,” North says.

“Funny way of showin' it,” Bunnymund mutters.

“How are we supposed to show it? We're not the Guardians of worry,” Jack quips.

Bunnymund's mouth pulls back in a snarl and Jack decides he should let the other Guardians take this one. He's not exactly the best at the serious, heartfelt kind of talk. He'd much rather start a snowball fight or a game of tag.

“We've been looking everywhere for you,” Tooth says, “It's been –”

“Obviously not everywhere,” Pitch interrupts, “Since it's taken you this long to find us.”

Sandy sends a stream of bright sand towards Pitch, obviously aiming for a gag of some kind, but Bunnymund slaps at the golden dust and the shape disintegrates. And if Jack isn't mistaken, that was surprise he saw flit briefly over Pitch's face, only there for a second, like the first teasing snowflakes before a blizzard.

“Don't,” Bunnymund warns darkly, “Not when he's the only one bein' honest.”

“You're believing what he's saying?” Jack blurts out, forgetting his silent promise to let the other Guardians do the talking.

“When it's true!” Bunnymund says forcefully, “When it's stuff I already know. Like Easter.”

“What about Easter?” Jack asks even though he really doesn't want to.

“Come on, it's not like any of you ever really cared about Easter,” Pitch says smugly.

“And you do?” Jack says scornfully.

“I care about hope,” Pitch says, “I never made any illusions about my feelings for Easter.”

“You really believe this, Bunny?” North asks, sounding pained.

“It's not like you've ever had anything good to say about Easter,” Bunnymund says with a bit of a snap, but he's not looking them in the eye, “Findin' new ways to mess it up whenever you can.”

The words aren't focused on any specific Guardian, but Jack still flinches, feeling like he's broken the unspoken rules of the game.

“Oh, Bunny,” Tooth says, she's wringing her hands and looking both distraught at Bunnymund's pain and like she dearly wants to punch Pitch again. It's an odd look. “You know Easter's important to us, because it's important to you. And despite what's happened in the past, you know we'd never intentionally disrupt Easter. Not when we know how important it is and that you'd help us in our times of need.”

“No? Then why don't you show us what's in your pocket, Jack?” Pitch asks, deceptively calm.

Jack freezes up, creating twisting patterns of ice on the concrete beneath his bare feet as everyone turns to look at him. The frozen egg in his hoodie pocket sits heavily, like a lead weight, but Jack doesn't move.

“Jack?” North prompts.

“What's he on about, Frost?” Bunnymund asks, suspicion darkening his eyes as much as Pitch's shadows.

Slowly, Jack reaches into his pocket and draws out the brightly painted blue and green egg he'd put in there. He holds it out on his flat palm and waits for the explosion. He isn't waiting long.

“Is that– Is that one my eggs?” Bunnymund asks, obviously already aware of the answer since betrayal and anger are warring on his furry face.

“Sort of,” Jack replies.

“You– Why would you– I shoulda bloody well known!” Bunnymund snaps, his ears pulling back against his head in anger.

“I'm sorry,” Jack says, he still hasn't got the hang of explaining himself – three hundred years of not having to answer to anyone took its toll – but he's got to try, “I didn't mean to –”

“Stuff it,” Bunnymund interrupts.

“Let Jack explain,” Tooth pleads.

“Why bother? We all know what it's gonna be.” Bunnymund snaps, then pitches his voice in a bad imitation of Jack's, “'It looked like a bit of fun!'”

Jack flinches while Tooth starts in on Bunnymund, but then he catches sight of Pitch hanging further back and looking very pleased with himself. That above combined with the betrayal he can still see beneath the anger on Bunnymund makes Jack raise his voice and put his bit in.

“It was for you!”

That stops the argument cold. Bunnymund and Tooth look over at Jack in surprise. Jack takes advantage of the confusion his comment generated to fumble through an explanation.

“I've... well, it's... I just figured you've never been given an Easter Egg...” Jack says haltingly, “I... I thought it'd be nice, so I made one to give to you.”

Bunnymund slowly reaches out a paw and Jack drops the egg into it. Bunnymund stares at the egg and Jack hopes it's more than his imagination that some of the usual bright gleam is returning to Bunnymund's eyes.

“You made this.... You made this for me?” Bunnymund clarifies cautiously, as though expecting a trap.

“Yeah,” Jack replies, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and looking anywhere but at Bunnymund.

In his peripheral vision, Jack can see Bunnymund clutch the egg to his chest protectively, his warm-blooded body heat already melting the thin coat of ice.

The way Bunnymund is curling himself up takes Jack right back that that first Easter. The one where the other Guardian had children walk through him too and the sharp stab of glad that had hit Jack for the shortest moment that wasn't short enough.

“That's a nice thought, Jack,” Pitch says, “But why choose an Easter that was already struggling to survive?”

A series of images flash into being over Sandy's head. Jack catches sight of some eggs, a flower, a person who might be Pitch, and the sun amidst a flurry of others. Jack still can't make heads nor tails of Sandy's pictures unless they're really simple, but it must mean something to the others, because Tooth nods.

“Sandy is right,” North agrees, “Jack meant well. There is no harm in wanting to give gift.”

“No harm? No harm?” Bunnymund repeats, and though he's looking brighter and more like himself, the anger's returned in full force, “This isn't bloody Christmas, mate! It's not the bloody thought that counts! Pitch is right, Easter's hangin' by a thread and I need –” Bunnymund cuts himself off suddenly, an unfamiliar expression passing over his face.

Jack doesn't get any time to try and decipher the look before Pitch sweeps shadows and darkness through the alley in a sudden movement. Sandy moves quickly, but by the time his golden dreamsand cuts through the night both Pitch and Bunnymund have vanished.

“Bunny...” Tooth says sadly.

North sighs heavily. “Perhaps we are too late.”

Sandy shakes his head in sorrowful agreement. Jack wants to argue, but he can't. Not after he caused Bunnymund to look that disappointed and hurt. With tired limbs and weary spirits, Jack follows the other Guardians as they make their way back to North's sleigh. He can't shake the guilt that sits uncomfortably in his stomach like fire.

As stupid and childish as it is, what Jack misses most is that he's not going to hear Bunnymund's 'I told you so' on Jack messing up being a Guardian. Jack scrubs his face with his hoodie sleeve and tries to keep it together as he clambers into the sleigh.

----------

In the cavern of darkness and terror, the shadows part to let Bunnymund and Pitch through to the lair. There's a chittering from scuttling creatures on the floor at the splash of bright colour against the blacks and greys of the spirits they've gotten used to.

“I thought that went well,” Pitch says happily, “We might even be able to persuade some others to join our side.”

Bunnymund stares at Frost's gift in his paw and disagrees quietly. “No.”

“What was that?” Pitch asks, then disregards it anyway to reminisce, “You know I almost had Jack a few years ago. I think we should focus on him next. Snow has a way of making children behave in a particular way.”

“No,” Bunnymund says forcefully and takes a step away from Pitch. It's like a veil's been lifted from his eyes and he's seeing clearly for the first time in months. Colour is back and it's wonderful, “It's not about me or you or Frost. That's what you don't get, mate. It's not about us, it's about them.”

“What?” Pitch says and there's a warning in his voice that Bunnymund ignores.

“I shouldn't be tryin' to make them believe,” Bunnymund says, clutching the bright blue and green egg, “I should be givin' them hope and Easter. It's my holiday, but it's for the little ankle-biters.”

“You've got it wrong,” Pitch snaps harshly, he swipes a hand trailing darkness in front of him, forcing Bunnymund to take another step back, “Children don't do anything you don't force them to do.”

“When's the last time you actually spend time with a sprog?” Bunnymund asks.

“People don't change,” Pitch snarls, “I know what they were like even before the Guardians were formed and that's what they're like now.”

“Nah, mate, you should spend some time out in the real world,” Bunnymund says, “You could do some good out there.”

“Good? Good?” Pitch's voice drops into a dark growl, “I'm the opposite of good.”

“That's what I thought about Frost, but he's found his place,” Bunnymund says, still reeling at how blind and selfish he'd been, “I need to get back to my place too. Good luck with findin' yours, mate.”

Bunnymund heads for the exit. He only makes it a few steps before it's wrapped in shadow and blocked off from both sight and touch.

“Wait,” Pitch says, his voice cracking, “Where are you going?”

“I'm goin' back to where I belong,” Bunnymund replies, “With the Guardians. With Spring.”

“No, you can't,” Pitch says, “No. You can't leave m-” Pitch cuts himself off and pure fury settles on his face, “You're not going to leave here.”

“And you're gonna stop me?” Bunnymund snorts and reaches for a boomerang.

Pitch flings nightmare and shadow. It coalesces into a creature of terror that lands where Bunnymund was a second ago.

Bunnymund races for another exit, darting from side to side to avoid the nightmare's attacks as best he can. The exit closes over like the last, but Bunnymund had been much closer this time. He kicks off the dark wall where the exit had been and flings his boomerang at the nightmare. It clips a chunk of black tendrils off the creature, but it still chases.

Pitch is drawing the shadows in from the walls, blocking the ways out and forcing Bunnymund to avoid the dark. Bunnymund looses his other boomerang at Pitch, but he just steps out of the way and Bunnymund hears it clatter off the far wall and drop to the ground uselessly.

“Out of tricks,” Pitch taunts, taking his own shot of darkness at Bunnymund and missing.

“Not quite,” Bunnymund disagrees.

Bunnymund lunges straight at Pitch and throws the blue and green egg Jack had painted at him. It explodes from Bunnymund's paw in a splash of light and Pitch screams as the colours – so bright and full of joy and life – catch him off guard. The nightmare starts to disperse as its creator loses his grip on it.

Bunnymund wastes no time jumping up and kicking off a pillar to get on top of one of the cages and then shimmying up the chain to the ceiling. The second he reaches the top he starts scrabbling at the earthen roof. It takes a moment, but there's not a thing in the world that can withstand the burrowing of the Easter Bunny.

“No!” Pitch shouts at the first trickle of dirt to fall, but he's still recovering from the colour too much to be able to fight just yet.

“C'mon me beauty,” Bunnymund mutters to the warren, digging as fast as he can, “Don't let me down now.”

There's a ghastly shriek from below as the nightmare reforms and a whoosh of dark wind as it starts up to the top of the lair. Bunnymund's sharp claws break through the dirt and he knows his plea didn't go unheard.

There's a perfect, surreal moment as Bunnymund appreciates what it must be like under the ocean, then he has to jerk out of the way as a torrent of water rips through the newly-created hole and hits the nightmare right in the face. The chain Bunnymund's clutching creaks in protest at his sharp moment, but holds up.

The seawater Bunnymund had left swilling in the warren cascades into Pitch's lair, vanishing down the twisting pathways and shadows. Bunnymund watches it go, holding tightly to the chain and waiting for it to calm down enough to pass through into the warren unscathed.

Something catches Bunnymund's attention from the corner of his eye. Like a flicker of blue, but not quite.

Huh, fancy that.

Pitch is on his knees, slouched over and not seeming to notice the water rushing over him. He looks for all in the world like he's given up. However, if that were the case then the blue-not-blue flicker wouldn't be dancing around him like a will-o'-wisp.

Bunnymund grits his teeth and drops back down to the ground. He sits back on his haunches in the shallow water in front of Pitch, who still has a smudge of green on his shoulder.

“You comin' or what?” Bunnymund asks.

The blue-not-blue flares up and dies down in a blink and you'll miss it moment. Pitch doesn't move. The water level in the lair is rising. Bunnymund remembers the feel of the saltwater rushing through the warren and makes his decision.

Pitch is lighter than he looks, all weightless shadows, and the main difficulty in hoisting him up the chain is that he's not cooperating. By the time Bunnymund reaches the top again, the torrent of water has calmed down enough to push through, Boogeyman and all.

It's going to be a long time before anything can grow in the warren again, but that just means Bunnymund is going to have his days full like he hasn't in centuries.

It takes some time wandering through knee to ankle deep streams to come across a dry place to put Pitch. Pitch shakes himself and looks around, confused at his surroundings.

“You... why?” Pitch asks, uncertain and shaking very slightly.

“You're a believer, mate, can't just go around leavin' them to die now, can I?” Bunnymund says, crouching down only partly in preparation for if Pitch decides to attack.

“You took me out because I believe in the Easter Bunny?” the derisive tone falls a little short of Pitch's usual standards, but the attempt lifts Bunnymund's spirits.

“Nah, I'm on about hope,” Bunnymund replies.

“Hope?” Pitch sounds like he's never heard of the word before, “I'm the embodiment of fear! I shouldn't be hopeful.”

“Like I can't be afraid or joyful, right?”

“I...” Pitch shuts his mouth with a snap.

“That's right,” Bunnymund says, closing the matter, “Now, I'll not have you tryin' to off me again, but until you get that lair of yours sorted there's plenty of shadows around here for the time bein'.”

Pitch looks bewildered, then suspicious. “The Sandman's messing with me, isn't he?”

“Nope,” Bunnymund replies, “Now, if you're apples, I've got some apologisin' to do.”

Without waiting for Pitch to answer, Bunnymund darts off down one of the tunnels. It's wet and cold, but the earth walls are full of browns and reds that are simply gorgeous to behold. Bunnymund's never going to let colour dull in his eyes again.

“Sorry, sheila,” Bunnymund murmurs to the warren as he races through, “Won't happen again.”

There's life still in here, Bunnymund can feel in beneath his paws. He can still picture the place in full bloom and swears to himself that it's going to return to that again. Better even.

The tunnel leads straight to the middle of North's workshop, but Bunnymund stops outside, despite the icy winds and freezing snow. With fresh hope that his friends will be forgiving, Bunnymund knocks on the heavy wooden doors.

----------

Bunnymund's knock is answered by a yeti whose name he doesn't know. It's hard to tell under the thick fur, but Bunnymund thinks it looks surprised to see him there.

“Gonna let me in?” Bunnymund prods when the yeti doesn't make a move to open the door further, “Don't fancy sittin' out here in the snow, mate.”

With a grunt and a derogatory mutter on intruders, the yeti steps aside to let Bunnymund inside the workshop. He quickly darts in, shivering half-melted snow to the rough wooden floor. The yeti grumbles more and picks up a mop and bucket. There's more of those than usual scattered about and Bunnymund wonders if there's some story to go with it.

Now's not the time for that though. Bunnymund traces familiar steps to the centre of the workshop and hopefully where North is and maybe Frost too.

All four of the other Guardians are stood near North's map of the believers of the world when Bunnymund arrives. The blue-not-blue is nearly non-existent around them and it drives home exactly how much damage Bunnymund did with his stint with Pitch. The fact that they're all still here is telling enough on its own.

Against the bright colours of the workshop and the Guardians themselves it's difficult to see the ghostly shimmer at all. If Bunnymund didn't know it was there already he probably would've missed it. Well, that explains a few things.

When Bunnymund coughs to announce his presence a hush falls over the group. Their eyes feel accusing, but Bunnymund forces himself to endure it and waits for them to make the first move.

Tooth flies over and hovers in front of Bunnymund. Her hands twitch then she's suddenly pressed against Bunnymund, her arms tight around his neck. Bunnymund wraps his own arms around her in turn and rubs a paw down her feathers.

“I'm back,” Bunnymund whispers to his friend.

Tooth pulls back just far enough to pry open Bunnymund's jaws open and run her fingers over his teeth. Bunnymund lets her because it's fair and she deserves something for what he's put her through. The soft pull of half-forgotten memories waft with Tooth's ministrations, tickling at the base of Bunnymund's ears.

Tooth doesn't spend too long at it, she knows all his teeth well from countless years as fellow Guardians, and soon enough she's hugging him again.

“You need to take better care of your teeth,” Tooth scolds, “They're beginning to look like Pitch's.”

Bunnymund winces. “Can we not talk about Pitch right now?”

Heavy footsteps and Tooth flittering quickly out of the way are the only warnings Bunnymund gets before North sweeps him up in a bone-cracking hug. Bunnymund's feet twitch uselessly, a clear foot or two off the floor.

“Need to breathe, mate,” Bunnymund manages to gasp out of half-crushed lungs.

“You get to breathe when you make good with the apologies,” North says sternly, but he does let Bunnymund back down and keeps a large hand on his shoulder.

“I know, mate, and I don't think I'll ever make up for it,” Bunnymund says sincerely, “I'm sorry. Really, I am.”

“Will you ever do that again?” North asks.

“Never,” Bunnymund promises.

“Then all is forgiven,” North says, with a clap to Bunnymund's back that nearly sends him head over heels, “Now, there is still much work to be done for Christmas and the yeti's could use some pointers on the painting.”

“What? Hang on a tick, I never said anythin' about helpin' with Christmas,” Bunnymund protests, “So you can take that idea and –” North cuts him off with a pointedly raised eyebrow and the wind leaves Bunnymund's sails. He sighs, “Just this once. Got that? I'm not doing this every bloody year.”

North laughs. “Is good to have you back, Bunny. The others, they are not so good with the banter,” he adds conspiratorially.

“Glad to be of service,” Bunnymund says with a roll of his eyes.

“I wouldn't mind some company and help if you're offering,” Tooth puts in sweetly. She smiles brightly when Bunnymund glares at her.

“Just this once,” Bunnymund repeats forcefully, “You want me to make sandcastles for you too, Sandy?”

Sandy shakes his head, smiling widely. Bunnymund crouches down to sit on his haunches and gets a hug from the Sandman. As always, Sandy leaves behind a residual dusting of sand in Bunnymund's fur that's going to make him sneeze for the next few hours, but also let him sleep peacefully the next time he decides to.

When Bunnymund pulls away he's met with a flurry of golden-yellow images that he can barely keep up with.

“Yeah, mate, like I told North, it's not gonna happen again,” Bunnymund promises.

He stands back up and turns to the final Guardian. Frost's been holding himself back, uncertainty clear in his chilly stance. Bunnymund's going to have to take the initiative on this one.

“Thanks for the egg, mate,” Bunnymund says.

Frost blinks. “Really?” he asks, insecurity being betrayed by the cold winds gusting through the room and the icy patterns starting to spread from the point that his staff touches the ground.

“Really,” Bunnymund nods, “Came in handy.”

He's not going to explain further right now, because that would involve bringing up Pitch and Bunnymund would rather avoid that for a while. Only until he gets his head on straight and can think about the past week without wincing, Bunnymund's a doer after all and he'd prefer things to be sorted.

Frost rocks back on his heels, still clutching his staff tightly, and Bunnymund can see blue-not-blue smoking up from around the kid's feet like mist from an iced pond.

It takes two quick steps then Bunnymund's got Frost in his arms, holding onto him tightly.

“Thanks, mate,” Bunnymund says, patting Frost's back, “And I'm sorry.”

Frost relaxes into the embrace, threading his fingers through the thick fur on Bunnymund's back. Right now Frost's taller and it's just weird for Bunnymund to have to stretch up to reach his shoulders.

Bunnymund can feel the exact moment when Frost turns back into his mischievous self by the shift in the body under his paws. It's still not enough warning to move before Frost ices all the fur on his back and dances into the air out of reach.

“You bloody ratbag,” Bunnymund snaps, reaching back to retrieve a boomerang only to find that he's left both of them in Pitch's lair and they'd have likely wound up iced in place if he hadn't anyway, “Get back here!”

Frost just lets out a joyful laugh, settling into the tall rafters of the workshop. Bunnymund quickly calculates a route up and gives chase. His claws just manage to swipe through Frost's white hair as the kid waits until the last possible second to drop off the wooden beam and let the winds whisk him around the massive globe. Bunnymund leaps after, paws skidding on the metal surface covered in belief lights.

North laughs boisterously and shouts suggestions and directions. Tooth flits between giggling at them and expressing concern about teeth being knocked out if they're not careful. Sandy creates obstacles and signs to keep the game interesting.

It's family, and even as Bunnymund curses Jack Frost with everything he's got, he won't ever try to force it to change again.

----------

There's no sign of the Boogeyman when Bunnymund returns to the still wet and dripping warren. He didn't expect there to be, but it's disappointing nevertheless.

Back to work then. There's a lot to do.

----------

Epilogue – Twenty-three years later

“I see you've gotten all the green back.”

Bunnymund looks up from his painting. Pitch is leaning against a tunnel entrance cast in shadow, looking uncomfortable.

“Right you are, mate,” Bunnymund says, casting an appreciative glance over the warren, “Took some time, but it was worth it.”

It took more than just 'some time' to coax even the strongest shoots and buds through the salted earth and fill the streams and flowers with colour again. The warren still hasn't fully recovered, but Easter's well on its way to being back on track, even if Bunnymund had to base himself out of North's workshop for the first couple of years.

And hadn't that been a riot of laughs. Bunnymund still shudders to think of it. He's still ridiculously grateful that he hit his usual six-foot-one a decade ago.

No one's seen Pitch properly in all that time either, not as anything other than the instinctive worry of dark places or unknown noises. The voice that whispers of terrors living under the bed to children.

If Bunnymund had the time, he'd consider asking about it, but time's not available right now.

“Park ya arse and grab a brush,” Bunnymund directs, turning back to his own painting, “It's two days 'til Easter and there's a coupla thousand eggs still to go.”

He keeps an ear on Pitch, just in case. It tells him that Pitch approaches slowly, cautiously. Bunnymund gets through at least a dozen eggs of his own before Pitch picks one up along with a spare brush.

“Black's alright, 'slong as there's another colour with it too,” Bunnymund comments, being careful to keep his eyes down. He's biting his tongue to stop himself from saying anything anything that could be taken the wrong way. This is going to be delicate and, despite what certain other Guardians might believe, Bunnymund is pretty good at delicate if he makes the effort – painting eggs requires a light touch after all.

It seems like Pitch is also doing him the same courtesy, since there hasn't been any nasty comments from him so far.

Another dozen eggs make their way through Bunnymund's quick paws before a black and green stripped egg trots into Bunnymund's line of sight. As an artist, Bunnymund can see that the stripes are uneven and the black's smeared into the green in places. As the Easter Bunny on a first-time egg-decorator, it's perfect.

“That's a beaut alright,” Bunnymund says, giving the egg a nudge to join the others crowding near the tunnels, “Fancy a go at another?”

He waits for Pitch's anger or betrayal or something. Being the spirit of hope and new beginnings meant that Bunnymund learnt a hard lesson about trust early in his career. The quicker you welcomed people and forgave them for their past mistakes, the quicker they turned on you and used you for their own ends. Only recently, with Jack becoming a decent Guardian and the uprise of Easter, has Bunnymund started to let down some of the barriers he put up to protect his centre.

Along with that, he's been working on seeing the faint signs of hope against the colours that light his world. Bunnymund doesn't think he'll ever manage to tell what's inspiring the hope, like Pitch had suggested, but when he'd talked about it with Jack, the kid had mentioned being able to cause joy with a snowball of white and silver sparkles. Each to their own in the end.

Pitch says nothing, but starts on another egg. There's a silent cheer and sigh of relief from Bunnymund as he picks up another egg of his own.

“You know,” Bunnymund starts, sometime later, “Frost's been talking about this Halloween being a big one, it bein' full moon an' all. I usually try and keep an eye on the blighter, make sure he doesn't get up to too much mischief. Might be your scene if you'd like to come with.”

“I'm rather busy that night,” Pitch replies.

“Shoulda guessed,” Bunnymund shrugs, “Well, me and the kid'll be around if you want to say g'day.”

Bunnymund knows he's going to regret inviting fear to join fun on Halloween of all nights, but he'll be there for damage control and it's about time Pitch got back in the game without trying to destroy the board.

“I'll see,” Pitch says, closing the matter.

The blue spark of hope dances, the brightest it's ever been against the shadows, as Pitch takes an unpainted egg from the clutch and wets his brush with azure pigment.

Jack Finds an Egg

2012-12-14T14:48:44Z

Title: Jack Finds an Egg
Words: 485
Chacaters: Jack Frost, Bunnymund
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin; Jack finds an unusual egg and takes it to an expert on the things.

AN: A little snippit for the Rise of the Guardians kink-meme: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/1511.html?thread=427495#cmt427495 I may or may not continue it.

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

“Well?”

“How the bloody hell am I supposed to know what it is?”

Jack just swept a hand around the warren, gesturing at the golems and plants, both egg-shaped. He then turned a pointed look at the large egg he'd hefted into the warren.

“Alright, I'll have a gander, but I can't promise anythin', mate,” Bunnymund sighed.

Lucky for Jack, it was about a month after Easter and he hadn't been chased off the second he set foot in the warren. He leant forward, using his staff for balance, as Bunnymund rubbed a paw over the thick spotted shell.

“Where'd you say you found this again?” Bunnymund asked, sniffing it cautiously.

“Down at the South Pole,” Jack replied, “I was messing around and it fell out of the ice. It's not a penguin egg.”

“I can see that,” Bunnymund snorted.

Jack honestly had no clue what creature could have lain such an egg. It was bigger than his head, roughly a foot across the width and at least half that again in height. Pale green with dark blue splotches was a pattern Jack hadn't seen on an egg before – not unless you counted one of Bunnymund's painted ones.

“Reptilian,” Bunnymund muttered, both paws now firmly on the egg and his nose bare centimetres away, “Thick shell, so it's probably got some nasty chompers in order to get out. Hang on, you didn't bring me a bloody dinosaur didya, Frost?”

“...If I did can I ride it?”

“You think that's gonna hatch after bein' stuck under ice for who kno–”

Thump.

Jack and Bunnymund stared at the egg. Jack cleared his throat.

“Did it just –”

Thump. Crack.

A hairline fracture made its jagged way over the top of the egg. Bunnymund quickly pulled his paws off it and backed up, dragging Jack with him.

Crack. Crack. Thump. Crack.

There was a long silence.

“So, is it a dinosaur or what?” Jack whispered excitedly, this was better than he'd hoped for.

“No bloody clue,” Bunnymund hissed back, “I'll give it another poke. You be ready to run for help.”

Bunnymund approached cautiously and Jack trotted after, not wanting to miss this.

The second Bunnymund's paw touched the shell again a long series of urgent tapping and thumps started up again.

“Maybe it's because you're warm,” Jack suggested.

“Probably.”

Taptaptaptap. CRACK!

With a shower of broken shell, the egg was cracked wide open from within. A small, pink, red-spotted creature about the length of Jack's arm tumbled out onto the soft grass. It coughed a mouthful of smoke and sparks onto a large piece of eggshell and stretched gungy wings out.

“Well, it's not a dinosaur.”

At the sound of Bunnymund's voice the creature looked up at him and gave a warbling cry. It wriggled toward him, not quite having the hang of its stubby legs yet.

“What is it then?”

“Mate, that's a bloody dragon.”

Flash Issue #0 and #13 - Origin and Gorrilas Attack part one - Review

2012-11-12T13:33:42Z

First off let me apologise for being very late with this. Life's been fairly hectic and I haven't had the chance to just sit down and relax for some time.

Let's start with issue #0, since it did come first.

What we have here is an origin story. It's the usual chemicals/lightning that was the kick-start for both Barry Allen and Wally West becoming the Flash. At least this time around they don't have lightning going *in* through a window. Instead Barry throws a analysis machine of sorts *out* the window and the lightning strikes that and shoots sideways into Barry and his lab. Still a little dodgy physics-wise, but then this is a comic about someone who can run near the speed of light (I can't recall him going faster yet, but he did pre-reboot).

So, unlike usual, Barry's then stuck in a hospital bed. For quite some time by the looks of the number of people who visit him and the length of the beard he grows. He heals up "faster than [the doctor's] ever seen" and when he first wakes up he runs a fair distance away, to mountains and forest, which I'm pretty certain they don't have in the American midwest. That's how he figures out he has superspeed by the looks of things.

We then see Barry trying to build himself an outfit. I'm not too clear on the explanation he gives about metal reacting oddly around him, though we do see a small picture of him in a full set of platemail, which presumably then turned into our familiar red suit after the speedforce had messed with it.

What I find strange is that Barry doesn't tell anyone about this. I know there's probably the usual "they could get hurt" kind of hesitation, but Barry seems like a pretty open guy and he does have a fair number of friends. Superheroes haven't been around that long in this 'verse (I think), so there aren't any obvious examples of "well it happened to *that* guy".

Well, just another point on the Barry is an idiot list.

Alongside this, we have Barry as a little kid (maybe ten) winning a spelling bee and his mother being murdered by his father (or so people say). Now if I remember by pre-boot correctly, this was actually Eobard Thawne, the Reverse-Flash, making Barry's life miserable. This isn't helping my potential theory that Barry's dad could be Zoom this time around.

Barry's dad is still alive and in prison. By the sounds of it, Barry's stopping his annual visits, but he's not stopping looking at the evidence, since people lie, but the evidence doesn't. I have no doubt we'll be seeing Barry's dad later on, but what for, I'm not sure. Since there's someone *else* who could be Zoom.

Daniel West.

Iris West's brother. We see him in both issues. In issue #0 he's been arrested by the Flash and also gets stopped from escaping prison by Barry. In issue #13 Daniel's looking for Iris (last seen in the speedforce several issues ago), amidst the carnage that's going on.

Now, considering that the West family have just as good speedsters as the Allen family, if not sometimes better (I'll fully admit to having a bias for Wally West over Barry Allen) and Daniel may end up coming in contact with the speedforce when looking for his sister... plus he's got a reason to hate both Barry Allen and the Flash.

It just makes sense to me 'sall.

Anyway, that leads me on to issue #13 quite nicely.

If you can recall the end of the annual, the Rogues had just managed to knock Flash out and Grodd's army had come out of pods in the sky. Things aren't looking good for the Gem Cities.

After a short "screw this" the Rogues are roped into the fight and take Flash's side. Out of all of them, Weather Wizard's the one who raises most objections to leaving Flash to fend for himself. Possibly out of all of them, Marco's the one who believes in family the most, what with his drug cartel family back in Guatemala.

Aside from Daniel West's short piece, we have two other sets of characters that aren't in the brawl that's taking up most of this issue.

Captain Darryl Frye has a short snippit where he's shown to be the one raising Barry after Nora Allen was killed. Flashing back to the present time, he, Patty Spivot, and Turbine are together before the city's attacked. Turbine says he'll tell them where Barry is if they'll help him in return. He also says he knows who Frye really is...

I've got an inkling that Frye might actually be Barry's father. He really rather likes Nora Allen and took Barry in after she died, and there's the fact that both he and Barry are blond, which is a recessive gene.

The other person of note is the Trickster. Axel appears before Grodd and offers his assitance in taking over the city. Grodd says no. Harshly. Now, considering that Axel's original appearance pre-boot involved him using a fake arm to attack the Flash (then Wally West), the fact that he just had his arm ripped off by Grodd might not be as bad as it looks. Plus the elbow's the wrong way 'round, assuming Grodd just yanked without twisting. The human body's quite good at what it does, and what it doesn't do is rip a bone in half as easily as pulling out a joint. That arm has come off completely wrong.

In the main story, Flash leaves the gorrilas to the Rogues, who seem to have a decent handle on it all, and goes in search of Grodd. Stopping the invasion at the head.

He finds Grodd, who is looking dangerously speedforce-charged and out for blood. Fade to black. End of the issue. We'll see the fight next time.

Alright, my general thoughts.

First off, this might seem a little out of the blue, but I've realised something else that bugs me about Cold, aside from the lack of sleeves that is.

He's got abs.

I'm sorry, but I've got no problems with Cold being strong or a decent fighter, however he's the sort of fighter who *doesn't get moved*. He's solidly built, yes, but someone who is a sturdy fighter doesn't have abs. If you leave out the Turtle, since we rarely see him, Cold is the villain who battles Flash with *lack* of motion, that's his whole gimmick.

I guess it's just one of those things that comes up with comic-book art.

We didn't see Mirror Master today, maybe next issue. I'm really liking Weather Wizard and I hope we see a lot more of him in future.

Anyway, not sure what else to say on all this. I'll hopefully see you next time without the huge delay.