Out Cold

As the EMP blast hit, the Flash jerked forward sharply, arms flailing as he tried to regain his balance.  Momentum sent him over the balcony, barely skimming the flame from the heat gun, to crash in the centre of the floor below, fifteen feet down and yards from the staircase.  His body slid over the largest patch of ice, scarcely slowed as it hit tile, and rolled rapidly across the room to thud audibly into the cashiers’ counter.

For a long, long moment Captain Cold stared.  At the back of his mind, the seconds ticked down.  Faintly, far away, he heard a siren.

Panic hit; but he squelched it down and yelled, “Right!  The cops’ll be here in sixty-three seconds.  Grab what you can and get out!”

Mardon came out of the vault pushing another trolley laden with stacks of bills.  He stopped dead as he caught sight of the Flash; and Rosa Dillon nearly collided with him.  Swerving agilely round, she gave barely a glance round the room, but raced to the front doors.  Behind her, Peek-a-Boo came out still stuffing a handful of diamonds into her shoulder bag, took line of sight through the bank windows, and disappeared.  Only Mick headed back into the vault, methodically taking maximal advantage of the time remaining.

Zap just stood, staring at the fallen hero.

“Get out!” Cold snarled at her as he headed for the Flash.  The new Rogue flinched at the tone and bolted.  In the distance, more sirens joined the hunt.  Outside the bank, a motor revved as Lisa threw the van out of neutral.  It would still be tailgate down, ramp out:  there was time to get away, but barely.

Cold fell on one knee, sliding a finger under the throat of the Flash’s hood to feel for a pulse.  Behind him were footsteps—not Mick’s, which were familiar.  He turned to see that Mardon had abandoned his trolley, and was heading towards them with a dangerous look on his face.  His right hand was raised, a tiny tornado swirling on the palm.

Cold’s hand dropped to his gun.

“Pull it off!” Mardon said viciously.  “See who he is … then snuff him once and for all.”  The funnel expanded ceiling-high, lifted from his palm, and started to move.

Cold barely glanced at the storm, and narrowed his eyes and his aim on the truer threat.  Then, before he could pull the trigger, a sudden blast of flame shot between them.  Mardon jerked back in alarm; and the whirlwind died to a flutter.

“What the hell are you doing?”  Mick holstered the heat gun, and gave his own overladen trolley a hard shove forward.

“Get out to the van,” Cold ordered.  He kept his own gun fixed on target, just jerking his chin toward the trolley of cash in the middle of the room.

With a curse, Mardon backed a step, turned to grab it, and followed Mick.

Twenty-six seconds.

Captain Cold looked back down at the Flash, who hadn’t moved.  The thickness of the tripolymer suit made it hard to see if he was breathing.  With a glance at the door swinging shut behind Mardon, Cold holstered his weapon and, once again, felt for a pulse.  Then he leaned down, thinking he would hear the faint voices of the Flash’s back-up team at S.T.A.R. Labs; but there was silence.  Or, at least, silence except for the nearing sirens.

He considered the situation.  The EMP blast had taken out the suit:  that much was clear.  Back at S.T.A.R Labs, the Flash’s friends would be frantic; but they would not know exactly what had happened, only that the speedster was not answering.  They presumably knew where he was; but they would have no way of telling he was injured, let alone how badly.

(Len himself didn’t know how badly.)

He bit his lip and looked up, fingers still at the Flash’s throat.  Beyond the doors, the Rogues were waiting; and he needed to go now.  In fact, he should have heard the van leave already.  Perhaps they were still loading.  (He hoped Lisa and Mick would have the sense to leave without him.  Surely, the others certainly would.  Except that he had not yet heard the van drive away.)

He should leave.  Now.  Fourteen seconds.  He had to leave.

When the police arrived, though, they would not know that the Rogues had escaped.  They would act with prudence and remain outside the bank.  Only when the brass decided to give the go-ahead would they enter, safe behind shields, guns drawn, wary of ambush.

How long before anyone found the Flash?  Who still hadn’t moved, though there was a pulse, fluttery and faint.  Damn!  The speedster needed medical attention, and needed it fast.  Preferably without someone unmasking him, whether from idle curiosity or medical helpfulness.  In his opinion, too many already knew the secret of Barry Allen; and, in a hospital, there were bound to be civilians with smartphones, which could betray him to the world.  Then again….

He looked back down at Barry.  Who still hadn’t moved.

…what point was a secret if the Flash died?

Len dithered.  Captain Cold dithered, which was embarrassing.  And the seconds ticked down in the back of his head until there were nine left, which was not enough.

There was a sudden *POP*.  He jerked round, and saw Shawna.

“Boss!  You gotta come now!!”

She ran towards him, arm reaching out.  It was his best chance.

Yet, as she came close enough to grab, he intercepted her hand and set it round the Flash’s arm.  “Take him,” he ordered.  Even as her eyes opened wide in shock, he scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door.

Behind him, he heard another *POP*.

Holding one of the rear doors open, Len fired a sheet of ice over the road.  Twisting round, he roared, “Fog!!!” at Mardon, and yanked the door shut.  In the cab, Lisa hauled on the wheel, turning the van crazy fast down a side street it barely fit.  Beside her, Rosa grabbed the dashboard; and, in the back of the van, Mick and Len braced the nearest trolleys of loot from sliding over the Flash’s prone body.

Mardon raised his arms and flung them wide; outside the mist thickened.  Behind them, the foremost squad car skidded on the ice halfway round to block the lane; more cars jammed the street outside the bank.

Lisa floored the gas pedal till they popped out on a nearly empty downtown through-street, where she braked sharply and continued at a douce and decent pace.  Transport travels at all hours; so, with the signage on the flanks of the van, they could pass for legitimate at a casual glance.  What lay inside the van was another matter:  they could not afford to be pulled over for speeding by a traffic cop.

“Ye-e-e-s,” Mardon gloated, pushing askew the trolley that Mick was bracing and kneeling down beside the Flash.  “I like your style, Cold, bringing him along.  This way we have time.  Gonna be fun.”

He began to finger the mask.  When his fingers were knocked aside, he looked up into a sneer.

“Take care of business first,” said Cold with contempt.  He gave Mardon a shove that left him sprawled against the side of the van, and pushed past to knock on the back of the cab.  Rosa twisted round to thumb the mike.

“Glider, get us to the rendezvous,” he said crisply.

Ten minutes of maze-like turns brought them to a side street of small businesses, closed for the night.  Among the cars along one curb were a small florist’s van, a Honda Civic, and his motorbike, forged parking permits prominently displayed.  The bigger van pulled to a halt in the middle of the street.

Silently, Mick flung open the rear doors, and pulled out the ramp.  Cold grabbed the first trolley and rushed it down, unlocked the back of the florist’s van, and started to throw in the money.  Mick joined him. Mardon followed with the next trolley, followed uncertainly by Zap.  Rosa opened the cab door and stepped down to the road.

“You drive,” Cold said to Mick.

Running back to the van, he saw Peek-a-Boo kneeling beside the Flash, one hand on his chest, waiting—he presumed—for orders.

“The Honda.  Back seat.”

He waited only long enough to see them *POP* off, and then bolted for the cab to slap wordlessly on the driver’s door, sending Lisa away.  She already knew her instructions:  to abandon and torch the big van a couple of miles away.  Turning, he saw that Mick had seated himself in the driver’s seat of the florist’s van and started the engine.  Further down the street, Peek-a-Boo had bamfed both herself and the Flash inside, and laid the unconscious hero across the back seat, legs dangling awkwardly into the well of the car.  She opened the car’s rear door and scrambled out.

Slowly, Captain Cold trotted back down the street.  The last of the loot was tossed into the florist’s van, the trolleys abandoned.  The other Rogues athletically leapt up to sit on the piles of cash; and Mick rolled down the window.  Leaning in, Cold said quietly, “Start the share without me.  If Scudder comes by, give him his cut.  Keep an eye on them, Mick—all of them.”

“Gotcha.”

Mick put the van in drive and took off.  Cold strode down the street to the car.

“Boss….”  Peek-a-Boo bit her lip.  “We taking him to the hideout?  I know it’s the Flash; and he deserves all he gets; but even so … he needs a doctor.”

“You going soft on me?”

“I was in the Pipeline,” she said in a low voice.  “Believe me, I’d like all of them dead, but….”  She shook her head.  “Boss, we don’t kill.  I don’t kill.  We should take him to a hospital.”

“They wouldn’t know what to do with him,” he said brusquely.  “He’s a meta.”  He shoved his hand in his pocket, pulled out a key ring, and unlocked the car door.  “Inside, Shawna.  You’re driving; I’m taking the bike.”

“Where’re we going?”

“S.T.A.R. Labs,” he said shortly; but, as he headed further downstreet to the bike, he realized she hadn’t moved.  He turned his head, looking back at her even as he continued to walk away.

“No!” she choked in a panic.  “No!!”

He stopped.  She looked as though, at any moment, she might teleport in terror.  Biting his lip, he tried to relax lest he scare her further. Then he turned and walked slowly back, his arms slightly spread to the side, hands well away from his gun.

“Hey, Shawna,” he said gently, stopping a good yard away.  “You can do this.”

She shook her head, eyes pleading.

“I won’t let anyone get you, I promise.  You’re never going back in the Pipeline.  If there’s any trouble, I’ll see that you get away, if they catch me myself.  But I need you to drive so that I can take the bike.”

“But S.T.A.R. Labs?”  It was a barely audible whimper.

“It’s got to be them.  Who else can help him?”  He waited for a response, and then added reasonably, “I said … he’s a meta.  If we drop him off at Memorial Hospital, regular doctors won’t know what they’re seeing.”

A meta herself, she had to know this was true.  To his relief, she gave a shaky nod.  Then she took the keys out of the car door, and got in.

S.T.A.R. Labs security was appalling, but not quite non-existent.  For a moment, Cold paused, turned to check that Peek-a-Boo was still waiting—nervously shifting from foot to foot—by the car, with the hero unconscious at her feet; then he turned back to work, heard a click, and pulled the door open.  Behind him, he felt the shift of air as Shawna teleported in, and felt the downdust as she left again.  Brushing at his parka, he heard the car door shut, the engine shift into gear, the tires squeal her departure.  He knew she would call Lisa and pick her up, that they would park near (but not at) the warehouse, and then rendezvous with the rest of the Rogues.

Meanwhile, he considered how best to carry the Flash inside without aggravating his injuries.  There was no indication that his break-in had been noticed, though there were cameras in the vicinity.  Having had dealings with Team Flash before, this was no great surprise; but it still annoyed him for their sheer neglect of the most obvious precautions—especially right now when it would have been so convenient to be able to hand the hero over to his friends and simply leave the responsibility with them.  In lieu of this solution, he slipped his right hand under Barry’s shoulders as gently as he could, careful to support his head against his upper arm, and then put the other under Barry’s hips.  Lifting him as smoothly as possible, he rose to his feet.

When Cold arrived—still unchallenged—at the Cortex, he found the place deserted.  Which explained much, he supposed, but helped not at all.  He thought it unlikely that Flash had been on patrol that night without back-up; but where everyone had gone was a mystery.

Still, it did not take long to locate the med-bay and slip the Flash onto the bed.  (Shawna’s help would have—no!  He wouldn’t go there.  If he’d insisted she come in with him, she’d probably have quit the Rogues on the spot.)  He looked around to see what equipment, if any, looked sufficiently familiar for him to use.  Over the years, he’d picked up a fair amount of First Aid, not to mention watching closely any time he had needed a doctor.  Granted, this had left him with more knowledge of the proper treatment of bullet and knife wounds than injuries as severe as Flash’s seemed to be; still, in the circumstances, doing anything ought to be better than nothing.

Afterwards, he dithered—loath to leave the injured hero unconscious and alone, but equally wanting to get the hell out and away.

Finally, he returned to the Cortex.

Cold Sober

As they came closer to the bank, Caitlin turned onto a side street and slowed to a crawl.  Finally, she pulled over to the curb and stopped.  Ahead, the way was barred by a police barricade; there were emergency lights, squad cars, and—as they could hear once the window was rolled down—the sound of Captain Singh’s voice hailing whoever was inside, warning them of the police presence and calling on them to surrender.

“Okay,” said Cisco.  “I guess we aren’t going in the front way.”

“Can you breach us in?” Caitlin asked.  But Cisco shook his head.

“Not without knowing more of what’s going on in there,” he explained.  “I mean, I’ve never been inside—it’s not my bank, I’ve had no reason to go there—I don’t know the layout.”  After a pause for thought, he added, “It’ll be in the city records,” then slapped his thighs in frustration.  “Which I can’t access from the van, of course.”

“Maybe if you said you were called in by the Task Force?” she said hopefully.

He shrugged.  “Well, Joe’d cover for me—though what you’d be doing here is another matter.”  He got out.  Then he hesitated.  Hand on the open door, he looked up the street towards the barricade, considering the situation.  Then he bent back down to point out, “But, if I’m here officially, I’ll never be allowed into the bank.  They’ve got the whole area on lockdown.”  The CCPD would be keeping civilians safely out of the way, whether bystanders, reporters, or S.T.A.R. Lab consultants.  After all, from their perspective, the bank robbers could well be trapped inside.  There might be a shoot-out.  There might be hostages.  They didn’t know the robbers were the Rogues—which, given Snart’s organizational ability, meant that they had almost certainly got away before even the first squad car had arrived.  Which made the entire CCPD response a moot issue.

Except that, with the sudden silence from the comms and the suit, Team Flash had a very different, urgent priority.

Caitlin bit her lip.  “If you get closer to the rear of the building, could you vibe?”

“Maybe,” Cisco said.  He was not in costume; but, in the circumstances, that wasn’t a point he intended to bring up.  Leaving the van door open, he crossed the street and walked up to the rear wall of the bank, keeping as much to the shadows as possible.  There he laid one hand on the brick and sank into trance.  At first there was nothing but an impression of daily routine.  Then, vaguely, he could sense the recent disturbance.  There was little detail.  He pushed for clarity; but he was not touching any part of the building that had experienced the robbery.

Focusing harder, he tried to extend his vibe beyond the offices on the other side of the wall—to the customer service area at the front, to the vault, the security office.  Dimly, a floor up, he picked out the anomaly of a dizzy, slipping, falling form.  And … was that a figure?

Then he realized that the vague standing shape was female—a woman with arm outstretched, pointing towards a dazed man in uniform, down on his knees.  The Top, it must be:  Rosa Dillon using her powers to disorient one of the security guards.

Of Barry he could tell nothing:  not now in the present, nor during the robbery.  Cisco sighed and relaxed his focus.  When he returned to the van, he simply shook his head and slumped back in his seat.

“Open a breach back to S.T.A.R. Labs,” Caitlin suggested.  “If you can find the floor plan of the bank….”

“Right now,” Cisco said with only mild exaggeration, “I couldn’t breach from my couch to the kitchen.”

“Sorry.”

Cisco rubbed his eyes, and then sat up a bit.  “Look, maybe we can get some help on this.”  He reached in his pocket for his phone.  “Felicity can get the plans fastest, have them waiting for us.”

As he searched for the number, though, there came a voice on the van’s radio.

“Chill out, folks—”

Their eyes met.  “Snart,” they mouthed to each other.

“—your hero’s back here at S.T.A.R. Labs.  I’d say ‘safe and well’—”  The mocking drawl did not reassure.  “—but I have to admit, he’s a bit banged up round the edges.”

Caitlin swung the wheel round in the fastest three-point turn of her life.

“Want to come and take him off my hands?”

She floored the pedal.

Perhaps Cisco should have tried to breach them back anyway, though it would have meant leaving a marked S.T.A.R. Labs van suspiciously close to the scene of the crime.  Later, when they had time to think of that wild race through the city, they realized they’d been lucky not to have been chased down and ticketed by a roving cop car; but then, most of those had been pulled off patrol to surround the bank.  At any rate, they arrived at the Labs without incident, parking only feet from the entrance.  Neither of them noted a motorbike parked discreetly far off.  In his urgency, Cisco fumbled the keycard twice before finally getting it oriented to slide into the slot.  Then they bolted down the corridor with the tips of Caitlin’s hair starting to frost.  She desperately fought for calm.

When the elevator doors opened, a frantic glance showed the Cortex to be empty.  Without hesitation, Caitlin headed for the med bay.  There she found Barry lying carefully stripped of his suit.  A light hospital blanket covered him; superficial abrasions had been cleaned and bandaged; and a catheter had been inserted into his arm and neatly taped in place.  Tubing led up to a bag.  She checked the label quickly:  glucose.

“How is he?” asked Cisco.

She glanced round.  He stood a few feet into the room, his eyes on Barry.  “I don’t know,” she replied.  Training won over urgency.  She washed her hands and put on gloves and mask before grabbing a stethoscope.  Barry’s heartbeat was erratic, his breathing shallow and laboured.  A quick manual check suggested damaged ribs on the right side; the leg on the same side was clearly badly broken, though someone—presumably Snart—had done their best to set it.

Then she turned and pulled down the mask.  “I need X-rays,” she said.  “Probably an MRI.  I suspect internal injuries; I don’t know how bad.”

A half hour of tests later, they had to admit the really bad news.  Barry wasn’t healing—or, at least, as Caitlin put it, no faster than anyone else.

Two hours later, sitting at her lab desk, she said, “No change to his DNA as far as I can see; but he seems to have only a residual connection to the Speed Force.  Something has—”  She paused to choose her words.  “—shorted him out.  So to speak.”  The metaphor made her grimace; but it made more sense to Cisco than medical Latin.

“So we’ll reboot him,” he said, and shrugged.

Of course, it was not that simple.  Barry had lost his powers before; but each time there had been a different cause and a different cure.  The cold gun could not have taken Barry’s powers, Cisco was sure of that; nor (for that matter) the heat or gold guns.  Weather Wizard had the power to start a thunderstorm; but such lightning would otherwise be natural, and could not cancel Barry’s speed.  Of Mirror Master and the Top they knew less; but they were pretty sure neither had the ability to sever Barry from the Speed Force.

“That new Rogue we saw,” Caitlin began.

“Yeah,” said Cisco thoughtfully.  “Who was she?”

The question was rhetorical, since neither of them recalled seeing her before.  Captain Cold could have answered the question; but, in so far as either of them considered the matter, they assumed he’d left S.T.A.R. Labs as soon as he knew them to be heading back.

Caitlin redonned gloves and mask to examine Barry again.  Cisco picked up the Flash suit, discarded over the back of a chair, and took it off to his lab.  He returned some twenty minutes later to report that the suit was as fried as Barry’s power.

“It looks like some sort of extremely powerful electromagnetic pulse,” he said.  “If that new Rogue is a meta who can throw EMP blasts….”  He looked thoughtful.  “I wonder what we should call her?  EMPact, maybe?”

Caitlin rolled her eyes.

“Why not?  It’s a good name?”

“More to the point,” she said impatiently, “it would explain what happened to Barry.  The EMP blast ruptured his link to the Speed Force.”

“Well, we aren’t going to recreate the dark matter explosion!  Not again!  I won’t even try!”  Cisco thought for a bit.  “We have used high voltage.”  He frowned doubtfully.  “Well, Blackout siphoned his powers, which isn’t quite the same.  But, yeah!  I can modify—!”

He startled Caitlin by jumping up and heading out of the med bay at a run.   “No, wait!  Cisco!” she called.  But he was gone.

She debated going after him; but then Barry stirred behind her.  There was a small beep from the monitor.  She turned, just as he opened his eyes.

Barry blinked.  It hurt.  A lot.  And … he turned his head slightly, eyes scanning the room.  Yup.  He was in the med bay.  Again.

Caitlin’s face loomed close as she bent over him.  “Hey, Barr,” she said softly.  “How’re you feeling?”

He licked his lips, and croaked, ““Okay, I guess.  What’s the damage this time?  How long am I going to be here?”

She took a deep breath.  “Well, about that.”  She looked round, grabbed a chair, and carried it back to sit by the bed.  “It’s a bit complicated.  What do you remember?”

“Well, there was a bank heist.”

She nodded.

“The Rogues.  We knew they would … sooner or later.  I got there.”  He broke off and coughed, then winced.

“You broke a couple of ribs.”

He nodded, not too vigorously.  “Well … I was fighting with Cold, zipping around past his shots; and Heat Wave and Weather Wizard got into it, too.  And then I figured I should go check on the guards—I mean, we had agreed no killing….”

“You and Cold, that ‘Rogues Code’.”

“Yeah.  And I trust him … mostly … but he’s working with a team.”  He struggled to sit up, but only for an instant. Sudden agony flattened him.  He blanched and pressed his lips hard together.

Caitlin put a hand gently on his shoulder.  “Barr, don’t try to tell me the whole story.  Just … do you know how you were injured?”

He shook his head.

“Your suit camera showed … there was a new Rogue?”

He nodded.  “A girl.”  He thought back to the robbery, and then said uncertainly, “I checked for the guards and then came back to the … upstairs, I was upstairs … I headed back.  Then I—” He looked at her questioningly.  “I don’t know what happened after that.”

She nodded.

“Where did you find me?”

“Back here, actually,” she said gently.  “Captain Cold must have brought you.”

A faint smile lit his face.  Then it was replaced by puzzlement as she injected medication into the drip.  This only deepened when she said, “This should help.”  Then she turned, and added, “You’ll feel better in a little while, Barry.  I’ve just given you some painkillers.”

He frowned.  “But…?”

She sat back down beside him, and patted his arm.  “Barr, there’s something I have to tell you.”

She sat with him, chatting inconsequently about the arson case and teething babies and the new barista at Jitters.  He responded almost randomly, knowing that Cisco must be working on some miracle in his lab—one or the other of them always pulled the proverbial rabbit out in the nick of time—and wondering how long it would be.

“Did you call Iris?” he broke in suddenly.

“To worry her before we know more?” Caitlin asked.  “We’ll call her, it’s okay.”

But he could see that she was worrying; and that, in itself, concerned him.  That, and the fact that (though he felt little pain) there was a dreadful weakness throughout his body, and a fuzziness that he couldn’t quite think through (which might just be the drugs).  He’d lost his speed before; so he knew what that felt like:  the un-super un-powered ‘weakness’ of people who didn’t have the Speed Force coursing through them; of his normal non-meta life before the explosion.  This weakness was scary different.

Eventually, Cisco returned.  His step was buoyant; he radiated triumph.  “Okay, I’ve got it!” he said.  In one hand, dangling, he held something that looked vaguely like a spear gun.  “When Barry was drained by Blackout, we jump-started him back to his powers with a jolt of 20,000 kiloamps of electricity fed through the treadmill—”

“Cisco!  Barry’s in no state to use the treadmill!”

He nodded vigorously.  “Soooooooo, I’ve modified the delivery system.”  He hefted the mystery device.  It was about four feet long, most of the length being a slender rod with a pointed tip.  Around the lower portion of this spiralled a bright strip of metal; and both jutted from a short bulbous base with an insulated stock.

The angle was awkward from the bed; but Barry’s eyes scanned down the device from tip to base.  A heavy cable fell from there to the floor, snaked out the door, and—he assumed—continued down the hall to connect with the main generator.

Caitlin looked at Cisco with a look of despair that Barry almost missed.  “Barry can’t take 20,000 kiloamps!  Don’t you realize—”  She choked off her words and smoothed her features to blank professionalism.  With a glance at Barry, she got up, whisked over to Cisco, grabbed his free arm, and steered him out the door.

For a good five minutes he could hear dim arguing from the Cortex.  He couldn’t make out the words; but, being far from stupid, he had a fair idea what Caitlin’s objection probably was.

Finally, they returned.

“Cisco feels we should discuss this with you,” said Caitlin.  Her voice was frosty.

The engineer smiled weakly at Barry and shrugged.  “Look, man, she’s the doctor.  I just build gadgets.”

Caitlin came quickly over and checked Barry’s pulse.  Only then did she put a hand gently on his shoulder and say, “Barry, you need to listen to me.  It is my medical opinion that your injuries are too severe.  This ‘treatment’ of Cisco’s may work—I’m not denying that it may theoretically work—to reconnect you with the Speed Force.  But what good is that if it kills you first?”

Yes, this was what Barry had concluded the two of them were discussing.

“You have an alternative,” Caitlin went on.  “And I think you should consider it seriously.  If we take you to hospital, if you receive the same medical treatment that any other person would get, you should recover normally.  It’ll take time, same as it would for anyone else—for me or Cisco—but it’ll probably be only a few weeks in the ICU, and then a couple of months maybe in a ward, and then some rehab.  And, if I’m right and you reconnect naturally with the Speed Force as you get stronger, then it’ll take less time than that.  Anyway, even if you don’t, you’ll be stronger—and then you can use Cisco’s whateverhecallsit.”  She waved dismissively at the device in Cisco’s hands.

“Electrostimulator.”

“In two or three months,” said Barry.

“Probably.”

He thought about it, but only for a moment.  “Caitlin, I appreciate the warning; but let’s not forget that I am still the Flash.  You told me that my DNA hadn’t changed and there’s still a trace of the Speed Force in me.  I think I’d rather take my chances, and go with the Electro Gun.”  He waved a finger weakly in Cisco’s direction.

“You sure, man?”

Barry nodded.

“No!”

“It’s my decision, though, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” said Caitlin vigorously.  Striding over to Cisco, she plucked the Electrostimulator from his hands, put it on the lab desk, and walked him firmly back out of the Med Bay once more.

Cold Comfort

Knowing that Team Flash were on the way back to their hero, Len did not bother to wait for their arrival.  He had done what he could; and Dr. Snow could take it from there.  She didn’t need his input.  Still, though he did not doubt that Lisa and Mick—and the rest of the Rogues—would consider it obvious that he return to the warehouse and split the take, he could not resist the opportunity to have a look round.  Making sure that the internal security system was off (and with the strong suspicion that Flash’s friends would be too busy to notice the fact), he left the Cortex to explore the empty corridors, labs, and offices.  He paid particular attention to the Speed Lab, and grimly visited the infamous Pipeline, though he found the cells unoccupied.

Eventually, he returned to the Cortex.  Glancing at the monitors, he realized that the security systems were back on line; and, for an instant, he wondered why no one had spotted him and raised the alarm.  Then—kicking himself for a fool—he realized that, of course, their primary concern would be their injured friend, and slipped silently down to the med bay, intending to hover unseen outside the door.  Inside, though, was none of the all-engrossing activity he expected in a medical emergency.  The room was empty, except for the body on the examination table.

If the others had left Barry there, unattended….

For a moment, his mind froze.

Then, knowing his cowardice, he did not go in but returned unseen to the cortex.  There he checked the monitors, and found Ramon and Snow in the S.T.A.R. Labs cafeteria.  He slid into a chair, grabbed an earpiece, and switched on the sound.

“You’re the best qualified,” he heard Ramon say.  “If he can’t take it, you’ll spot it faster than I will.”

“No way!” said Snow, waving her denial emphatically.  “Do no harm! I’m a doctor, Cisco.  There’s a viable alternative—all emphasis on ‘viable’!  If he goes to hospital….”

“He doesn’t want to go to hospital!”

Hospital?  Snow’s favoured option startled Len.  He could have taken the Flash there himself, hours ago.

“He’s not in a fit state to decide what he wants,” Snow declared.

“Why?  Just because he’s not got his powers?”

“Because he’s not thinking clearly.  It could kill him, Cisco.  Don’t you get that?  It could kill him.”

Len could see the patience Ramon forced upon himself.  “The Electrostimulator will reconnect Barry to the Speed Force.  I’d bet my life on it.”

“You’re betting his life on it.”

“No.  He’s betting his life on it.”

“The treatment is experimental and I do not authorize it.”  The words were Snow’s; but, with fascination, Len saw Snow turn to Frost even as she replied.

“Get a grip on yourself,” Cisco said urgently.

“Why?” came the chilly reply.  “If you want him shocked, then I can do it.  Better than she ever could.  I don’t mind hurting him.  Might be fun.”

Len took off the earpiece and, after a moment’s consideration, switched the security cameras off again.

Barry woke to a touch on his shoulder, opened his eyes, and saw the sleeve of the parka.  He looked up at Len, puzzled; and Captain Cold smirked back down at him.

“Well, Twinkle-Toes,” he drawled.  “You flash no more, I hear?”

“I thought you’d gone already,” was the reply.

“What?  And miss all the excitement?”  With a flourish, Len gestured round the room.

“I take it you’ve been lurking.”

Len pursed his lips.  “I do not ‘lurk’, Scarlet.  I ‘case the joint’.”

“What did you take?”

“Not this time.”  Len winked.  “Oh, I looked round—got a reputation to keep up—but I stayed to find out….”  He hesitated.

“Aw, you were worried about me.”  Barry smiled broadly.

“Chill out, Speedy.  You’re fun to have around, that’s all.”

“Speedy’s in Star City,” Barry informed him.

For a moment, Len almost sat on the bed to talk; but, just in time, remembered Snow’s obvious worry.  Whatever Barry’s injuries were, they were serious—and that was in addition to the loss of his healing ability.  A chair lurked a few feet away, presumably used by someone while speaking to the patient.  He snagged it, swung it round, and straddled it.

“Okay, Barry,” he said briskly.  “How much did your doctor actually tell you?”

“I’ve lost my connection to the Speed Force,”” Barry said weakly.  “Cisco’s come up with a thing—”  He gestured vaguely towards the lab desk, and Len twisted round to see a lengthy doohickey.  “—that he thinks will work.  But, if it’s like the last time, it zaps like lightning and hurts like hell.”

Len nodded, grasping the sense of the argument he’d overheard.  “I think I should tell you that Dr. Snow seems to have vetoed it.”

“Damn.”

Len raised a brow.

“She wants me to go to hospital … for like the next two-three months or so.”

“She’s worried.”

“I’m worried,” said Barry, with a vestige of vigour.  “Central City needs the Flash.”

Len got up and went over to the lab bench, where he spent a few minutes examining Cisco’s gadget from tip to cable. Briefly, he slipped out the door to see where the cable led—too far off scene for him to take the risk of tracing it—and then came back to pick up and heft it again.

Then he put it down.  And heard a whimper.  He turned round to see Barry’s pleading eyes.  Biting his lip in thought, he looked back down at the … Electro­stimulator … and then at Barry again, and finally crossed the room to stare imperturbably down at the fallen hero.  He waited, with a raised brow, for Barry to speak.  After a while, he was rewarded with a long-suffering sigh.

“Will you do it for me?”

“Me?” said Len archly.  “Really, Flash.  You do keep coming to me asking for things, don’t you?”  His pause was far too short for a reply; he snapped, “Give me one good reason why I should!”

Barry looked taken aback; and Len continued, pointedly, “What if your Dr. Snow is right?  If you’re too weak to take the shock … do you think I want that?  Never mind about another murder on my record—”

Barry looked as if he were about to speak, but Len forged on. “Why should I be willing for you to die?  Life here would be a lot less interesting without you around.”

Len paused; but this time Barry didn’t try to interrupt.  Instead, he looked gratifyingly worried as Len continued, “On the other hand, I gather that, if your friends take you to the hospital, you’ll eventually make a complete recovery.  Sounds like a win-win to me.”

There was a slight frown on Barry’s face.  He looked up at Len searchingly, but forbore to plead.

“There’ll be at least a couple of months when you’ll be on ice,” Len added, and saw the pun elicit a twitch of the lips.  “That’s a couple of months in which Central City is wide open for me and my Rogues to plunder at will.”  He flung one arm dramatically wide, laid a hand on the cold gun, and struck a pose, glaring villainously down at the Flash.

Barry grinned broadly.  “I take it that’s a yes, then?”

Len rolled his eyes.  “You do realize,” he asked more moderately, “that there’s no guarantee this’ll work?”

“Worth a try.”

“The risk of death is worth ‘a try’?” Len asked quietly.  He searched Barry’s face; but there was no flinch, just a nod.

After thought, Len nodded decisively.  Fetching the Electrostimulator, he checked it over quickly once more, then aimed the tip at Barry’s chest.  “Not here,” he said simply.  “Too near the heart.” With a wicked little smile, he lowered the tip to point at Barry’s groin—that elicited a flinch—before finally raising it to slightly below waist height.  “Gonna hurt,” he warned.

“I know,” Barry whispered.  “I can take it, Len.”

Their eyes met; and then Barry pressed his lips tightly together and gave a sharp nod.

Len pulled the trigger.

It went on too long.  That was all the thought Barry could manage.  He was determined not to scream:  it was a matter of pride, and more than pride:  it was a matter of kindness to Len, so as not to make the pain harder on him.

Barry gritted his teeth, and finally set them into his lips.  Behind the pain, he could feel the tip of the Electrostimulator.  Not sharp (not as the pain was sharp):  it pressed bluntly into his body just below the navel.  Agony flashed from that blinding point along his limbs to his fingers and toes.  Barry thought—in the tiny bit of consciousness still capable of thought—that, if he were able to turn his head and look, there would be lightning sparks from those fingers and toes.

He did not turn his head to check.  He held himself rigid against a tetany of agony.  If a muscle shifted, he would be lost in writhing.

He did not look away from Len—from Captain Cold, his own gun holstered, who held lightning in his hands.  Face grim as granite and chill as an antarctic glacier.  Ice-blue eyes that scarcely blinked.  Barry stared back, eye to eye, through his tears.

His teeth broke the skin of his lower lip; and a thin trickle of blood ran sideways down his chin.

It went on too long.

Abruptly, Len flicked off the power.

“Don’t stop,” Barry muttered hoarsely.  “I can take it.”

Setting the Electrostimulator across the seat of the chair, Len leaned over.  One finger brushed lightly along Barry’s mouth, blotting up blood to show fresh skin.

“You don’t need to,” he said softly.  “Your lip’s healed.”

For a moment, this seemed meaningless.  Then Barry felt the Speed Force tingling through him, energizing his cells.  As Len looked down marvelling, the minor scrapes and bruises simply faded before his eyes.

“Cold,” Barry murmured.

“I’m here,” Len said.  Then he saw Barry shiver, and shiver again as his metabolism ran through the energy in his body.

When a deFrosted Caitlin finally returned to the med bay to check on her patient, she found Barry deeply asleep.  A fresh bag of glucose hung on the pole, fueling the speed of his recovery.  Around him was tucked a warm blue parka, the fur trim of its hood snugged cosily under his chin.

Bitter Cold

Captain Cold strode into the warehouse later than anyone, even Mick, could have expected him to turn up.  He knew the shareout must have taken place hours before:  he had no idea who might be there, if anyone at all.  Nevertheless, he was not surprised to find that most of the Rogues still hung around, celebrating the success of the heist in the security of safe quarters.  He had, after all, done his best to impress on them the risk of drunk talk at Saints and Sinners that some snitch might sell to the cops.

“Hey!” slurred Mick, and toasted him with an open bottle of beer.  He gestured toward the case on the floor.  “Help y’rself.”

Len swept his friend’s feet off the chair, plonked himself down, and reached in.  “So,” he said as he popped the cap off with his tough, gloved hands, “the split done?”

Mick grunted and nodded, adding, “Scudder came—complaining that the Flash never showed for some reason.  But I paid him anyway like you said.”

Cold scanned the room.  Mirror Master was absent, as was the Top.  Probably celebrating privately, he concluded (and hoped so, for their sakes, or he really would ice them this time, Rogues’ Code or no).  Weather Wizard was slouched on the far side of the room, playing cards with Lisa and Peek-a-Boo.  And Piper, he noted:  the independent black-market tech genius had no share in the take, having been paid for his help already; but clearly he’d heard the news and come to celebrate.

He didn’t see Zap.  “Where’s the kid?” he asked.

“Fired her ass,” Heat Wave replied laconically.  Seeing Len’s look of inquiry, he went on, “Hell, if she can’t follow orders…!  She wasn’t even supposed to come inside, not once she’d fried the security system.  If it wasn’t for that—”  He broke off, with a keen look at Len’s face.  “Wrong move?  I figured….”

“No, fair enough; I’d’ve done it myself.”  Len paused.  “You pay her?”

Mick nodded, and then drained his beer.  He put the empty on the floor.  Reaching over for another drink, he added, “Got your share over there.”  Bottle in hand, he gestured across the room.

“Thanks.”  Len did not bother to go over and count it.  With a nod, he headed over to join the game, mindful of his leadership.  As Captain Cold, he played several hands, rehashed the heist, and jested about the incompetence of the CCPD.  If Mardon gave him a close look now and then, he feigned not to notice; and the other man did not ask about the fate of the Flash.

Sipping slowly, he made his one beer last till after dawn.  When the game finally broke up, he was therefore sober enough to haul Mick to his feet and take him back to the safe house, riding pillion on the motor bike.  With the other man’s arm over his shoulders, he got them both into the apartment, persuaded Mick down to his bedroom, flopped him seated on the bed, and got his boots off.

When he reached for the belt buckle, though, Mick brushed his hand away.  “Not in the mood,” he slurred.

“Oh, shut up, Mick,” Len said, exasperated.  To a vague expression of surprise on the other man’s face, he undid the buckle and hauled it out of the loops.  Then he pushed Mick down on the bed, and told him to sleep it off.

“I’ll shift the goods,” he said.  Leaving the apartment, he spent most of the morning back at the warehouse moving his and Mick’s share into his car and then to a different hide-out.  With a haul like this, he took no chances.

By this time he was running mostly on adrenaline, plus a disinclination to stop and think, let alone sleep and dream.  The night had started well; it had not ended badly, either.  It was the in-between that was nightmare.

Mick woke in the late afternoon to silence.  After four aspirins and a shower, he looked in Len’s room but found his friend out to the world with blankets up to his ears.  Wondering when he’d got in (for he’d heard nothing), he headed back to his own room.  There he picked up yesterday’s clothes, which he’d left on the floor when he’d stripped, and went back to the bathroom to dump them in the hamper.

Still naked, he headed for the kitchen.  A bowl of Froot Loops later, he took a large mug of black coffee into the living room, plonked his bare butt on the couch, and reached for the remote.  He rejected CNN for the local news, and flicked on the TV to hear their coverage of the robbery.

Perhaps the voices roused Len, for he came in just before the weather report.  He did not (to Mick’s surprise) say anything about taking his naked ass off the couch that other people also sat on.  Nor, though Mick turned expectantly round, did he ask any questions.

“They don’t know it was us,” Mick volunteered.

“Good.”

Mick turned off the set.  “If you grab a shower, I’ll get dressed and cook us something fit to eat.”

Len nodded, and disappeared down the hall.  Taking his coffee mug through to shove it in the dishwasher, Mick could hear the shower start running.  He could hear it as he dressed.  It continued to run as he rummaged through the refrigerator, grabbed a carton of eggs, bacon and sausages, potatoes and onions.  After that, his ears were filled with the sizzle of the food in the pan; and it was only when he turned off the blue, blue flame of the gas, and dished the food onto plates that he realized that the shower was still going.

Leaving the plates on the counter, he went down the hall to rap on the bathroom door.  “You fall down the drain?” he called.  There was no answer; and he tried the door to find it locked.  “Well, food’s getting cold,” he grumbled loudly, and returned to the kitchen.  Both plates went on the coffee table in front of the couch; and he tucked in hearty.

Len reappeared when he was halfway through the meal.  He looked rather washed out.

Without commenting, Mick gestured at the full plate.  To his relief, Len did come and sit at the other end of the couch; but he held the fork for a long time before sliding it into the eggs, ate as if he wasn’t sure what he was doing, and left half the food.

It was not a good sign.

A couple of hours later Lisa walked in.  Unannounced:  either she’d cut herself a key or picked the lock.  Len looked more resigned to the invasion than usual.  Mick offered her a beer.

“So … what happened to the Flash?” she started, throwing herself into the squashy chair and slinging her legs up over one of the arms.  “Mardon was bitching like hell when we arrived, and even more when Boo said you’d taken him to S.T.A.R. Labs.”

Len shrugged.  “Lost his powers.  Got them back.”

“Oooo-kay.  Not even half the story from the sound of it; but your business.”  She accepted the beer Mick handed her.  He’d already opened it; and she set it to her lips for a short swig.  “Scudder’s not happy,” she added.

“Because Flash never showed,” Mick put in.  When Lisa agreed, he added unexpectedly, “It was another of those arson cases.”  He pointed at the TV screen.  “Highrise fire.”  He didn’t bother to say that the Flash had been busy rescuing people:  it went without saying.  He added, “At least, there’s nothing on the news about arson.  But I bet it is—there’ve been too many fires lately.”

Lisa didn’t stay long.  She was, she said with great satisfaction, about to go shopping.  “Not to worry,” she added.  “I’m not touching last night’s loot.  I’m just spending what I’ve got in anticipation of replacing it—more than replacing it—in six months time.”

Len roused himself to warn, “No five-finger discounts, Lise.  I don’t want attention at a time like this.”

She snorted.  As if they’d catch her!  But she knew her brother’s rules of old, and nodded.  A few minutes later, she left with a toss of her curls.  Whether she’d do as Len said was, Mick thought, more than doubtful.  However, he rated close to nil any chance of her being caught by security at the mall; so it was highly unlikely she’d be caught out by Len, either.  As for himself, he rode over to Saints and Sinners and played pool for a couple of hours.  If Len had been there (or even one of the other Rogues), he might have stayed longer; but there were some drunks looking for trouble.  With someone to watch his back, he’d have enjoyed a good fight—but then, Len would approve of that as much as Lisa’s shoplifting.  So he left and came home.

Len was sitting at their small, cheap table—not eating, or spreading out blueprints, or anything else that made sense; just sitting, bent over, staring blankly at the scratches on the pattern printed on the metal surface.  He didn’t even react when the door opened.

Damn, Mick had thought he’d got past that.

Shaking his head, he went into the kitchen, got another beer from the fridge, opened it, and set it down in front of Len.  Slowly (far too slowly) Len looked up blankly, focused on Mick’s face, and then looked back down at the bottle.  With a slight tap of his fingers, he pushed it a half inch away.  “Too easy,” he muttered.

“You ain’t your old man,” Mick pointed out.

Len shook his head slightly, gave the bottle a further tap away, and then sat back limply in the chair.  He did meet Mick’s eyes, at least.

Mick shrugged, picked the bottle up, and drained half of it in a single swallow.  Unseen by Len, though, his face openly showed his concern as he crossed the room to sit on the couch.

“Anything on?”

He got no response, and hadn’t really expected one.  He put down the beer.  For a few seconds he toyed with the remote, and then put it back on the coffee table.

“So what really did happen with the Flash?”

“What I said.  He lost his powers.”

Mick frowned, thinking.  Then he turned round. “That blast Zap threw.  I figured it fried the suit.  It … fried Flash, too, somehow?”

Len focused slowly on him.

“That figures,” Mick nodded.  “Yeah, I wondered what went down—how his feet seemed to … momentum, yeah … his feet going at human speed, while the top half of him was still flashing at superspeed.”  He nodded again.  “Got it.”  Satisfied, he picked up the beer bottle and drained it.  Then he turned back to Len.  “How’d he get his powers back?”

Len didn’t reply.

“Huh,” said Mick, realizing most of the truth, if not the details.  “No wonder you took so long.”

Cold Sweat

Iris was curled up on a cot when her father popped in late in the morning.  He didn’t disturb her.  He suspected she’d been up most of the night—maybe the whole night, given the news about Barry.  Caitlin seemed to be nowhere:  presumably she’d eventually had the sense to go home.  That Iris hadn’t done the same … well, it wasn’t lack of sense.  (He’d reserve that phrase for her staying up so late just to get a story.)  No, it was love and worry.  And he knew that one well enough.

He slipped along to the med bay, where Barry was also asleep.  Quietly, he laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, very softly, so as not to wake him.  And, as he did not stir, Joe stood there for a long while, just looking at him; and after that he went back to work.

Caitlin came in mid-afternoon.  She did not feel she’d had enough sleep; but by her reckoning she’d had enough to be getting on with.  Barry was dozing lightly and Cisco asleep, unmoving and unstirrable.  Exactly what time he’d given into exhaustion she didn’t know.  She didn’t disturb them, but came back to the Cortex to check the monitors.  (Mercifully, there was nothing on that the police couldn’t handle.)  She was just about to head for the med bay to check Barry again when Iris came through, looking more than a little rumpled.  Quite clearly, she had stayed the … er … stayed the day.

Well, all of them had pulled all-nighters, far too often, in the sort of emergency that came with Team Flash.  Caitlin simply said, “Breakfast here or go out?”

“Oh, God!” Iris replied.  “Do I look that bad?”  Without waiting for an answer she left, and returned a while later, damp round the edges but lipstick fresh, holding a mug.  “Barry up?” she asked.

“He may be awake by now,” Caitlin replied.  “But not up up, please, Iris.  If you can control his impulse to think he’s recovered, I’ll thank you as his doctor.  That leg needs time; and the rest of him does too.”

Iris came and peered over her shoulder at the screen.  “Anything doing?”

“Not right now.”  Caitlin leaned back and swung the seat round to look up.  “Which is a good thing, under the circumstances.”

Iris nodded thoughtfully.  “Yeah, I was meaning to ask you about that.  Am I right?  Did Barry get hurt more last night than he’s letting on?”

Caitlin forced a little laugh.  “When does Barry ever admit how bad he’s hurting?  I just wish I could come up with something that worked on his pain more than a couple of seconds.”

“Yeah, but that’s not quite what I meant.”  Iris paused, sipped her coffee, and then sat down beside Caitlin.  She put the mug down, and leaned forward confidentially.  “The bank robbery.  He said he ‘zigged when he should have zagged’.  But how’d he get so banged up?”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Caitlin.  “I can tell you he didn’t get hit by the cold gun.  No burns or gilding, either.”

“Who was there, exactly.  Do you know?”

“Well, the camera showed Mardon was in on it.  Barry could have been hit by one of those mini-tornadoes, I suppose.  Whatever it was—whoever it was—”  She grimaced.  “There are really too many possibilities:  who is in Snart’s crew right now?  Anyway, the suit got damaged.  I don’t know what Cisco was able to pull off it; but I do know he spent hours working to fix it.”

Iris nodded.  “At least, with all the monitors in the suit, you knew Barry was hurt.  I’m just glad Cisco could breach him back here.  He certainly couldn’t have run on that leg!”

For an instant Caitlin froze, and then had the sense just to nod.  (Damn, Barry, she thought.  Why not tell Iris the truth?)  But mercifully, Iris then rose, picked up her mug, and headed off to the med bay.  So Caitlin was at least spared having to add any further lies to their conversation.

After work, Joe came to S.T.A.R. Labs bearing an armful of bags from Big Belly Burger.

“My man!” cried Cisco expansively at the sight, and claimed one of the bags immediately, opened it, and looked inside.

“Thanks, Joe,” said Caitlin gratefully, and took hers.

He nodded inquiringly in the direction of the med bay.

“Yes, he’s up.  Awake, I mean,” she corrected quickly.  “Iris is with him.”

“Great!” said Joe.  “I’ll just—”  And he headed off, at a quick walk.  Yet, in the doorway to the med bay, he paused.  It was just too glad a sight to interrupt; and he stood there, enjoying it, with a big grin on his face.  Barry was sitting up properly; and Iris was talking nineteen to the dozen, holding his hand.  After the previous night, if there was ever a sight for sore eyes, it was that.

Then Barry spotted Joe (or maybe smelt the food), and waved cheerily.  Iris looked round, and said, ”Hi, Dad!”  And Joe came in, handed one bag to his daughter, and dumped the rest in Barry’s lap, saying, “I guess these are for you.”

Barry grinned, opened one immediately at a normal speed, and flashed through the pile (a sight that Joe never took for granted), ending with a rumple of paper half fallen to the floor and his teeth set firmly in the final burger.  He swallowed and said, “Thanks, Joe.” He sounded really grateful.

Hospital food being, Joe supposed, hospital food even at S.T.A.R. Labs.

He grabbed another chair, carried it over, and set it down beside Iris.  By that time, the last of Barry’s burger had vanished.  “So, how’d you get hurt?” he asked.  “Last I saw, there was a streak of lightning blitzing that highrise getting people out to safety.  I figured once you’d saved everyone you’d head back here and then home for an early night.  Leastways, I’d have liked an early night.”

Barry looked at him inquiringly, and Joe went on, “Yeah, you wouldn’t probably know, but we had a bank robbery last night, too.”

Iris shared a glance with Barry.  For a moment, Joe thought she looked as though she were about to say something.  He looked at her inquiringly, but got no response; so he went on.  “I got called in.  It might’ve been a meta—or not, of course.  It might’ve been Snart and his crew, for that matter:  it looked the kind of clean job he’s known for:  so far no evidence has turned up at the scene.”  Iris, he noticed, hadn’t even opened her Big Belly bag yet, but toyed with the top with her fingers.

“You think it was Snart?” asked Barry.  “Did you find ice?”

Joe shook his head.  “By the time Singh authorized S.W.A.T. to go in, I figure it would’ve melted if there’d been any.  Assuming, of course, that there would have been any.  Whoever it was, they seem to have taken their time, along with most of the money in the vault.”  He added, “With all the plastic and on-line credit, folks don’t realize just how much cash is still used.  Weekend and end of the month, too:  they picked the right day, for sure.”

Barry nodded.

“Actually, if you ask me, I think it’s more likely to be Mark Mardon.”  (Joe saw Iris give Barry another of those looks.  If they thought he didn’t notice, they’d forgot he was a detective.)  “There’d been a whirlwind through the place, so to speak.  Not a lot left lying around after hours, of course; but … things wa—ay cross the room from where you’d think they’d be.”  Joe paused, shrugged, and added, “Interesting thing … the alarms weren’t cut; the whole security system was fried.  How that was done, I don’t know.”  He quirked his brow; but Barry just shook his head slightly.  “Does Mardon do lightning as well as storms?  Could that have done it?”

Before Barry could answer (if, thought Joe, he knew the answer), Iris perked up, intrigued.  “But Dad,” she asked, “if the security system wasn’t working—”

“One of the guards gave the alarm on an old land line.”  With a slight, thoughtful nod, Joe added, “Quick thinking, actually.”

“Were they all right, the guards?” asked Barry quietly.

“Mostly.  Kind of out of it for some reason.  Gas maybe?  One of them reported seeing a woman; but he gave a lousy description.”  Cocking his head to the side, he added, “Mardon doesn’t usually work with a partner, though.  Not since his brother died,” and sighed.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a meta,” said Iris.  She sounded a bit off, at least to Joe’s ears.  She did open her bag, finally; but, although she looked inside, she didn’t reach in for her burger.

“You want that?” Joe asked, starting to feel concerned.

“What?”

“Your burger,” he said, pointing at it.

“Oh!  Oh, yeah.”  She pulled it out and took a bite.  “Yeah, it’s great.  Thanks, Dad.”

“Uh-huh.”  He looked at her closely.  “You okay, Iris?”

She had her mouth full.  Nodding, chewing—glancing at Barry again (Damn!  What was up?)—she finally swallowed, licked her lips, and said, “Yeah, it’s just the fire last night.  People, the ones Barry rescued.  I talked to them … some of them, anyway.  It’s not easy, listening to what they have to say.  And it’s not the first fire.”  She sounded depressed.

“It’s not the second, either!”  (Underneath Joe felt relief, for this reaction from Iris made sense.  Also she took another bite of her burger.)  “Nor the last, if you ask me … because it’s arson.  I’m damn sure it’s arson.”

Iris nodded.  She didn’t say anything, for her mouth was full, but Barry spoke in her stead.  “Iris agrees.  They haven’t said anything officially, but—”

“It’s obvious by now, and just a matter of time before it hits the headlines.”

Still with her mouth full, Iris raised the index finger of her free hand in a quick twirl.

“And, if you ask me, I know who’s guilty!”  Joe paused for effect.  “Mick Rory.  And don’t—”  He pointed at Barry.  “—you try telling me about those Legends and their time ship!  He’s no hero to me!  He’s a damned pyromaniac; and the fires started just after he and Snart got back to Central City.”

“But he has an alibi,” protested Caitlin after Joe had gone.

“Being involved in a bank heist at the time the fire was set?”  Iris rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, that’s an alibi all right!”  She looked at Barry.  “Well, you have a choice.  You can tell Dad the truth, or let him arrest Heat Wave for arson.”

“Don’t,” muttered Barry.  He roused, and said more firmly, “Don’t tell him, Iris.  Okay?  There’s no evidence; so he won’t find any.  And Cecille would never countenance laying charges that haven’t a hope of sticking.”

Cold Shoulder

Iris had gone home, relieved at Barry’s progress and eager for an early night in her own bed.  Barry had dropped off to sleep again.  It was, perhaps, going to be a quiet night.

Then Mick strode into the Cortex.  Caitlin met his eye; but he said nothing more than, “He left his parka.”

To his amusement, Ramon audibly muttered, “We have got to do something about security round here,” a sentiment he had himself expressed before; and, for an instant, Caitlin glanced down at the engineer.  Then her eyes returned to Mick.

His expression softened.  She bit her lip, but said only, “In the med bay,” and walked off.

Mick followed in silence.  He could feel Ramon’s suspicious eye fixed on him; and, for a moment, focused his attention behind him, listening for the sound of a shifting chair and footsteps, perhaps even the opening of a breach.  But all he heard was the tapping of Caitlin’s heels.  She entered the med bay and crossed the room to the counter where the parka lay.

Mick, though, stopped dead in the doorway.  Unmasked, the Flash lay on an examination table, covered to his chest with a sheet.  From the apparatus, something was being administered intravenously.  Whether he was asleep or unconscious Mick couldn’t say—he was turned away; and Mick could not see his face.  Yet it had been over a day since the heist!  Over a day; and Mick knew the speedster healed miraculously fast.  If he was still in the med bay, then how badly had he been injured?  What state had he really been in when Len brought him here?

Caitlin turned, the parka held bunched close in her arms.  “He’s a lot improved,” she said reassuringly.  “The superficial injuries are healed; but there’s the internal damage, of course.  And the leg.”

Mick resisted the temptation to go over and check on the hero himself.

“He should be up tomorrow—day after at the latest.”

“Right,” Mick grunted.  He walked over to her quickly, reaching out for the parka, then shook it out, refolded it, and slung it over his arm.  He nodded briskly, and turned to leave.

“Mick!”

He paused.

She touched his arm gently; and he turned back, waiting.  She chewed her lip for a moment and then said to him, almost apologetically, “You can’t keep coming over here to S.T.A.R. Labs.”

He glanced over at Barry, but said nothing.

She sighed.  “Yes, well … obviously that’s another matter.  And thank you.  I mean that.  We’re all grateful—”  He accepted this stolidly.  “—and of course you came here for the parka, I get that.  But … you know, that’s really not the point.  I mean—”  She glanced at Barry.  “Well, it is the point today, I suppose.”  She flushed.  “We really are glad you … Captain Cold, I mean….”  She waved her hand feebly.  “Oh, you know what I mean!”

Mick remained mercilessly silent, letting her work out her confusion.

“Oh, damn it, Mick!”

There were, he was sure, tears glinting in the corner of her eyes.  He shifted the parka over his shoulder, and reached out to put his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.

She smiled weakly, bit her lip again, looked up into his eyes, and said with a faint giggle, “We can’t keep meeting like this?”

“It was your decision,” he said simply.

“Or yours?  You didn’t have to go with him.”

They stared, eye to eye.  There was a point to be made—each of them had a point to be made.  The only problem was:  they were two different points.

She looked away, sighing softly.  “Yeah, I know,” she murmured.

He let her go, stepped back with a nod of finality, turned on his heel, and strode out the door.  As he passed Ramon, he gave him a quick, mocking salute.  Behind him, Caitlin came slowly down to the Cortex to meet a silent question.

“He wanted the parka,” she said.  Which was obvious (since he’d left with it), and told Cisco nothing.

Cold Light of Day

That night, Len slept hardly at all for dreams of Hell.  There was no escape from the flames; and each time he woke sweating.  He showered it off; and said nothing to Mick about his insomnia and little about the fire.  On the other hand, he ate a hearty breakfast.

Mick cleaned the turnout gear and hung it back up in his closet.  He watched the local news reports, with particular attention to mention of the presence of three of the Rogues, complete with live news shots (albeit rather distant ones).  Then he changed the sooty linen on Len’s bed, and stuck it in the wash.

At first, when there was no call from Mardon, Len thought nothing of it.  There were many possible reasons, starting with a three-day binge or—like himself—a hard night’s sleep.  Being picked up by the cops did cross his mind; so did being run down by a bus.  Finally, he decided that Weather Wizard was probably waiting for Captain Cold to make the first move.  It was, after all, Len who owed Mardon:  there were trust issues involved that affected his leadership of the Rogues.  It might be some sort of test.  The following day, therefore, he sought him out, and found him casually knocking back a whiskey in Saints and Sinners.

They took a walk along the patchy pavement.  When there was no one around, Cold slid a package out of his pocket.  He held it low by his side, expecting Mardon to shift his hand over to take it.  After a moment’s exasperation, he nudged it against the back of the other man’s hand.  To his surprise, Mardon shook his head.

“It’s all there.  Count it.”

“I believe you.  I can’t take it.”

They walked for another block before Cold asked, “Why?”

There was a long pause before Mardon said, almost sounding embarrassed, “Those weren’t rich people in their fancy condos.  Just ordinary folk like the rest of us.  I can’t take money for saving little kids from burning to death.”

Cold considered this.  Then he nodded, and put the packet of money away.

Half a block further on, without looking at him, Mardon asked, “Did you offer Boo fifty thousand too?”

Cold looked at him in surprise.  “Peek-a-Boo?”

“Yeah.”

“She was there?”

“Didn’t you send her?”

Cold shook his head.  “I didn’t call her.”

But Mick confirmed it when he got back home, which made Len wonder—though not enough to call Shawna.  No reason to force her to admit it, after all, not when there were so many eye witnesses.  And, remembering her reaction when Flash was hurt, he didn’t think she needed to explain.

With his go-bag in hand, Barry Allen reported to the senior arson investigator on site.  It was, he was told, a bit premature to let anyone nose around except people from the Fire Department; but there was the possibility of lingering traces of volatile evidence.  He was told where to go and what to look for.

Barry had been to other fire-damaged buildings; he was not shocked by what he saw.  The lower levels of the building were actually less obviously damaged, since fire burns up and the hoses could reach that far.  The uppermost levels were smoke-stained; but had, to a fair degree, been protected by Weather Wizard’s intervention.  In between, the apartments were destroyed.  There must have been structural damage—significant damage, he thought, and could only hope that they could shore things up enough for people to return to their homes and collect belongings before the whole place was torn down.  Judging by the previous fires, the highrise would be condemned; he had no doubt of that.  Furthermore, not everyone last night had been saved:  this was now a murder case.  In fact, somewhere above him, there were recovery efforts going on:  it was still not certain how many had died.

The bank robbery was old news; the arson case was ongoing.  And it was his.

As he walked through the building, Barry saw that—as he had expected—parts were shored up by heavy metal struts.  This was especially obvious in the basement.  Nevertheless, he was to test areas near the source of the fire; so he worked his way through, careful how he went.  He was not surprised to see, already down here ahead of him, someone in a firefighter’s uniform.  Then, hearing Barry’s steps, the man turned round; and Barry saw it was Mick Rory.

The firefighter escorting him recognized Mick too.  In an instant, he’d thumbed his radio and called for back-up.  Mere minutes later, a pair of police officers was rushing down, guns drawn.  A voice followed them some distance behind, warning them that they were going too fast.  Cautious sounds indicated that the speaker was also coming, with greater prudence.  Through all of this, Mick stood very still, his arms raised slightly to the side.

“He’s the firebug,” said the firefighter succinctly.  The officers braced themselves for trouble.

Barry, who knew better, wondered what to do.  He could whisk him away, of course, even though he was not in the Flash suit.  However, there seemed little point.  Mick had, after all, been positively and correctly identified.  If he had in truth been the arsonist returning to the scene of the crime, then his detention would have been rightful.  The trouble was, of course, his complete innocence—well, of setting this fire, at least.

Meanwhile, Mick remained silent.  He was, Barry thought, trying to appear as unprovocative as a large, burly man could possibly manage.

“It’s not him.”  The voice sounded almost tired.  “It’s not his signature.”

Barry turned as the senior arson investigator came up.  The firefighter who had accused Mick relaxed slightly; but the two police officers did not lower their weapons.

“Stand down!” said the senior investigator sharply.

Reluctantly, they holstered the guns and backed away with a blustering, “Have to put this in our reports.”  With a nod, the firefighter was dismissed also.  Then, with a glance at Barry, the investigator approached Mick.  Perhaps he was thinking of the pictures on the news; perhaps he’d seen Snart himself, in action against the blaze.

“What’re you doing here, Rory?” he asked.

Almost shyly, Mick said, “Wondered if I could help in any way.”

The investigator nodded slowly.  “Well, you do know about as much about fires as I do.  Maybe more.”  He hesitated, then said, “Look, there’s something anomalous.  Maybe you can figure it out.”  Turning to Barry, he said, “Allen, why don’t you start over there?”

Perforce, Barry headed where he was pointed.  It was far enough that he could only make out a few words; and, long before he was finished, the others had headed back upstairs.  Even so, when he came out with the samples packed into his bag, he saw that they were still talking.  He knew he should head to his lab and start processing; yet he lingered.  When Mick headed for his motorbike, he followed and, with a quick rush of speed, overtook him.  He had a message he wanted Mick to carry.

“What’s the point?” Mick grunted.  Nevertheless, he passed it on.

Len picked the lock to the roof of the Concordance Research building, and stepped out to find himself alone.  He was on time, of course; and, for an instant’s wry humour, it occurred to him that it would serve Flash right if he turned on his heel and left.  When you summon a Rogue, you should at least bother to turn up.  On the other hand, he’d done deep enough research, years ago, to know that Barry’s tardiness was chronic.

There was quite a chill in the air.  As he walked over to the edge of the roof, helmet dangling from his left hand, he found himself doubly glad of his leather jacket.  Traffic passed far below, quiet enough at the distance that he could hear the cries of gulls circling the harbour.  He waited patiently, for he was good at patience; but periodically he looked around the streets below, checking.  Eventually, he saw the flying sparks of the Flash’s trail tracing through the city streets.  It made him wonder—for a moment—whether it would have been better if he’d come in full costume.  Then the sparks whipped up the side of the building; and a sharp breeze blew across his face as the speedster stopped in front of him.

“So, Flash,” he drawled.  “You wanted to see me.”

“To say thank you,” said Barry.  He pulled back his cowl.  “I think you probably saved my life getting me back to S.T.A.R. Labs when you did.  And for the rest, of course, also.  Thanks.  I mean it.”

“You’re welcome,” Len said politely, though his lip twitched and there was a wicked gleam in his eye.  “Now, is this where I get the speech?”

For a bare moment, Barry didn’t get it.  Then, with a dawning grin, he realized.  “Oh, that speech?” he asked.  “The whole ‘You’ve good in you, you could be a hero’ speech?  Nah, not this time.”  He waved his hand dismissively.

Len gave him a sharp look.

“Yeah, well—”  Barry ran his hand up awkwardly through his hair.  “—it always does so much good that speech, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I looooove hearing it,” Len agreed wryly.  “Fills me with the spirit of Christmas, it does.”

Barry brightened.  “Well, maybe next year I’ll find you under the tree, wrapped in snow-spangled ribbon with a bow on top.  You’d make quite an addition to the team, you know—anyway, I’d be glad to have you on our side.  This year, of course, you’re running the Rogues.”  He added pointedly, “How’s that going, by the way?”

“It has its moments.”

“I bet it does.”

There was a long, considering pause.  Each man looked at the other, not quite meeting eyes.  Barry moved over to spread his hands on the parapet of the roof, and looked out over the city.  The sunset gleamed on the water in the distance and glinted golden off windows.

“Or, of course,” he began tentatively, “unless I’m mistaken, you’ve a standing offer to go back to the Waverider.”

“Been there, done that.”

Barry turned his head.  “You sure?  You have friends there.”

Cold shrugged.  “Friends here,” he said laconically.

“Well, it’s up to you—”

“Obviously.”

“But,” Barry went on, “you’d be on the right side of the law then.  Which may matter less to you; but I have to admit that I would prefer it.  Also, Mick would go back too, I guess, which would matter to Caitlin.”

“Would you believe me if I said I’d no idea about that?” Len said.  “When she gave Mick her ultimatum, I mean.  He never told me he was seeing her.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

Len shook his head.  Then he said, “Maybe.”  Then, after a moment’s thought, he just shrugged.  “Water under the bridge.”

Barry sighed, and turned back to the view.  “I do understand, you know,” he said finally.

“You’re probably the only one who does,” said Len, moving up beside him, leaning back on the parapet.  “On your side of the fence, anyway.”

“‘Been there, done that’,” Barry quoted quietly.  He turned his head.  “Twice in fact.  It’s … disconcerting, isn’t it?”

Len nodded.

“But I’ve got to say, you’ve changed, too,” Barry pointed out.  “You aren’t the same guy who stole that diamond, back when you first got the gun.”  He smiled.  “I mean, honestly?  Sticking round, risking the cops, all to save the guy who’s trying to stop you?  You’re a crackerjack thief, Len; we both know that—but you’ve become a lousy imitation of a villain.”

“I’m a Rogue,” said Captain Cold, with a twinkle in his eye.

“That is true,” said Barry, his grin broadening.  “You’re a rogue all right.”

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