#i will write Heatwave's death tomorrow

[agentsquirrelsgotrobots]

"Prime, I wouldn't do this." Charlie warned, putting his hand on the holster of his tox-en knife. He had bought it from Swindle and only carried it when he thought he would use it. It was too dangerous for everyday carry.

"Where is Heatwave? He hasn't reported in." Optimus sounded angry, his plating flared and smokestacks steaming.

"He's busy sir." Chase said. "With the wedding."

"Whose wedding?" Optimus asked, a cold edge to his voice.

"My daughter and Blades." Charlie said. Optimus was shocked. "They haven't proposed yet, but it's practically set in stone.

"Literally," Chase said. "Dani's wedding rings came in yesterday, and Blades's conjunx medal has been custom ordered."

"Which means?" Charlie said, a smirk on his face.

"By Autobot code on interspecies marriage, the deployed bot must stay at a base within a visitable distance of their spouse, especially if there's additional dependents. Blades would be duty bound to stay on the nearest autobot base to Dani." Chase recited.

"We will relocate her then. Blades is needed in China." Optimus said.

"Optimus, with all due respect, that's a twelve hour one-way plane trip to and from Griffin Rock. And even if you used the ground bridge, Dani isn't fluent in Chinese or Mandarin, never mind getting a job in her field. It would require her to renounce her American passport, become fluent in both languages, pass the citizenship exam, and then the civil service exam. The process would take years, and she would have to start over in her career, retaking all the licenses exams too. She would be confined to the house, with very little access to the community before she reaches fluency." Charlie said.

Optimus sighed. "Very well. I will reassign someone else. It's been a while since I have seen my son. I still want to see a report from Heatwave by the end of the week."

Optimus transformed and drove through an open ground bridge.

"Sir, when will you tell Optimus that Heatwave is deceased?"

"When I can plan an accident to cover up the hole in his crotch. Bastard had to have the weirdest place for a subspace, didn't he. I like your new cyber matter avatar. Doc Greene worked wonders with the base design. I'm glad you added your own personal touches. Maybe later I could find out how personal?" Charlie smirked as Chase's avatar blushed.

"I would be happy to if I still feel up to it."

"If not, we will take a rain check. Your alt mode does need a bath, you know."

Chase's avatar blushed harder. "Could we keep it platonic? I really just want a quiet evening and sleep in my alt mode tonight."

"You know what? For your quick thinking, I will give you some cash and you can go to the car wash you like on main street. The one with the soft scrubbers."

Chase beamed. "Thank you, boss."

"That's alright, my siren."

[jerzwriter]

One Summer Night...

Book:                   Open Heart (Post Series)

Pairing:                Tobias Carrick x F!MC (Casey), Samantha Carrick

Rating:                 Teen +

Category:            Fluff/Romance

Warnings: Slightly suggestive, but nothing explicit

Summary:   The lights are out in Boston in the middle of a heatwave, and no one is sleeping, but it is a night full of sweet memories for Tobias & Casey... once they cool off.

Words: 725

A/N: Day 6 of @creativepromptsforwriting 's 30-Day Writing Challenge: Write about a blackout. I mean, I only went 125 words over my goal, not bad... not bad at all. :) Also participating in @choicesjanuarychallenge Day 2 - Night

Tobias & Casey Masterlist 30-Day Challenge Masterlist

It was twelve-thirty in the morning, and Casey lay awake in her bed. The thin, white nightgown she selected when she got into bed hours ago clung uncomfortably to her body. She considered yanking it off and sleeping in nothing at all. Her husband certainly wouldn’t complain. But having a two-year-old underfoot made her think better of it, especially on a night like this when no one was going to sleep. She grimaced as a bead of sweat collected atop her chest and slowly trailed down the side of her breast, finding a new home in a crease in her armpit. She had had enough.

Tobias snickered when he returned to their pitch-black room, crawling into bed beside her naked body.  

“I knew that nightgown never stood a chance,” he smirked. 

She could just see the look on his face, although her eyes were shut tight. His finger trailed delicately from the top of her thigh over her swollen abdomen and nearly reached the curve of her breast when she swatted his hand away.

“Touch me again, and you die, Dr. Carrick.”

“Damn,” he laughed. “The nightgown didn’t stand a chance, and maybe I don’t either.”

“Nah, you’re safe,” Casey chuckled wearily. “After all, if I kill you, I’ll be stuck taking care of not one but two rugrats on my own.”

“Not to mention you’d be in jail.”

“I’m not going to jail, babe. My attorney will make sure I have a jury of my peers. No woman would convict me when I explain that my husband was attempting to caress my sweaty, 7-month pregnant self in a blackout during a heatwave.”

“No lie,” he shivvered. “In fact, they may resurrect me, just to sentence me to death… more painfully this time.”

“You’re spot on,” she laughed. “How is Sammy?”

“Back to sleep… for now. But I gave her more cold water to cool down, so she’s bound to be up for a potty run soon.”

“Mmmh. I’ll get her next time,” Casey offered.

“Like hell, you will. You’ll be sleeping one way or another, princess.  Momma needs her rest.”

“It’s too hot to sleep. What is the temperature anyway?”

Tobias snuck a peek at his phone. “92 degrees at 2:45 AM. God, what I wouldn’t give for a Boston winter right now.”

“Me too,” Casey moaned.

“I told you I should have bought a generator. I’m getting one tomorrow.”

“But��”

“No buts! It’s bad enough that my wife and daughter can’t sleep, but now, I can’t even touch you? This is where I draw the line.”

Casey reached over and patted his head with a laugh. “I’m glad your priorities are in order, dear.”

“Always.”

He brushed her hair, stuck to her forehead with sweat, off her face. 

“No, no, no… this won’t do,” he said as he shot out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

Five minutes later, he led Casey into their candlelit bathroom and helped her settle into a tub of cool water. Once she was comfortable, he slipped an inflatable pillow behind her neck. 

“Now, close your eyes. I’ll watch over you so you can get some rest.”

“Mmmh,” she sighed. “This does feel nice. But why aren’t you trying to cop a feel now that I’m not sweaty, Dr. Carrick.”

“Hey, don’t tempt me there, lady,” he laughed, sticking a hand in the water and rubbing her belly. “I did this to you twice, and I’m not afraid to do it to you again.”

“You can’t get me pregnant while I’m pregnant, Tobias!” She laughed. “I think the heat’s gotten to you, too!”

With that, they heard a loud hum, and the bathroom light flickered back on. 

“Oh, praise God and all things holy, we have power!” Tobias yelled. “With any luck, the house will be cooled off in an hour, then maybe we’ll all get some sleep.”

It was two-thirty in the morning. Casey, wearing her favorite blue pajamas, was fast asleep with little Samantha clinging to her side. Tobias moved Sammy’s teddy bear to the side and turned off the light, smiling brightly as he slipped under the sheets with his girls.   He was going to be tired tomorrow, that he knew for sure, but he would still be a very happy man. Especially after the generator he just ordered was delivered.

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Tagging others separately.

[mirajaneswritingshenanigans]

Main Masterlist

Bloodhounds Series:

Imagine:

Attitude

The Sound of Magic Series:

Oneshots:

Vincenzo Series:

Do You Believe Me? (Ri-eul x BestFriend!Reader)

They Never Asked (Ri-eul x Wife!Reader)

Oneshots:

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Insecure (Ray Palmer/Atom x Reader)

Supernatural Series:

Oneshots:

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Series:

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Night Changes (Tony Stark x Avenger!Reader)

Series:

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Imagine:

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Series:

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Oneshots:

Surprise Confession (Dwalin x FemaleHuman!Reader)

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Oneshots:

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Oneshots:

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Oneshots:

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Crossover Fanfics:

Series:

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A New Life (Hawaii Five-0 (2010)/Avengers): (Steve McGarrett x Reader & The Avengers x FemalePastAvenger!Reader)

Imagine:

Sam, Dean, and Cas meet John Constantine

Lucifer and Chloe meet John Constantine

Any Fandom:

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P.S.-all works also found on AO3 under mirajanefairytailmage

Writing Prompts:

Songbird Enchantment

Death's Apology

Original Works:

Forget The Rain

My Nightmare Will End

I Wish

Main blog

[calif0rnia-lovers]

hues.

a/n: late to the game with on my block. only just finished chapter 8, but i was looking through random writing challenges and thought I’d try this one. the format is way different than how I usually write. i wrote this in my iPhone notes at 2am and copied it over, so hopefully, it actually makes sense😊

challenge: pick a character + recall memories through color association (I picked 8 colors)

pairing: oscar diaz x black!reader

words: 805

✧ your eyes. kind. color of the richest chocolate. as warm as the smile you gave him. your gaze. always finding his across a classroom. beautiful. powerful. strong enough to draw butterflies. silence him. snuff out the confidence of a fourteen-year-old boy. time. teaches him how to know what's inside your heart. your eyes. brown. your only tell. they hold the key to what lies inside. your eyes. betray you every time. your eyes. unable to hide your true thoughts. his fear. finding disappointment when he looks to them.

✦ freshman year. movements controlled. breathing dreaded, but a necessity. bruises. purple. painting his ribs and back. distance. unanswered calls. once occupied desks, now empty. his school appearances. rare. sophomore year. rumors. whispered. creeping through the school halls and neighborhood. oscar. a name murmured at birth. replaced with a moniker. one that evokes fear. generates a mask that you don’t recognize. months of ghosting. nights passing your house. a need to see you. deterred by scared parents who enforce boundaries. his heartbeat. racing once your paths cross by chance. doubt. has his absence forced you to judge him like your parents? bruises. purple. against his knuckles. impossible to hide as your hand finds his.

✧ his eyes. red. swollen. dry. tapped out. tears. none left. a pain. in his chest. indescribable. unmistakable. never felt before. his heart. breaking. ripped in two. somehow still beating. a conversation. reoccurring. talked about for months. always falling on his deaf ears. this time. your foot is down. your high school graduation. recently passed. college. looming. hundreds of miles away. long distance. not an option. a conversation. he doesn't want to hear. a breakup. long overdue. must be done. the start of summer. easier for a clean break.

✦ black ink. scribbled. letters. most addressed to one person. you. his letters. fear about his brother. left alone. apologies. for things, he said out of anger. questions. about your life. your daughter. olivia. her father. false words. saying he's sorry for your failed engagement. he's not. hope. maybe when he's out you'll come home. give him a second chance. each letter you send. leads to reminiscing. your words. maintain his sanity. each of your letters. kept. pages creased. refolded. read. too many times.

✧ useless fans. heatwave. dripping ice. cold beers. food on the grill. ice cream. music melding with laughter. a conversation. falls on death ears. air. catching in his chest. knots. in his stomach. a rare occurrence. a figment of his imagination. caught behind a haze of smoke. only this time it’s different. morphed. aged by four years. your beauty. somehow enhanced. your curls. soft. longer. your eyes. always impossibly bright. focused on those welcoming you home. the sun. casts a golden glow upon your skin. your sundress. yellow. a pause in your speech. your eyes spot him. his eyes warm. his smile. soft. an unexpected sight. still brings butterflies.

✦ sheets. white. cotton. soft. your breathing. light. warm upon his chest. you. asleep. him. wide awake. his phone. silenced. notifications. neglected. responsibilities. need to be handled. they're rebuffed. his body. can't move. scared to leave you alone. sheets. white. holding him captive. one thought in his mind. he can't let you wake to his side cold. not when you've finally returned to him. two souls. tethered. a teenage love. abandoned years before. the feeling. sought for in the kisses of others. incomparable. never found. a teenage love. revisited. no longer juvenile. despite years passed. still inescapable.

✦ olivia's favorite color. shared with oscar the first time the two meet. pink. icing. unexpectedly smeared across his skin. cool. against his heated cheek. he. regards your gaze. doe-eyed. whimsical. a rare one a.m. sight. a result of him answering your late-night s.o.s. text. his arrival. in record time. his brow. arched once he finds you. standing in the kitchen. perfectly fine. surrounded by a mess of ingredients. your puppy-dog eyes. cause his head to shake.

“olivia’s class is having a bake sale, and she is not bringing some basic cookies or brownies--like everyone else's kid. you told me to call you whenever i need you...well, i need you to help me crank out four dozen cupcakes by tomorrow morning.”

pink. buttercream. rich and sweet as your lips find his cheek. each kiss. undoing the mess you'd made. the taste. lingering, with his smile, as your lips briefly meet his.

✧ the taste of salt on his lips. your hair still damp. moderately drying curls. frizzing beneath his touch. his heartbeat staggered. uncontrollable. a puppet at your mercy. years worth of energy. once trapped in wood. whispering, hissing, sizzling, cracking, popping. released back into the night sky. burning beneath the fire's flames. a kaleidoscope of lights. bright. warm. somehow never as hot as the heat of your skin against his. your curves. soft. intoxicating. majestic. moonlight. blue. trapped against your skin. a sight that brings him peace.

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[gravesofheirscog]

Date: June 28, 2021

Progress: Chapter One - haha uniforms are the best

Sorry guys - I wanted to write more but I got sucked down the rabbit hole that is cow hoof cleaning videos on youtube. That is the single most satisfying thing I've ever watched - it put me to sleep, and with my AC finally installed it was a dreamy sleep (if you're curious my favourite channel so far is The Hoof GP). I did write a little bit though, and I managed to get through a part I was really struggling with - it's a kind of snapshot of Eratine's original death, and it was sad to write lol! Tomorrow - no hooves! Only write!

The Temperature Today 🥵☀️😭:

Heat wave why? Our AC was found at a garage sale for twenty bucks last year and my dad fixed it up - I am so glad we grabbed it when we did.

I hope everybody dealing with a heatwave right now stays safe and cool! Hang in there!

[killervibe]

Pls write something extremely very sad having to do with Cisco, Caitlin, and Lia. Ages and relative temporal proximity all up to you :D :D D

**WARNING ANGST ALERT DON’T @ME YOU ASKED FOR THIS.**

Cisco had five projects to approve and three deadlines to set up before six. He liked working, honestly he did, but he was getting excited to wrap up all this extra stuff so he could hurry on with retirement. He needed a vacation. He was thinking the Bahamas, but his wife wasn’t the fondest of sand.

Cisco paused to crack his knuckles, and swiped closed his holographic eisle. His eyes flitted to the right side of his home desk, and the corner of his mouth tugged upwards. He picked up the picture frame, rubbing his thumb over the glass to activate the live photo.

“Honey,” he said, thinking about the last time they’ve all been together. It’s been a while. “We should update our family portrait. This one is ancient.”

Caitlin came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her pants. “That’s a good idea.”

He looked up and passed her the frame. Caitlin was still so beautiful. At sixty-three, her powers have preserved her youth, and she began to purposely dye some hair silver at the roots only to keep up appearances.

She studied the photo. “I was always particularly fond of this one though. The two of you are laughing at the same time.”

“Yeah,” Cisco agreed. “We can ask the next time Lia comes home. Did she say when?”

Caitlin nodded, fiddling with her arm tech. “In three weeks, she sent me an audio.”

She pulled it up and they both sat back to listen to their daughter’s rambling message.

—Which is why Nora is so keen on catching him. Oh, and tell dad that I’m waiting for his turn on Jelly Crash. I’m on level six hundred and I need him to send me more lives. Shrap, gotta jet. Love you mom. Bye!

Cisco leaned back in his chair, sliding his reading glasses up his forehead, and running his hand through his silver streaked hair. “She really seems to like Central City.”

“She loves it,” Caitlin replied, putting the frame back. She began massaging her husband’s shoulders. Cisco reached up and placed his hand over hers, looking up at where she’s standing behind him, watching her toy with something in her mind.

“What is it?”

She gave his right shoulder a small squeeze.

“Have you ever thought of telling her?”

Cisco sighed. “I don’t know how to anymore. But yes. I’ve thought of it. I thought it plenty. I wish we did.”

Caitlin removed her touch, choosing instead to sit next to him in his spare chair. She looked out the window of their house, watching the scenery. Green hills and their little pond with the ducks that seemed to make their home there. “Do you think we were bad parents?”

“We have good relationships with both our children, Caitlin.”

She kept looking away. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Cisco went quiet. “I don’t know. I didn’t agree with Iris’s choice until we had Lia. But she’s an adult now. And so independent. She probably would’ve been fine with the truth.”

Caitlin sighed herself, then turned from the window, meeting his gaze. “Central City isn’t any safer than it was when we were there. With Lia working for CCPD now,  I think we should let her know.”

Cisco silently agreed. He was afraid though about how she’d take it. He was so close to his daughter, and she looked up to him so much. It was terribly hard on both of them when she decided to move away, leaving her job at Ramon Industries to live with her best friend and pick up the empty job position there at CCPD.  He was afraid of what this might do, if this would taint her love for him.

Maybe that was selfish. He was her father. It was his job to prepare her for the world, but she didn’t even know half of what she was capable of. They were honestly lucky, that she hadn’t stumbled upon her powers herself.

“Okay,” he said. “In three weeks. No more family secrets. We tell her everything.”

Caitlin smiled, pleased, and it had been years since she let her frost show, only being very subtle with keeping their ice cream cold and being notorious for not boiling to death during heatwaves, but the eyebrow raise and smirk she gave sent chills down Cisco’s spine, reminding him of his wife’s long neglected alter ego. “Maybe not everything.”

“No,” Cisco laughed. “I’m cutting out half the embarrassing things I’ve done. I’m not living through schrap about that vacuum cleaner again.”

Their front door opened, and a voice called out. “Mom? Dad? I’m home! Can we eat now? I swear I’ve been dreaming about vegan pollo y arroz all day.”

Caitlin got up, sharing an amused look with Cisco. “He’s how old again? That’s my cue to set the table. Think he’d make dinner himself one of these days if he’s so hungry.”

“Twenty, but if you subtract ten, you get how old he wants to still be,” he joked. He pushed back his chair, dropping his glasses on his desk. “I’ll help.”

~.~

Cisco was helping himself to coffee in his home office after dinner, sending all his work through the cloud when his arm beeped.

Incoming call from Nora West-Allen.

Cisco excused himself from a virtual conference, accepting the call.

“Hey kiddo, how’s it holding up down there? Is Lia around? Can you put her on? I’ve been trying to get a hold of her all day. I sent her those lives on Jelly Crash she was complaining about.”

The other line was silent.

“—Nora? …Nora?”

A ragged breath and then a burst of high pitched sobs.

Cisco’s heart stopped. “Nora? What happened?”

“…”

“Are you hurt? Is it your mom?”

“I ran as fast as I could—Please forgive me, I tried to save her—I—please.”

She ran? Cisco leaned against the wall, sliding down in a way that made his joints burn.

“Nora. Who?”

His face twisted with pain, tears blocking his vision. Because Nora wasn’t answering him, only sobbing harder, and why would she be calling him and not Wally if it was Iris and not—

“Lia?” he choked out.

No please. Take away his brother and his mother and his best friend but please, not his daughter.

He covered his mouth with his other hand, trembling.

“How?”

“Godspeed—His hand—It just went — It right through, and—I didn’t even have time to—I couldn’t even —say goodbye.”

“Nora,” he whimpered.

“I’m sorry,” she broke off, and it went quiet again.

“Nora?” Cisco panicked, “Nora! Nora, no! Wait!” But the line went dead. He redialed with shaky fingers, his chest heaving, but she wouldn’t pick up.

“Caitlin!” he screamed, his voice tearing out of his throat, opening a breach in his house for the first time in years because he couldn’t walk, he could barely stand, collapsing into her arms.

“Woah,” she said, teetering with him. “Cisco—What?”

He held onto her, burying his head against her neck, hiccupping where it was soft and smelt like her perfume, the one Lia bought Caitlin last Mother’s Day.

“Cisco?”

He looked up at her, and saw the realization seep into her eyes.

“No,” she whispered, horrified, pulling away to look at him. “Did you vibe it? When? Tomorrow? Tonight?”

Cisco suddenly understood Nora’s horrible silence, unable to speak. Unable to utter the words out loud, and he cupped her face in his hands, begging her not to break.

Caitlin’s hands flew to her mouth, stepping back like a scared animal,  her eyes flickering brown to blue and over again, losing her twenty years of control.

Their son walked into the living room with his EarPods in, pausing at the scene alarmed. He yanked the things out of his ears.

“Dad—?”

Caitlin’s hair was now full on white, clutching the frozen counter.

“Mom?”

Dante Stein looked between the two, then stuck on the ice.

“Lia’s dead.” Their son swallowed, looking into his father’s eyes. His face crumpled and so did Cisco’s. “She’s dead. Isn’t she.”

Caitlin wailed and their kitchen turned into a storm.

[justcahttingtothevoidcat]

Just pages in a book

I think sometimes I just get taken over with apathy you know, it's especially odd when the big thing this week has been about weather and natural disaster, that's my thing, I love it, I am so interested in these things but instead I seem to be observing from a distance.

It's probably because learning about things and living through things are very different. I doubt any Pompeian who escaped was interested in finding out about pyroclastic flows. Distance allows us safety, we didn't feel the air, smell the smells, hear the sounds. It's all just pages in a book or a video that can be paused, walked away from.

I mean, that all seems so obvious doesn't it, how could we maintain any kind of life otherwise. But the thing is, it's the distance which stops us from thinking that the thing we've been told about can happen to us. That's how people can live and farm on Vesuvius today, it's how we've ended up with climate change. It's no longer a "it's coming" It's here.

And right in this moment I have no way to comprehend what my life will be like in 10, 15, 20+ years. What will the world look like? Will it be war and famine and death all around, it's hard to imagine from the comfort of my living room but it is possible. How will we look after our pets and the animals that we have farmed? What about my fellow disabled people? Will care and compassion fall and turn to dust?

Maybe the people will rise up, maybe we will demand change and mitigate as much damage as possible. Build better systems, eliminate want and see ourselves not just as nation states in a world but as a single people, with varied and important histories and a future that relies on unity.

It all just feels so far away, as I write this in July 19th 2022. I and thousands of people just feel so detached from the events from today and this week and maybe it's because I knew this was coming, I listened to the climate science when I was still a teen and here at 35 it feels like, well, we told you so, we told you so, but no one wins in this it's not a game. There are so many other creatures, other lives, who are suffering or are likely to before the century is out and that thought overwhelms me.

A heatwave blazing across Europe and America (North), the Indian sub-continent earlier this year dealt with 50"c plus. All this at the same time Fascism rears it's head, because it's so easy when people are scared, they don't seem to look at the problem and how to best solve it, oh no, lets hate and blame someone else, someone who is a different colour, religion, weight, sexual orientation, gender, class or disabled. Anything but the truth of it.

I can feel myself just whoosh with anger at the thought of it all. Maybe that's why I am floating above it, maybe I will burn up with rage and then drown with depression. Because it does feel all hopeless, when the actions of a few damage so many.

And I just have to live my normal life, I will go to bed tonight with a fan on no doubt, wake up tomorrow and live as I did yesterday and the day before.

Cat, it feels utterly absurd.

[vowel-in-thug]

Hey here's a thing if you're comfortable answering: when you get this you have to answer with 5 things you like about yourself, publicly. Send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool)!

ugh I was trying to avoid this but then @favouritealias also sent this to me which THANKS I LOVE YOU GUYS but also ugh being positive :/// i guess. but things  ? ! i like     ?about MYSELF       ?  ?   ! fine okay

1. I started eating healthily because of a lifelong fear of disappointing authority figures and my old russian grandma doctor who i have no need to see again would be cross with me if i don’t. but! i know i’m healthy and i’m annoyed to discover i actually see a change in how i look and notice a change in how i feel when i DON’T eat a whole bag of cheetos for dinner? i don’t feel like death all the time?? WILD. also i have gotten over the Cooking Is A Chore Hump and now i actually look forward to it which is also strange and unusual. 

2. my bangs are officially GONE and i don’t fight my hair every day and i actually love my hair! i love it so much i shed strands of it every where i go

3. i’m actively battling Imposter Syndrome at work rather than letting it consume me, and sometimes actively battling it can just mean acknowledging when i’m being unfair to myself and sometimes that’s all you can do and it helps

4. the farmer’s tan is starting to fade from my arms from Pride last week THANK GOD i don’t look like an idiot if i want to wear a tank top in this heatwave.

5. two years ago it was my first summer in New York and my car got repossessed, i lost two jobs, i was living in a windowless oven and i was begging for the shittiest coffee shop work. last summer i was tormented by the nightmare that is bedbugs and i never slept and am still traumatized and will be for the rest of my life probably, working a job that gave me ear infections and sinus infections and constant illness. this summer, i got to leave work at 2 for the holiday but i still got paid for it, like i’m getting paid for my day off tomorrow at my Real Grownup Job creating shit all the time. i have a meeting for a real, genuine writing opportunity next week that is a hell of a long shot but also might possibly launch my writing career idk. i have money in my bank account and tomorrow night i’m going to see My Fair Lady on Broadway with a friend because i wanted to do something fun and gay and not celebrate America and also not be outside because it’s gross as fuck out, but that’s okay because I. Have. Air. Conditioning. in an apartment with great roommates AND NO BUGS. it’s far from perfect, but i guess what i like about myself and my life is best summed up by the old song, “If I can make it there…” Also like another old song says, “if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.”

[audiovizualna]

Yuletide is neary here and I decided to celebrate it with CC Chritmas fic + illustrations. Yes, I know we already had incredible Christmas-Viking episode of LoT, but I started to write this one right after DC Crossover which was a blast (!) and I hope you’re going to enjoy my version of events after Martin’s death. This fic is also written to honour our favourite professor, who will be missed dearly.

Special thanks for loveliest beta @flabbergabst, who must hate me right now, for giving her mental breakdown through the whole story.

I’ll try to post full fic (4 chapters) until 25th December. With love, PANDArt :*

(I own nothing)

~

“You’re Not Him”

Part 1: ”For Him”

 Here they were. Another Christmas spent on the Waverider, but oh so different.

Of course the team was glad to welcome both Zari and Leo on the ship; although this year, no one felt the Christmas spirit. Not without Stein.

After the whole Earth-X situation, Martin’s death and the general trauma all of them carried within, the Legends started to lose the contact and connection they’ve built and established with each other. Seeing that was painful, and they felt the necessity to change it.

This team usually needed some time for reflection and peace - to settle their emotions in place - which was even harder this time. Not that Sara, Mick or (partly) Jax didn’t have it before. They used to feel some strange emptiness after Len’s sacrifice at the Oculus, but time heals the wounds eventually, so the three had moved on somehow. Sara became the ship’s captain. Jax started using his engineering skils to improve the timeship whenever he could, and Mick came back to his old habits, all while bonding with newbies.

The memories of Snart returned as his ghost keeps appearing in random situations. Sometimes next to Mick, and once as Len’s evil version in Legion of Doom. Both of which were really surprising for Sara, but now…this was different.

Earth-X Leonard Snart or Leo, as he preferred to be called, was very much alive and well. He became curious about the details of previous missions and took his time to explore every inch of the ship, because that’s what all versions of Leonard would do.

Sara caught herself simply avoiding the man in blue parka, not knowing what to tell him or sometimes simply forgetting her tongue around him. In fact it seemed like he and Raymond were the only people on the Waverider who were still talking at all.

They journey back to the mission was spent in silence ever since they left Central City in November. Even if this silence never affected the accomplishments of their missions or in dealing with anachronisms, only whispers and empty echoes of footsteps could be heard afterwards.

Of course there were days when gathering the team was vital and the ‘AtomSteel‘ duo never resigned from organizing movie nights, but even then, the Legends prefered to remain silent.

Over time Sara started one-to-one conversations with members of her team. The captain tried to reach Jax whenever he needed it or so she thought - needless to say, it was successful most of the time. The Canary visited Zari and Amaya often when simple girl talks were necessary. Sara even joined Mick a couple of times for sleepless night drinking. Despite her efforts, none of them wanted to talk about things going on in their heads, especially now that Leo could appear behind them anytime.

Situations changed significantly during one of those nights, but not in the galley, where White Canary and Heatwave were playing cards and drinking cheep beer.

On the other end of Waverider, Raymond knocked quietly on Jax’s door with really serious expression on his face, which was quite unusual considering that the ATOM is natuarally a ray sunshine for most of his life.

”Hi Jax!” Ray started. ”I… damn, I don’t know where to start, but I have an idea. Naturally, it’s up to you if you want my plan to push through or not, but…”

”Woooah, slow down man. Why me? Shouldn’t you be asking Sara about stuff like this?” Jax interrupted Ray, crossing his arms with sleepy eyes.

”Well… No. Absolutely not in this case. I value my life,” Ray chuckled nervously.

”Sounds like a bad move from the beginning, but tell me so I could finally go back to bed, Ray.”

”All right,” Ray continued. ”It’s partly about Marty, I mean, Professor Stein - and please, before you reject it, let me explain.”

From the look on Jefferson’s face, it seemed like that’s the last conversation he wanted in that moment. But he didn’t want to be rude and his facial expression encouraged Ray to continue.

”I’ve been thinking about…” Ray paused for a moment before the next word left his mouth, ”… Christmas Day, which, as you may or may not know, is tomorrow.”

Jax finally let the breath leave his lungs, but did not say a thing to that proposition.

”We all know this is going to be hard. Sitting there, knowing Marty’s not with us and never will be, but I figured that this is exactly what he would have wanted. Last Christmas dinner was in fact his idea and you know very well we need each other’s company more than ever. I’m sure he’d find it unacceptable to spend the 25th of December separated in our private quarters.” Ray said those words so fast, that Jax could not stop him even if he tried. Eventually this confession has been answered.

”I don’t know man. How can we pretend that everything is okay, when clearly it’s not? We don’t talk to each other like we used to, so what?” said Jax with utter sadness and disappointment in his voice even if he tried to keep his voice calm.

Jax shrugged and continued. ”Having a Christmas party is the last thing this team needs right now. I’m aware of Grey’s opinion on that subject, yet maybe we do need more time to gather our thoughts.”

”Or… Raymond is right and ‘this’ is the best option you have to finally start talking.”

Another deep voice joined the conversation out of nowhere. They turned and saw Leo’s silhouette came out from behind the corner.

”I’m very sorry about eavesdropping, but I meant every word,” the man continued. ”I figured you’re all hurt because of what happened, so I never wanted to disturb any of you with my judgment, but I’m perplexed by one thing.” Leo started to get closer to them slowly and carried on.

”On my Earth, silence is the safest option to stay alive. We have this…fear of speaking beacuse we know if one of us says something wrong  in front of those awful Nazis, we’ll end up dead with a bullet in our brains. People there live with their mouths constantly shut. The only exceptions are the plans whispered to each other’s ears, or quick encrypted messages in things and places you wouldn’t think possible to use. I would give anything to feel free to speak out loud what’s in my head and now, and the moment I found heroes to share my stories with, they have no intention of making a conversation.” Snart said with visible soreness in his ocean blue eyes, leaning against the wall.

Jax and Ray were equally taken aback by Leo’s words. Both felt really conflicted, knowing that Citizen Cold was 100% right. His statement showed the team’s interactions in a completely different light. Upon their realization of the situation, Jax just sat resigned on the floor at his door. Leonard and Dr. Palmer followed and did not say a word for a while.

Finally the youngest Legend opened his mouth and asked Earth-X Snart out of countenance. ”Why do you care, Snart? Why are you worried about our relations at all? The Leonard we knew would avoid getting involved. I’m aware Grey would want us to move on, but you didn’t even knew him.”

Leonard heard the hurt in Jefferson’s voice and used it as one of his arguments.

”See Jax? That’s exactly why I’m concerned. Your tone tells me everything I need to know about your emotional state, which by the way is far from stable,” the older man lectured. ”I’m a good observer and so was, as I’ve heard, my Earth-1 version, who never left his own crew behind. I am aware that one simple dinner won’t change everything at once, but that’s a start. Also I’m sure ‘you’ are the perfect person to begin a decent conversation about what happened, without unnecessary tears.”

Raymond’s eyes got bigger and rounder with every word Leo was saying, which caught Citizen Cold’s attention when he stopped talking.

”What? Did I say something stupid or unrealistic?”

”No!” Ray quickly defended. ”No, it’s just…strange to hear anything motivating from you. Our Leonard always kept his thoughts to himself, except for snarky comments and sarcastic one-liners,” Ray said with tiny smirk at the memories.

”Wow,” Leo flatly said. ”Sounds like really grumpy and rude fellow.”

Both Jax and Ray choked with laughter hearing it from Leonard Snart himself, even if he was his different version. But still.

”Oh yes. He was one of a kind, trust me. Though it’s nice not to hear new nicknames from you,” the Atom pointed out, then stared at the ceiling.

”Careful there, sunshine, You’re stepping on very thin ice here. Nothing stops me from starting,” Leo quirked his eyebrows, while doing his characteristic head tilt and smirked .

Jax found flirty Earth-1 Snart pretty odd in general, but seeing his other version even more confident to flirt with both men and women was beyond bizarre. After few seconds he asked: ”So what’s the plan? It’s Christmas Eve and we have almost one night to get everything ready. I vote for secret preparations. Just us three. No one else engaged. I know Grey would be delighted to see a positive surprise on their faces. So I’m in… for him.”

”Let’s not waste more time. Now, move your asses. Lot of work to do and not much time left,” uttered Leo.

That’s how a few moments later, the unusual trio landed in the fabrication room asking Gideon for help.

[delkios]

*singing* It’s the end of the year fic review as we know it and I feel slightly headachey but fine~

Dog Days (DC TV, Mick, Len, Lisa) Monitor Duty (Transformers Rescue Bots, Chase, Heatwave) A Sight to Behold (DC TV, Len, Mick) Something of Your Own (DC TV, Mick, warning: animal death, trauma) Extra Credit (DC TV, Len, Mick) Date Crasher (DC TV, Barry, Len, Mick) Another Interruption (DC TV, Barry, Len, Mick) Fightstarter Karaoke (DC TV, Len, Mick, Lisa) Future in Our Hands (DC TV, Len, Mick) Date Night at the Aquarium (DC TV, Len, Mick) A Place to Rest (Mortal Kombat, Kuai Liang, Hanzo) Something Wonderful in You (AO3 link) (DC TV, Mick, Shawna, Mark, Hartley, Len, Lisa, warning: child abuse) The Weight of My Mistakes (Transformers, Blast Off, Onslaught, warning: taking advantage of mind violation/manipulation) The Shovel Talk (DC TV, Lisa, Len) Tropical Contact High (DC TV, Len, Lisa, Mick) LoT Rewrite: Riots of New York (AO3 link) (DC TV, S2!Legends) Best Served Cold (DC TV, Mark, Clyde, Len, Lisa) Untitled Shower Reblog Fic (DC TV, Mick, Len, S1!Legends) Take a Chance on Me (DC TV, Lisa, Mick, Len) Rest Your Tired Body Next to Mine (DC TV, Len, Mick, Lisa, warning: mildly-NSFW) Show for Me (DC TV, Len, Mick, warning: NSFW) A Secret Well Kept (DC TV, Mick, Len, Lisa) The One that Got Away (DC TV, Leo, Mick)

Overall Thoughts:

This year my emotional state was incredibly erratic, often for extended periods of time which made it difficult to create.

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted? In comparison to previous years, it’s about average or a little less but I think I might’ve had more longer works than I normally do.   

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? Onslaught/Blast Off has been a low key ship of mine for YEARS and honestly I’m not sure why as I normally Do Not Like superior/subordination relationships (hook/scrapper is an exception as i see them more as a partnership in part because i don’t see the constructicons as military but that’s a different thing).  So when Til All are One happened, that ship was like a slap in the face because messed up is probably the only way it COULD happen in canon. What’s your own favorite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest? Best Served Cold may be my favorite because I think the premise of it is HILARIOUS.  Thinking back on it now, I still kind of shake my head and go, “You very pretty idiots”.  Also just about anything with Lisa.  I love Lisa. Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? I guess that episode of the Legends of Tomorrow Rewrite I co-wrote.  It was a very ambitious project, the scope of which (writing-wise) I don’t think I’d been part of before.  Plus writing with someone I didn’t know was rather daunting on its own but I’m very happy with how it turned out! From my past year of writing, what was… My best story of this year: I would probably go with either Fightstarter Karaoke or Take a Chance on Me. My most popular story of this year: Fightstarter Karaoke. Story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion: Best Served Cold, maybe.  I’d say The Weight of My Mistakes but that’s kind of a niche audience anyway. Most fun story to write: Hard to say but I’m very fond of the ColdWave Role Playing Date Trilogy.  I’ve been thinking about doing another entry in it but haven’t done more than figure out a vague idea. Story with the single sexiest moment: Rest Your Tired Body Next to Mine.  If only Lisa didn’t interrupt *shakes fist* Most “Holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you” story: Something of Your Own.  I don’t know if I feel worse for what I did to Mick or the rats. Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: I don’t think any story really did that for me this year.  The closest would be The Weight of My Mistakes which, really, was me thinking about what could be done with mnemosurgery and what Airachnid would have to do to make this plan work.  I already loved the concept of mnemosurgery in Transformers (i’ve played around with similar ideas in fics before) but the thoughts that led to this fic really cemented how horrifying it could be to me. Hardest story to write: Either Something Wonderful in You or Riots of New York.  The latter because, again, ambitious scope and writing with someone I didn’t know, the former because the idea exploded and I had no idea where it was really going. Biggest Disappointment: I didn’t really have disappointments this year.  Everything came out more or less (and some soooooo much more) as I planned. Biggest Surprise: Something Wonderful in You for getting away from me as it did and A Place to Rest for being an unprompted Mortal Kombat story. Most Unintentionally Telling Story:

I think the fact damn near everything I wrote is either fluff or fun is telling enough.

[xaphrin]

Step One: Make Them Meet

3/50 - Obiyuki - Neighbor AU

Thank you @sabraeal for your prompt! This was a riot to write and could have gone on for at least three thousand more words.

Obi stood in front of the deli counter trying to weigh in between coleslaw and macaroni salad. Coleslaw? Macaroni salad? It was a dilemma he never thought he’d have to figure out before, and instead of actually pinning down the silly choice of coleslaw or macaroni salad, his mind was flicking through all the qualities about his neighbor that would work for Zen. Cute? Check. Nice? Check. Smart? He wasn’t sure about that one, but at least she seemed clever enough to carry on a conversation. Besides, he caught her wearing scrubs and a lab coat once, so… check? He’d throw that particular quality in the maybe. Single? Well, she didn’t seem to talk openly about anyone she was dating, so he’d file that under probably.

“Oh! It’s… ah… Obi, right?”

The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he wasn’t certain if it was from the icy chill of the grocery store or the fact that someone had managed to sneak up on him. Turning cautiously, Obi looked over his shoulder to see Shirayuki standing behind him, her hands wrapped around the handles of a shopping basket. She was a little more put together than this morning, wearing a pretty yellow dress and sandals. Her face was already a bit red from the sun, freckles dotting the apples of her cheeks.

“Miss.” He prayed his ears weren’t turning pink. It was one thing to be thinking about her, but it was something completely different to be thinking about her when he was adding up the sum of her parts. With a broad grin, he turned and rested his forearms on the handle of his shopping cart, leaning against it as he tried to look casual. He probably looked ridiculous. “Fancy meeting you here between smoked meats and potato salad. I would think I would have run into you eons ago if I knew you liked… Jell-o salad?”

She could not be - for real - buying Jell-o salad?

Shirayuki looked down into the small container of lumpy Jell-o in her hand and her face flushed as she shoved it underneath a bag of spinach. “Ah… it’s… it’s a dirty little secret?” Her shoulders hunched just a bit before she let out a pathetic, embarrassed giggle. “I know it’s not everyone’s favorite, but it’s not as awful as some people make it sound.”

“Oh, no. I’m sure with enough searching everyone can find a chunky Jell-o they like.” His mouth tugged to the side and he snorted. Honestly, this woman could not be real. Zen was going to have a damn field day when he realized someone this cute existed on the same planet, let alone the same block as him. Obi stood up straight and offered her another smile. If he could buy enough time, he might be able to introduce the two soon-to-be lovebirds and start planning the wedding next month.

Obi tilted his head in the direction of the deli case. “So, I’m at a loss here, trying to decide between coleslaw or macaroni salad. Any thoughts for tomorrow? Anything you prefer over mayonnaise and macaroni or mayonnaise and cabbage?”

She pressed her lips together and looked into the case with a soft, inquisitive hum, her hair spilling over her shoulder as she leaned down. She smelled like clean soap and lavender, and something about the scent seemed to soothe him - it felt strangely like coming home. He shook his head and huffed a breath through his nose. That was a stupid thought.

Shirayuki cocked her head to the side before straightening up and turning to look at him with a blinding smile. “The potato salad. It looks good, and fresh.”

Obi snapped his fingers, feeling his smile widen. “Done. Potato salad it is. I trust your judgement, Miss. So, don’t let me down.”

“I’ll try not to.” She looked up at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her eyes were the brightest shade of green he had ever seen, like there was light coming from them and shining into the world around him. “I mean, I don’t think there’s a potato salad that’s let me down before.”

“Obi, I went to the… oh. Hi.”

Obi looked across the aisle of artisan bread to see Zen coming up next to Shirayuki with a surprised look on his face. His hands were wrapped around several packages of sausage, and he looked helpless as his stare darted between them. It wasn’t like Obi hadn’t flirted with the local girls in the grocery store before, but Zen was obviously more surprised that Obi wasn’t flirting. He gave Shirayuki a once-over before looking back at Obi, his expression confused. “I… I got what you asked for? The sausage, I mean.”

“I like your sausage.”

Obi snorted into the back of his hand and he took a half-step back. Oh, god. He could not believe that she was real. Biting back a laugh, he watched as Shirayuki’s face burned as red as her hair, and she lurched forward, throwing her hands out in front of her as if to physically stop her faux pas.

“I mean the brand!” Her hands tightened around her shopping basket. “The brand. It’s a good brand. It’s ah…” Her cheeks grew redder and she looked up into Zen’s face with a small, sheepish smile. “I’m Shirayuki.”

“She’s our neighbor, Zen.” Obi lifted his eyebrows and caught Zen’s stare for a moment before he turned back to Shirayuki with another smile. This impromptu introduction was going almost better than expected. “He always compliments your roses when we pass, so I think it’s good that you two finally get to meet.” His lips tugged to the side again as he tried to quash a laugh. “You can tell him all about your roses.”

“Oh!” Shirayuki turned back to Zen, who was giving Obi the death-stare from the corner of his eyes, and beamed. “Do you garden? My grandmother taught me a little, but I’ve been working on trying to get my roses to have a few more blooms this year. It’s just been so hot and dry.”

Zen looked back at her and blinked. He seemed to roll words over in his head, unsure of what ones to use and how to start up a conversation. Finally he gave her a sort of weak but charming smile and nodded. “I noticed. But you’re doing a good job keeping the flowers alive. They’re pretty.”

Like you, Obi added in his head, feeling like he was watching the final, tire-breaking play of a game. Come on, Zen. It wasn’t that hard to flirt. He’d done it before, and he could do it again, he just had to try. Obi waited for Zen to say something else charming but nothing seemed to come out, and Obi was forced to intervene or things were going to get weird.

“Anyway… we’ll see you tomorrow at the cookout, right?” Obi nudged Zen’s shoulder, hoping he could jolt the conversation back into him. “Zen will even be cooking.”

Zen balked and looked over at him. “I will?”

“You will. You already promised me yesterday.” Obi had to remind himself to teach Zen how to grill. The poor kid was probably as useless at grilling as he was at flirting, and that wouldn’t do for a cookout. “Besides, it’ll be fun and we’ll open the pool. You can go for a swim.”

“Oh, you have a pool?” Shirayuki looked almost like she was salivating at the thought of a pool. Not that he blamed her though, in the middle of this heatwave he’d probably salivating at the thought of a pool too.

“Yes! We do!” Obi snapped his fingers and pushed Zen closer to her with a tap against his shoulders. “Zen tell her about the pool.”

“It’s nice… I mean, we just put it in last year so we haven’t had a chance to use it just yet, but it could be fun? To open the pool.” Zen’s face flushed a pale pink and he glanced away before looking back into Shirayuki’s face. Obi could feel that little bubble of pride already swell in his chest - he knew that look on Zen. It meant he was interested in someone, and that was something at the very least. Zen offered her a small smile, the first real one he had given anyone in awhile. “You should bring your suit over and swim. It’ll be fun… bring a friend if you want. The more the merrier, right?”

Obi turned around and tried to cover his laughter with his hands. They were both complete and utter dorks.

“Oh, that’s nice of you.” Shirayuki smiled and looked back at Zen. “I appreciate it… when should I be over, and should I bring anything?”

“Come over around three.” Obi managed to find his breath long enough to turn back to both of them. “Bring some Jell-o Salad. I’m sure it’ll be a big hit.”

Shirayuki’s face scrunched up, and she almost looked like she was going to stick her tongue out, but decided against it. With another playful laugh, she stepped back and waved to them. “Alright, tomorrow at three. I’ll be there… with Jell-o Salad in hand.”

They both watched her go for a long moment. When she was out of earshot, Zen turned to him, his face screwed in confusion. A second of tension passed between them before he finally muttered, “Jell-o salad?”

[thefandomscontrol-blog]

Decisions (Rip Hunter x Reader, Ray Palmer x Reader)

Prompt: stephyra17 said:

I have recently found your blog and I absolutly love it!! I would like to request a one shot, on how both Ray and Rip (legends of tomorrow universe) have a crush on you and try to impress you with history facts, nerd facts since you're a historian\time related powers and a nerd (fangirl). They try to make references ect. It's a competiton between the 2. Could you also included 2 ending, one wehre you choose Ray & the other you choose Rip? Thanks so much, I love you for existing & making me smile

Pairing: Ray Palmer x Reader, Rip Hunter x Reader

Words: 1581

Warnings: Nerdiness, geekiness, possible fangirling. Don’t know if you mean historian and/or time related powers, so she’s going to have both.

Notes: I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I have so much school work I’m drowning in it, but I wanted to write a little anyway to try and relieve some stress (even though I should be writing an essay right now...oh well). I hope you like it! And thank you, you sending me this brightened my day! Since Nate is a historian, she and Nate are going to be best friends. :)

It wasn’t until your best friend Nate pointed it out that you realized why Ray and Rip were always surrounding you and telling you history facts and anything about the Marvel Universe or Supernatural that made you fangirl (and let’s just say you fangirl very hard). They were trying to flirt with you. “Nate, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” the historian replied. “They alway come around with more history facts that you either know little about or that you have worked on persistently. Rip shares future history with you. They try and make you laugh with jokes about certain characters that you like in your Marvel Comics. They even have movie nights just for you to watch your favorite movies or binge watch Supernatural. Hell, you’ve seen future seasons of Supernatural that haven’t aired because they come after 2016. They fight for your attention and alway glare at the other who has taken your attention away from them. You still don’t believe they both like you,” Nate smirked.

You opened and closed your mouth a couple of times before just staring at Nate. You immediately wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. “So what? They both like me. That’s their problem. Let them figure it out. Until one of them asks me out, I’m staying off that boat.”

“Care to tell that to them? Here they come.”

“Can I rewind and leave before they show up,” you whispered to Nate.

He laughed, “no.”

“I hate you, you know that,” you whispered back.

“(Y/N)! So I was thinking about how you said one of the things you regretted before leaving 2016 was the fact that you were never able to see Deadpool. I have the movie, we could watch it sometime, whenever you want to. I mean, if you don’t want to watch it, that’s fine. I just thought that you would want to because-”

“Ray,” you interrupted him. Inside, you were jumping up and down like a hyper seven year old, but you knew you needed to keep a calm exterior with this new information in your head. “That is very sweet of you to offer. I would appreciate watching Deadpool, maybe the whole team can watch it. I bet I can even convince Sara to dress in Pajamas,” you laughed.

“I did-”

“(Y/N), did you know that Adolf Hitler’s name would have been Adolf Schicklgruber had his father not changed his name in 1877? Or that a British soldier during World War I spared Hitler’s life as he was wounded? As a child, Hitler wanted to be a Priest. He planned to collect loads of artifacts of Jewish descent to make a museum for an extinct race after the war. Funny concept was he was afraid of cats. Hitler never learned to drive,” Rip smiled as he went behind his desk and sat down, watching your face lightly light up at some of the facts you didn’t know about Hitler. You had done your thesis paper on Adolf Hitler’s rise to Kaiser, starting from his early childhood and following to his death (you had even traveled back in time to get a closer look at Hitler...but your history professor didn’t need to know that).

“Some of that I did know, but others...that’s astonishing. Thank you for adding to my collection of facts on Adolf Hitler. Now, on a more serious note, do we have any aberrations to fix,” you looked at Nate specifically, hoping he would say yes to help take the focus off of you.

As Nate was about to answer, his machine whirled to life, “that would be a yes.” He took a look at the machine and looked up looking shocked, “it’s in 2016,” he replied.

Your eyes widened but a small smile made its way to your face, “I’ll go and look around. What’s the day?”

“May twenty-ninth,” he responded.

“Alright, meet me there,” and with a ripple in the air, you were gone, already in 2016.

“Bloody hell, how many times have I told her not to do that,” Rip mumbled.

“How many times have I told her to stop doing that before she gets hurt,” Ray grumbled as Rip called the team to the bridge to prepare for the time jump.

_______________________________________

Before the Timeship showed up, you had time to think. What would you do? Rip and Ray both liked you and you like them...but it wasn’t anything romantic, was it? Nate said it was obvious but you had a hard time believing that. You just couldn’t wrap your mind around two of the handsome men on board the Waverider were into you.

When you got these powers, the ability to travel through time, you never thought that you would meet people like this. Sure, you knew about The A.T.O.M., Firestorm, Heatwave, et cetera, but you never thought you’d get to meet them, let alone fall for any of them. You never thought that with your powers, you would meet someone as brave and bold as Rip Hunter and you never expected to fall for him either. You didn’t know what to do.

You didn’t want to hurt either of them, but you knew you would have to decide by the time that this aberration was finished...you couldn’t let them continue to fight over you because you knew it was ineffectual and that you didn’t need them preoccupied with the mission.

Maybe it would be best to tell them both you weren’t interested in a relationship...but that would end up hurting them both...and it might distract them both and that would be bad considering they need to fully be in the game. But if you chose one of them, you knew that the other would be out of it afterwards.

Damn it! Why couldn’t the Universe just throw a new person on board that you’re destined to be with and have Rip and Ray as two of your greatest friends? You quite honestly believed that the Universe hated you. What did you do to deserve that? Well, you can travel through time...maybe it’s Time’s way of telling you it doesn’t like you being able to travel at free will without the help of the Waverider.

You groaned slightly as a headache began to form. You shook your head. Aberration first, love life later, you reminded yourself.

______________________________________

After a semi-successive mission, you were back on the Waverider watching as Rip paced. Ray had gotten hurt as well as Sara. You walked away from the bridge and to the infirmary. You walked in, seeing both Sara and Ray resting. They were quietly talking as Gideon fixed them up. “I’m sorry, I should have seen it coming,” you stated after standing in the doorway for a couple of minutes, “I could have stopped Thawne and Merlin. Could have rewound a couple of seconds to stick my foot out in front of Thawne. Something...Then you both wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“It’s not your fault-”

“But it is. I didn’t check everything out when I got here. I stood in one spot thinking about Rip and you, Ray, because I didn’t know how to choose between both of you because you both like me. I see that now and I want to make sure I don’t hurt either one of you. I didn’t check the perimeter because I was so caught up in thought and then Sara tackled me, taking the bullet meant for me. It is my fault, don’t try to say it isn’t because I will always blame myself for not checking sooner and letting both you and Sara get hurt,” the first tear slid down your face and you quickly wiped it away. “I just don’t like seeing the people I care about get hurt because of me...especially not a man I’ve come to care about quite a lot.”

You watched Ray’s face and saw his expression lighten. “I believe there’s a way you can make it up to me.”

“How’s that?”

“Let me take you on a date,” he replied.

You smiled, “I would love to go on a date with you.”

ALTERNATE ENDING

After a semi-successive mission, you were back on the Waverider watching as Rip paced. Ray had gotten hurt as well as Sara. You were sitting in one of the chairs on the Bridge, watching him pace back and forth in his office.

After another second of thought, you got up and walked over to his office and leaned on the frame of the entrance. “You shouldn’t beat yourself up about this mission. It was my fault. I was too preoccupied to check the perimeter.”

“It is not your fault, (Y/N), I should have guessed they would be expecting us.”

“And I should have guessed they would have sensed my arrival before the ship’s.”

“I should have advised the team to be extra cautious.”

“I should have searched the perimeter.”

“I should have-”

“We could do this all day, Rip. Why? We need to move on and figure out our next move against the Legion of Doom...and maybe we could fit in some time to get to know each other better,” you held your breath. This was not the way you wanted to tell him.

“Are you asking me on a date, Ms. (Y/L/N),” he looked at you, smirking.

“Only if you say yes.”

“Well then, I accept.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

I wish you'd write a fic where, to save Len, Mick must find his soul/heart/presence in the void the Oculus left (somewhere in the wreckage of all the shattered timelines) and bring it back. AKA a coldwave Orpheus and Eurydice AU

sooooo this got away from me a bit

Fic: Sailor’s Sorrow (AO3 Link)Fandom: Flash, DC’s Legends of Tomorrow, Literary Allusions GalorePairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: Sailors tell the same tales everywhere you go.

Sometimes, they tell you how to bring someone home.

(an Orpheus and Eurydice retelling - and a bit more besides)

———————————————————————————

Sailors tell the same tales everywhere you go.

Different languages, different cultures, different people, but in the end it always comes down to them and the sea: stories of danger, stories of wonder, stories of strange things you can’t even begin to imagine.

Mick Rory was born on land, as far away from a coast as you could go in his continent.

Kronos was born to the sea.

The Time Masters belittle it when they call her the Time-Stream, their pathetic and futile attempts to make it less than it is, to make it something they can understand, something they can master.

She is no mere stream: she is Oceanus and Tethys, Varuna and Varuni, Anahita and Aegir and Ryūjin and Idliragijenget, all of them together, the great Tiamet who blankets the world entire. She is the Many-Named, the Inexorable, the Endless, Time in all its forms: all oceans come from her, and she is both the greatest of them all, and yet beyond them. She is the slow, rolling wave, the quiet calm, the swiftly rushing current that carries the many-mirrored universe ever forward in her hands, gentle and rough in turn, and she had no beginning but is in herself the whole of creation entire.

And, like all seas, there are those who sail her, and their stories.

It’s on a mission for the Waverider when he first hears of it.

It’s just another boring day in, day out, honestly. Travelling to different time periods rather loses its shine when all you ever see are people being people the same the world over, different architecture, different languages, different clothing, but the same nevertheless—the Tower of Babel was a lie: it did nothing, nothing at all, because in the end people are people no matter when and where and nothing can make that untrue—and not a single soul on the Waverider had Len’s passionate creativity, his bold recklessness, his sense of humor that could turn even the dullest outing into a thrilling adventure.

He’d rather be going to a grocery store to get a loaf of bread with Len than breaking into the Winter Palace with the Waverider.

For this mission, he was sulking around a pirate’s bar in his Kronos gear, faithfully recreated to his specifications by Gideon. The others on the ship had not believed him at first when he had said that his reputation preceded him and would still be valid, accepted by all, but he had proven them wrong, and now they used his dual persona in the same clumsy way they wielded all their weapons.

He opted not to mention that he was not the first Kronos, and that as he travelled through Time he had met others, time remnants, who saw him and looked upon the shape of their future. He had the feeling it would disturb them to know it, this crew that sails the sea of Time but never loves and fears her like a sailor ought.

Len would have laughed in devilish glee.

He misses Len like a stab wound that never heals.

Time is meant to cure all things, they say, but those that said that never rode Time’s currents and mastered its complex navigation, never found their bearings in a place that knows neither set time nor place, never flung themselves forward upon the currents of always and forever, never turned sail to the winds of Fate and spat in the face of destiny.

There are no lighthouses to guide the way through Time, no signs to show you the hidden shoals and reefs that could wreck the finest sailor’s ship, no; this sea so bright that no light could shine through but that of the human soul.

Len was a light so bright that he sometimes thought it should have been seen for miles, for years, for centuries.

His chosen rival, the Flash, shines bright and blazing as well. They should have had that, that glorious clash that echoes through the ages, brightness enough to light the path home for a thousand lost sailors’ souls.

But Len is gone: the light has gone dark, and he sails onwards blind and without a friend.

And then one day he hears it.

“They say it’s a black hole,” the old man croaks from the corner of the bar, his eyes bright and black and shining like beetles. He clutches his pitcher in his hand, but does not drink; he sits by the fire, old and wiry and just as mad as the rest of them, time-sailors all. “Brand new, where it oughtn’t be. Someone ripped that hole into Time herself, they say. The hole – the Endless Pit, the Time-Stop, the End of All Things. It is a pathway to the land of the dead.”

“By which you mean that anyone who follows that path ends up dead,” another younger man scoffs.

But the old man shakes his head. “It’s happened before,” he says. “It will happen again. A pit, a pathway: the brave may go forth through and seek their dead, and if they are brave and strong and true, they may call them forth once more. Time itself will yield up her prey to he who braves the deepest of the still waters.”

“It’s a myth,” a third man scoffs, drinking deep. “It’s nothing more than death-trap.”

“It’s true,” the old man insists. “I lost my love, who I thought I loved more than life itself, and I walked Charybdis to find her.”

“Did you bring her back?” someone asks.

He is somehow unsurprised to find out a few seconds later that it was him.

“I was not true,” the old man says bitterly. “I had a sister, a family, an audience, all waiting for me back home, and I loved them the more, though I would not admit it; I brought my love almost all the way out, but failed my tests, and she disappeared again into the deep.”

Hidden by his Kronos helmet, he swallows, staring at the old man, half-remembering a story Len once told him, a silly snippet of nothing, an amalgamation of tales that Len found in books, in movies, in libraries – nothing at all, and yet he remembers –

He strides forward abruptly, and grabs the old man’s hands, pulling them loose of the tankard and turning his fingers up.

The old man’s fingers are callused deep and hard, each one formed from years of savage beatings in the name of passion, and the weapon a string of gut in a harp of bone.

He looks at the man.

“Yes,” the old man hisses, voice low and silky, his beetle-black eyes shining with all the colors of an oil spill. “I am he of whom they speak, for I mourn my loss until the end of Time herself, and speak of it to all.”

“Heard they ripped you apart till only your head was left,” he replies. “In a fit of madness.”

“They did,” the old man says. “But they could not bear to lose me, or my gifts, and so they stitched me back together after. I can only tell you where the path is, and how to follow it; the trials are different for each man.”

“But you will tell me,” he says, knowing it to be true.

The old man looks upon him and there is pity in his eyes. “How could I not?” he asks. “You have lost everything – even your name.”

And he knows that the old man is correct.

Kronos is too tight a fit, a slave-name given to him by his masters to make others fear him; Mick Rory is too loose, for that name had become a half name, meant to cover one-of-two, Len-and-Mick, and not one alone. Heatwave is a name he held but briefly, a gift from a lover, an apology, never truly claimed as his own and yet it is all that he has left: the name, the gun, and the ring.

Len also left him a mission.

If he were better – if he were true – he would stay with them, he would do his job, he would return to the gray walls and the endless days of the Waverider, to mockery and to use, and suffer them gladly as fit punishment for having not been a better friend. But he is not better: he is true only to Len and not to Len’s wishes. He cannot go forth much longer without Len by his side.

He has already started to seek oblivion to return to Len’s side, and Len wouldn’t have ever wished for that.

“What can you tell me, then?” he asks, forsaking the last of that which he was given. He will not be returning to the Waverider today, not without Len; one way or the other, he will find Len once more.

The old man dips his head into a nod, a recognition, and the others in the bar forget them as if they had not been there, neither of them: these others do not have a black hole in their hearts to echo the one in reality, the sort that is needed to hear these words, this story; this story is not for them. Not yet, and if they are lucky, not ever.

The old man may be an omen of doom, a trap in glittering tempting form, as the sailors say, or he might be the guide to salvation.

At this point, he-the-nameless, he who was once Mick Rory and at last has hope that he may yet be that again, does not care.

“Tell me,” he says a third time, and there is some use to Len’s half-learned religion – to ask three times turns the key and opens the gate, and shows those who are truly willing from those whose will shall fade in time. “Tell me where to go.”

“You know where it is,” the old man says.

“The Vanishing Point,” he replies, finding that he does know, after all. He’s always known.

It is the path he must yet learn.

“You must follow the albatross to find your way,” the man says. “She will lead you to where you need to go. But be careful – if you err upon your path, the albatross will take from you until you have no more to give, and take yet more than that.”

Another memory drifts up, fragile and precious, Len younger and happy, letting him lay his head in his lap, and Len read to him aloud –

“Water, water everywhere,” he says, echoing words he had not known that he recalled. “And not a drop to drink.”

“There is a greater hell than death,” the old man says, and his voice is weary, his eyes distant. “And it is to be lost in in the sea of memory forever.”

He can imagine it well – every touch a memory, every sight and sound and smell summoning recollection, and yet never able to go forth into reality once more – and he does not need to imagine it at all.

It is his life every day, even now.

“There are those whom Time cannot heal,” the old man tells him, and he knows that it is true. They are the damned of Time, who have no succor but desperation. “I wish you luck.”

He nods, and goes.

Finding the ship is easy enough – the time pirates fear him and honor him and worship him, or at least the suit that he wears, and one is more than happy to convey him back to the ship which he molded to his own use long ago and left behind only for Len, a finer prize by far – and he takes it as no more than his due, stepping back upon her, master and commander once more.

He takes her sailing.

No rough-formed AI for him this time, no; no Barry Allen working wonders with code and the Speed Force, bringing the future forward in time in a backwards threading that only speedsters can do. He guides the ship himself, and its ghost is silent in honor of his task, and he rides the crest of the wave to his destination.

The Waverider’s crew sees only the utility of the current, not the beauty. Even Rip turned deaf ears to the tempest outside, Time Master to the depths of his soul even once he spurned the organization; he covered his eyes with maps and his ears with his ghostly navigator, and he turned his back upon it so as better to focus on his plots and his hopes and his dreams, which in the end were not so dear to him as he thought they were. And the crew Rip gathered, the crew Rip left behind – the crew knows nothing. They see a uniform green, a blank highway, where he sees swirls and knots, bends and currents and flows, roaring storms larger than Jupiter’s and little break-tides so gentle and sweet it could bring tears to your eyes.

They know nothing of it. He knows it all.

Some part of him was born to it.

He was - and here he smiles - always capable of handling extremes.

He contains multitudes.

He tacks and turns, steering expertly through the shoals and back into regular space far enough away that he can see that which is his goal, and oh, the sight of it is enough to shake a man’s soul.

Charybdis, the Boundless Whirlpool, the Storm of Storms, the Great Eater, Ship-Crusher, Life-Ender, the Hole In the Universe, the End of All Hope - the sailors give them many names.

Science calls them black holes.

Gravity roils its bindings here, pulled so close and tight as to squeeze out all else, physics free at last of the chains of rules. Life herself yields up her domain, energy over matter at last. The swirling mass churns around the outside, swirling as through in a drain, atoms tearing apart in the fury of the storm, colors beyond colors ever yet imagined by living being, and in the center – ah, in the center, there is nothing but a dark so deep that the eye cannot understand it. It is beyond black, it is nothing, and to contemplate it is to contemplate madness.

Nietzsche’s abyss: entropy itself, king of death, enthroned in all its glory in the land of the dead where even the universe itself cannot reach but can only pour itself into, draining itself of all that makes it what it is, stars and planets and even space itself, consumed into the nothingness.

Abandon all hope, ye who would enter here.

The sailors of Time fear this danger above all others.

When the Time Masters took him, they put him in a machine built along the models of this, the great monster of the deep, the fears that haunt the dreams of all living creatures. Their machine tore apart his soul into its component atoms to mix it back into Kronos, but the machine failed, where it never failed before, because all of him, every last part, down the atoms, was marked by Len. Len’s life, Len’s light, Len’s spirit, Len’s mind: they tore him apart, but they could not take that memory away from him. He might have forgotten it, for a time, but the raw star-stuff of his body always remembered.

The first time Kronos beheld a Great Eater, he did not think of the stories shared furtively in the nighttime dark of barracks of the Time Master’s captive hunters. He did not think of gravity, or of science, or even of myth and fairytales and children’s dark delight, nor even of the nightmares that can only be recalled in part when you awaken because to remember all is to lose that which keeps you together.

He thought instead of Len, smiling in delight, holding out in his hands a tape of such ancient vintage that all Kronos knew would sneer at it, and of Len’s hands, cool and long and perfect, fingers clenching against Mick’s as a horse got stuck in the mud and fell prey to sadness, of the stone giant that was eaten by the world-consuming Nothing.

That’s what he sees, when he looks upon the Storm of Storms.

Nothing.

Len.

It was that thought of Len that brought him from himself, that reordered what the Time Masters had mixed up, that gave him a mind of his own instead of a mere body to be puppeted at the Time Masters’ will. It was that thought – Len – that gave him hope.

If he is to find hope once more, he must find Len, and to find Len, he must offer up his soul to the Great Eater and hope against hope itself that the king of the damned will find his sacrifice worthy.

And if it doesn’t work, well –

He can’t imagine a better place to die than here, where Len burst open the dam of Time and let it run wild through the many worlds. Worlds of echoes, worlds of paths untrod, the roads more and less travelled, worlds so different in tone that life scarcely can recognize itself in the faces of its kin, worlds so similar that a single flap of a butterfly’s wings is all that changed.

The great sea of Time contains them all.

He waits, patient, his hand on the helm, guiding his ship’s prow to stillness, his mind on the waves, his ship beating back against the sirens of death, gravity herself singing temptation and pulling gently for him to come nearer, to come close, to come to them and never return. Up and down, bottom and top, strange and charm – those are the sirens that sit at the foot of Charybdis and smash the sailors who fall into their arms.

He will not fall.

The old man said he would be guided by the albatross.

He watches, sentinel and silent witness, as a nebulae barely born gives in to the lure of Fate and belches forth her many colors, streaming towards the hole but never touching it, watches as the Eater drinks down her fiery heart. No more stars will be born here; this is their graveyard.

This is where he lost his North Star, his guiding light, and it is here, he hopes, that he will find him once more.

He holds on hope, his hope, his Len, who may be there, in the land of the dead, waiting for him.

And then he sees her.

A white dwarf, soaring through space, arrowing straight towards the very center of the Pit, a glorious elongated streak of white with the wisps of the colorful nebulae drifting in her wake, draped along her shoulders like a gossamer-thin shawl, an angel descending into the deep as though to light the way by her very presence: Beatrice, she was called by one man; by another, Eärendil.

To the eyes of a third, she was an albatross.

His fingers clench upon the helm.

Len.

Where there is hope, there is life.

And oh, he hopes, he hopes, how he hopes.

His hands move on instinct, a sailor’s knowledge sunk deep in his bones, and he follows her trail, his ship flying into the cloud that she leaves behind her like a lighted path which he hopes will lead him to salvation. His ship floats between the gas and the debris, the shining rock and the glittering ice, and he follows her on her sure path into the deep.

He hopes.

He keeps as closely on her tail as he can, until his ship groans beneath him in protest at his nearness to that incandescent heat, next to which even Lucifer in his original glory would be shamed, and his hand is steady, his gaze firm, and he does not stray from his path no matter how the gravity breaks upon his ship, no matter how Time itself begins to fray around him.

He hopes.

It could be seconds, it could be a million years, but he does not care. He follows his albatross, his hope, and he follows her into the dark.

He hopes.

His ship screams beneath him.

He might scream himself, he’s not sure.

And still he follows.

He follows, he follows, he follows, his whole attention fixed upon nothing more than that white point ahead, that glowing ember, and then -

It’s dark.

He might be dead.

He finds himself rather unsure about the whole matter.

His fingers cannot feel, his eyes cannot see, his ears cannot hear, and yet there is something of him alive: he has no mouth, and yet must scream.

why do you come here

There is no voice in this place, if this is a place and not hell.

For hell is empty, Len told him once, and all the devils are here.

why do you come here

Len.

you come for one of the dead

Yes.

Little by little, he feels himself come together. Atom by atom, electrons intertwining, neutrons locking together and forming strands, elements being built from dust, dust to dust, like all living things, the materials of a dying star regrouped in just the right order to make a man.

He is a man.

He is alive.

His ship is - he knows not where. He thanks her in his mind for her service, and spares a moment to wish that her death not be in vain, for a sailor loves his ship, loves her passionately, but not as much as he loves the sea.

Not as much as he loves Len.

He has lost Kronos’ armor. He finds himself clad instead in stardust, in his favorite set of heavy pants with many pockets, his shirt a few buttons loose, his heavy fireman’s jacket to protect him from the element he loves most.

you come here, nameless one, to collect your dead

He turns, his body his own once more, and regards the Throne.

There are no words that can describe it, the King of the Void in Darkness. He is formless; he is all forms; he is anti-matter and matter cannot comprehend him, the one true unknowable beyond the reach of all science. Death is his handmaiden, not his definer, and Might herself cowers before him. He inspires neither wonder nor horror: there is no room for anything but awe. Gods are born and die in the blink of his eyes, Olympian and chthonic both.

This is He who all life has sought in desperation to name, and yet He is Nameless.

Honestly, he’s not entirely sure He is a He at all, or if He is, it is only one of his many faces.

what will you give for your dead

He would laugh, if he could; what would he give? He is no Orpheus, here to win love with a song that brings forth sadness in all who behold him; he is no scholar, no poet, no hell-raiser.

He has nothing to offer but his hope.

and that hope is beautiful

it shines a light no matter where it goes

even here where there is no light

If there were room in his skull, he would feel something, he’s sure: relief, perhaps. But there is nothing, nothing but awe, and hope, and the voice.

His hope is enough.

the way will not be easy

there are tests

He will do what he must, what he can, and if he fails, so be it.

yes

go forth now

be wary, nameless traveler, for you have many miles to go before you may rest

There is a path beneath his feet, leading away from the throne.

Len laughs in his mind, another memory springing forth to just behind his lips and eyes, and the path solidifies into golden brick.

He takes one step, on to the road. He takes another.

Turning his back on the throne is the hardest task of his life to date, and he knows that it is nothing compared to what lies before him.

But if he succeeds - if he’s true -

It will be worth it.

The path is long, and he must walk every mile.

He walks.

And then there it is.

The first test.

The oldest story had three heads to tame before he could proceed; the nearest named four times fifty living men that cursed the sailor with their eye -

He groans when he sees what obstacle he must pass.

No Cerberus for him, oh no, nor allies lost.

His first test is to confront his murdered dead.

He has killed -

There are so many.

But he has his path, and he has his test, and he has his hope.

And so he goes.

He walks along the path, and the path leads him forward, and then he is wading into the sea of spirits that stand between him and his goal.

His hope, his Len, for whom he would do anything.

He is anticipating that his dead hate him, he expects hands upon hands to rip him apart.

He is wrong.

“I do not care about you,” drawl the ghosts of the men in the mine. “I never even knew I died.”

“I have my own ghosts,” say the soldiers from the past, Capone’s and Germany’s and others still. “I have no room to fight you, too.”

“I wronged you,” say his rivals, his opponents, criminals like him, shrugging it off: honor among thieves, even in the end. A match fairly played between unfair men: the possibility of loss accepted. “And I know it.”

And once those melt away, then and only then, there they are. His hateful dead. The ones he killed, the ones he hurt, the sins of his life there to stop him in his tracks the way he once stopped them in theirs.

“You killed me,” they hiss. “You hurt me. I had more I wished to do. Your fault, your fault!”

Their fingers grow into claws, their eyes glow with fire, and their heads are haloed by spitting snakes, and they reach for him, and he flinches - his eyes shutting in anticipation of terrible pain, for there is no vengeance like that of the angry dead -

“I love you.”

What?

He opens his eyes.

“I love you,” says the ghost that stands between him and the Furies that lust for his blood, and he cries out in pain.

It is his mother.

“I love you,” she says a third time. “I forgive you. It was an accident.”

“I love you,” the shade of his father says, stepping forward to stand beside her.

“I love you,” the children whisper, gathering around him.

His brothers.

His sisters.

They gather around him as he walks, tears slipping down his face, and though the Furies around him rage, they guard him.

And around them -

“You gave me food when I had none,” a small child says. She had come by the restaurant where he had once worked, thin and starving, and his fingers were light enough to vanish the food he left out deliberately into her pockets. He never saw her again.

“You defended me from pain,” a boy scarcely past adolescence says. He had been in prison for the first time, a friendship badly chosen and a dare gone wrong; the others had looked upon him as prey. He had defended him for the few weeks he was inside; they had never spoken.

“You taught me a trade,” a man says. He had been bumbling and foolish; he had strength and size, and they were to be used, but he had no skill. They had met in the gym, and he had taught the man what he knew, and the man did not die the first time he went into battle under the Family’s command. The next time they met, they did not recognize each other.

“You saved me,” an old woman says, and he remembers her, remembers how she had been dying, her heart giving out, and he had ruined one of Len’s carefully timed plans to get her to the hospital. Len had never held it against him. He never found out what became of her.

He did not help these people for love, nor satisfaction. He just – helped. Because there wasn’t any reason not to.

There are bad deeds he has done in his life - the darkest, the meat of the Furies – but there are also good deeds, good will he spread through the world for no reason and no cause and no demand for payment, and he has enough, just enough, to get him through the sea of dead and to climb the path upon the other side.

She is waiting for him there.

Her lips were red, her looks were free; her locks were yellow as gold; her skin was white as leprosy -

The nightmare Life-in-Death was she.

“Lisa,” he says, the name a sigh of breath, barely spoken.

She turns to him and smiles. Her teeth shine in the dark. And she reaches forward and takes his hand in hers.

His blood runs thick with cold.

“Come,” Life-in-Death says. Dante imagined her as Virgil, statue and teacher stepped down and come to life, his companion to lead him down and down; the oldest songs called her Despair, she of the crooked hook that she slides into the hearts of men to drag them low.

He can only see her as Lisa, much-beloved and much-wronged. He told her of her brother’s death and watched as she grew colder than ever before, her brother’s ice climbing around her heart.

They have been companions for some time now, Life-in-Death and he.

“Come,” she says.

The path is long, the path is hard.

“Come,” she says, and guides him onwards.

There is a swamp beyond the sea.

The trees are old and withered and bent; their roots curl down and their branches droop. The golden bricks are barely visible beneath the muck and grime. It sticks to his boots, it sticks to his pants. It makes him heavy. It makes him slow.

He is a lumbering beast, trudging through the mud.

Mindless. Stupid. Dumb.

Why does he keep trying? There’s no point. It’s obvious he won’t succeed. There was never any chance of succeeding: he was doomed from the start. Everything he touches dies. Was not the sea of dead enough to show him that?

He used up all his good deeds in getting this far.

He’s just a criminal, in the end. Just an arsonist. A sick man, who can’t stand by himself, useful to nobody and no-one.

Even the Legends knew he was worthless and they were heroes.

He trudges through the swamp.

It’s harder and harder to lift his feet.

God, why is he doing this? If he just stops, if he just dies, he’ll be dead, and that’ll get him to the same result, won’t it? He’ll be by Len’s side again. If he keeps trying, he’ll just mess everything up. He’ll make it all burn down. He’ll turn it all to ash.

Everything he tries turns to ash.

Every endeavor he begins.

Every plan he joins -

Len’s plans.

He ruined those, too, every one of them; he dragged Len down with him, he -

Len laughs in his mind, gleeful and manic; the memory sharp as ever. He reaches out his hand to him, a shared joke, a shared adventure, a shared life, and –

“We dawdle a bit,” Len sings on the way to a job, the memory faint and distant but growing stronger. “And then - we loiter a while, and dawdle again. We gather our strength - to start anew - on all of the loafing and lounging we still have left to do –”

He frowns, and something stirs in the base of his mind.

Something about a swamp.

“Why did we become criminals?” Len had asked him.

“Because we hate working and love money,” he had told him.

There was something –

About a swamp.

“Don’t,” he rasps, and his voice is dry and it hurts to speak. It’s so much effort - and what a waste! It won’t help. Won’t help at all. Just a waste of time, like everything else; a waste of energy, a waste of a life –

Len sang this to him once.

“Don’t,” he says again. “Don’t say –”

It’s pointless.

He’ll never remember it.

“Don’t say there’s - there’s - there’s nothing –”

Nothing, nothing, nothing, that’s all he is.

Nothing.

Nothing.

He remembers.

“Don’t say there’s nothing to do in the doldrums,” he forces out through numb lips. This was Len’s favorite movie, and the one he raised Lisa on, and even if he pretended later that it was something slightly more respectable, Star Wars or Lord or the Rings or something, it was never true. This was it; this was the one old tape he wrapped his childhood around. “It’s just – not – true.”

It’s not true.

None of it.

This is not true.

A child’s movie: the swamp of despair, of apathy, of thoughtlessness, which can be conquered only by thought and will and want. The Doldrums that would just as soon eat you alive, make you stop thinking, make you stop-stop-stop – and the only way out is to march straight through regardless.

He bares his teeth and speeds up.

Maybe he is a failure, maybe he is dumb, maybe all of that is true.

But he has his hope, his hope that it will get better once again, and he will not fail.

Life-in-Death snarls, robbed of her prey.

Her hook is still lodged in his heart, her sadness and her despair and her apathy still lodged in his brain, but he will not yield. Not now. Not when there’s Len to think of, and god, Len is all he thinks of.

Len is what pulls him through and makes him forget not to care.

The swamp ends.

His boots are clear, his pants are dry; the mud of the Doldrums cannot hold him now.

Life-in-Death has challenged him, and he has overcome, and so she turns and leads him onwards.

But there is more yet to come.

He follows the path.

Given the color of the bricks beneath his feet, he’s almost unsurprised when he comes upon the gates of Dis, glittering and green.

No jeweled city for him, though, no.

It’s a prison.

A prison made of glass and metal and twinkling stone, a hundred memories of confinement. The towers of Iron Heights, the depths of the gulag, the twisting turns of Chicago, the glaring weight of the Tombs in New York, and more and more and more -

And inside the prison there is a chair.

He moans.

He knows what test he must face here.

It is a test he has faced before.

This is the prison of the Self.

He walks forward, and he meets himself, reflected in a thousand mirrored planes.

Face twisted in greed, face twisted in hate, in rage, in fury, and worst of all, in the calmness of premeditation. He wore this face many times before – but the last one, the calm of death-inside, he only wore once.

He walks, and he sees:

Kronos sits upon the chair, with rusted chains looped around his arms and legs, and regards him with disdain.

“How low I have fallen,” Kronos says to him.

“How high I have risen,” he retorts. “To be you is to be a slave: I have cast off your name.”

“I was the most feared of the Hunters,” Kronos responds. “None heard of me but that despaired; My hunt was inexorable; I never tired nor weakened, and my prey never escaped me.”

“You were a dog,” he says. “You barked at the order of your masters.”

“I was strong, and nothing could hurt me.”

“You were alone,” he says, and that is the end of it.

Kronos bows his head. The chains about him crack and break, the rust eating away at them at the last, and they burst forth –

And then Kronos is gone.

There is only what he carries with him.

That was the easy part.

He turns next to regard what he once called himself.

“You left them behind,” Mick Rory, forty-three years old, Legend and sometimes even a hero, accuses him. “Len trusted you, and you betrayed him, and you left him behind, too, and he hated you in the end.”

“I love him,” he says. It is not a defense. It is a fact.

“You threw away the gift he gave you,” Mick Rory, Heatwave, enemy of the Flash and supervillain of fire, tells him. “He wanted you to join him, and you left him to the mercy of his father.”

“I love him,” he says. It is not a defense.

“You destroyed him,” Mick Rory, criminal and husband, burning with the flame of a cursed warehouse, says. “You drove him away; you made him abandon you, and you tore out his heart.”

“I love him,” he says.

“Why do you persist?” Mick Rory, younger than the rest, a groom, wearing a ring and promise, says. “Your crimes are not merely against the world; they are against him. Why would he want you still?”

“I love –”

“Why did you hurt him?” Mick Rory, youngest yet, fifteen and foolish and not even knowing that the heat that licked his heart was love. Tears stream down his face. “Why?”

“I love him,” he says, weary beyond weariness, sad beyond sadness. There is no defense but this: “I will not judge myself for him.”

They stand aside, the hollow men, the old skins which he has worn and was and has since cast off behind him, the soul of him carrying forth to be the person that includes all of them but is not bound by them, and they let him pass.

There is a garden outside, silent and dead, and beyond the garden there is a door.

The gate is locked shut, but the path continues.

On the door it is written: He who was living is now dead – and those of us still living are dying, with patience.

After the agony in stony places, the shouting and the crying, prison and place and reverberation –

He knows what he must do now.

He takes a breath in, pulls it all inside himself, everything he was, a tight ball of feelings and thoughts and memories, and he breathes it out, letting it go.

The gateway opens.

He walks on, and leaves himself behind, and goes forth truly nameless.

The pathway leads him down to a valley.

The stories tell of a test of trust: do not look back, traveler, and she will follow upon your feet.

The stories do not tell that there is first another test.

Recognition.

He’s found Len.

He’s found all the Lens.

Len at thirty, as Mick remembers him best, young enough for irrepressible energy but old enough to be grumpy about it.

Len at fourteen, as Mick first met him, a skinny bundle of bones with greedy eyes and light fingers.

Len at twenty two, bright and eager and enthusiastic, circles under his eyes from raising Lisa.

Len at forty, clad in supervillain parka and practicing his speeches on Mick, apology and forgiveness all at once.

And there’s the Len that Mick never knew: Len at four, chubby cheeked and happy; Len at eight, a beaten dog that doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong; Len at sixty, old and tetchy but still as clever as ever.

Len at eighty, curled up comfortably, old and smiling and content with a life long-lived.

Len at thirty-eight, weeping over his partner’s burned, comatose body.

That last one is a stab - he’d never known that Len had done that, that Len had screamed at the nurse trying to separate them that they were married and he had a right to be there, that he had slept for three days in a crappy plastic chair until the doctors had confirmed that everything would be okay.

Just like Len, not to mention that.

“What do I do?” he asks Life-in-Despair, who still lingers.

“Find him,” she answers.

And he nods. Len is in them, all of them, but only one of them contains eternity, a human soul that lights the sky.

He doesn’t bother examining them: they are all Len, and all are him, and he could spend eternity here learning about each of them.

Instead, he closes his eyes and blanks his mind.

Len is his hope, his guiding star, his true north.

Len’s gotten him this far.

Please.

At first there’s nothing.

But then -

A memory curls in at the corner of his mind, slowly shading in the lines and colors.

It’s nothing special. A day in fall, not too hot, not too cold; raining a little. They’re in their thirties; Lisa, adult enough now to be on her own, has come to visit. They have watched movies all day. Mick cooked. There was a popcorn war, and then they made s’mores on the stoves and stuffed their faces with delight.

Lisa’s asleep on the armchair.

Len is curled up into Mick’s arms on the couch, his fear of intimacy fading just enough to permit him this. There are no open warrants, for once, and they pulled off a heist a few weeks before, a big one that went perfectly. They’re rich, they’re free, they’re together.

It’s quiet but for the rain.

It’s perfect.

“I could live a hundred years in this moment,” Len said.

“And then you’d be old,” Mick had teased, breaking the feeling of it.

He opens his eyes. He’s not that man anymore - he would never break that moment now, but let it go on and on as long as he could, would luxuriate in it, wouldn’t fear feeling every damn second of it - but he remembers.

He doesn’t need a guide.

He knows Len.

He opens his eyes.

Life-in-Death waits before him. Her eyes are avid, her fingers keen, her mouth bright and red. He sees that there is more of her, too - Lisa young and innocent, Lisa older and freer still, but only two more.

Three in total.

Hecate Three-in-one, they call her; the Morrigan, the Moirai. Child-Mother-Crone, they say of her, and they worship her, but here in the dark she is not guide but guardian.

She of the three heads snarled and bit and barked and slept when clever Orpheus came; she wove visions over the graves of the heretics for starry-eyed Dante; she told lies made of nothing but the truth to doomed Macbeth.

He knows her, too.

“Well?” she asks, and her eyes shine with the glee of victory close at hand. “Where is he?”

He smiles.

“In the ice.”

Her smile freezes.

The Sphinx at Thebes looked just so, when Oedipus answered her riddle.

Oh, he would love to see Len in that moment, that remembered moment, that perfect peace, forever and always warm and safe in the arms of his lover, eyes on his sister, safe and happy, the rain keeping the world away. It would be heaven for Len.

But the Len he knows has never loved himself so.

No.

If that was heaven, then Len has cast himself to hell.

And for Len, there is only one hell for which he deems himself fit, and he knew of it long before Len told the whole world.

“The lake of ice,” he tells Cerberus, who has grown large and monstrous. “Where they put the traitors to kin.”

No Sheol for Len, full of the screams of lost souls, ever-wandering, no. For him is the freezing wasteland, for the father he could never please and later killed, for the sister he felt he failed, for the partner who he loved but left behind.

Cold enough to freeze all the tears of regret that Len has never shed.

Now that he looks at the Lens, he sees the truth: the only thing they have in common is the blank look in their eyes, the stillness behind them, for there are no eyes here, in this valley of dead stars, this hollow valley, this trap.

He turns and finds the one Len whose eyes still shine: trapped forever in that terrible moment when he turned the cold gun, whose capacities he knew better than any other, upon himself, the moment the ice froze the blood and muscle and nerves and bone. The moment where he gave up his livelihood, gave up his life, for a chance – only even a chance – of saving his partner.

How could he do any less, to save Len?

He reaches out and touches that one, and abruptly the valley is empty, his choice is made.

“Am I right?” he asks Cerberus mildly, because he never met a monster he didn’t want to fight.

She disappears, the three-in-one, and that is all the confirmation he requires.

The path is still beneath his feet.

“Walk, then,” she hisses in his ear. “Walk forth, nameless traveler. Your journey is not yet done – you have found the soul, but not yet the body.”

He walks.

He thinks, perhaps, that Len is behind him, now; he has reached the pit and now must climb the mountain of Purgatory to make it home.

Going up is always harder than going down, and going down was hard enough.

He sees the albatross far away before him, a single point of light in the darkness, and he remembers hope.

He walks.

He does not look behind him.

Just in case.

He wonders where he will find a living body here, in the land of the dead.

The path winds upwards, slow and sure, and he gains heart from it. He is a nameless traveler, but he has faced three tests: the reproach of the dead, the swamp of grinding sloth where the suicides curl up as trees, and the prison of self-hatred. He has bearded Cerberus in its lair and has walked alongside Life-in-Death without fear.

And best of all, he feels a gaze itching between his shoulder blades.

It might be his imagination.

But perhaps not.

His steps are sure, his spine straight, and he imagines he can see the albatross guiding him up.

And then the path turns abruptly left, and when he turns with it, his mouth drops open and the air in his lungs leaves him in a single huff, as though he’d been punched in the gut.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair.

They should not have asked this of him.

Before him lies a river of fire.

It delights his soul, the siren sound of it, the crackle and the snap, the heat that beats on his face even from here, cracking his lips and baking his skin, and it is beauty beyond the concept of beauty to him. It is the balm to the anxiety that pricks the center of his soul, the restlessness that dogged him for as long as he can remember.

He finds that he has gone several steps towards the river, all unknowing.

The river feeds into the boiling sea and upon the river there stands a ferryman.

There is a ferryman in every such story. The only question is what shall be needed to pay his price.

He draws near, then nearer, and then he is there, standing upon the dock.

The ferryman, who has no eyes and a face made of shadows, smiles and says, “Welcome.”

It is the voice that sings in his sleep, dreams and nightmare both; it is his greatest love, it is his most hated foe, it is his holiest of holies. The agony and the ecstasy -

The flame itself speaks to him.

He stands mute before the ferryman, unable to speak, and yet he must. He must, he must, but it is so hard to remember what it is that he must demand. Here his sorrows are lifted, here his dreams are fulfilled. Here there is no pain but that which he invites into himself; here is the fuel that drives his spirit; here is the meat and drink of his soul.

He raises his eyes to the open flame of the river.

At the very top, between the barest tips of the tongues of fire as they beat their fury into the air, whipped by inexorable passion, he sees a glimmer of light that comes from beyond the flames.

A white light, the merest pinprick, and rimming around her, like the iris to a pupil, is a cloak of many colors.

The albatross.

He’d been following her - he’d perjured his faith, he’d ignored the call of the flame, and for what? For -

Hope.

Eyes of many colors, blue and hazel and brown and gold.

He’s never won this battle before.

He has to win it now.

Len’s counting on him more than ever.

“What do you want?” the ferryman asks, that voice of voices ringing in his ears.

He opens his mouth to ask for safe passageway, but what comes out is “I want Len.”

His voice is weak and ragged, pained and small and miserable like it hasn’t been since he was a child. He sounds like a child, begging for his favorite toy that daddy took away.

The ferryman smiles - grotesque and glorious, a skull-grin that stretches too wide - and offers him a cup.

“You have given much, and so you may take,” the ferryman says.

He takes the cup and stares at it. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with it - it’s empty, a round plain ceramic container with no handles or differentiation, and the only thing around is the river of fire, but surely that can’t be..?

“Why?” he asks plaintively.

“This river finds its beginning in the heart of a star,” the ferryman says. “This is its end.”

Understanding is slow in dawning, but dawn it does.

He has the soul. What he needs is the body.

And what are our bodies if not the ashes of burnt-out star-stuff?

His gaze drops down to the river, which flickers red and yellow and orange and white and blue and a thousand other colors. It looks real, it sounds real, it smells real.

This is going to hurt.

He takes the cup in one hand and clenches his fingers around its unbroken edge as hard as he can manage, and he kneels by the churning shores of the river of heat, and he dips his hand into where he last saw white and blue, despite knowing it will be even hotter than the yellow, because Len would like it better that way.

It does hurt.

It hurts more than he could have ever imagined.

He thought he knew pain, that he had been burnt before, but that was nothing - every part of him screams, even his mouth, and his fingers feel as though they are melting, the flesh sloughing off like so much ash, the smell of blood and burnt and -

He pulls his hand out.

The pain stops.

His hand is unblemished.

The cup is filled with fire.

“Well done,” the ferryman says.

He nods, too shell-shocked even to wipe the tears from his face.

He looks up at the ferryman, not rising from his knees. “Will you let me pass?” he asks.

The ferryman regards him for a long moment. “I will take you to the other side,” he says finally. “To where your path continues. But only you can decide if you may pass.”

He understands all too well what the ferryman means.

Even with the memory of pain lingering, he finds his eyes straying, his head turning, the flames singing out his name, and he knows if he lets them take him, he could be here forever amongst the crashing atoms of the death of a thousand million stars.

But it’s still nothing but a graveyard.

He has the hope of more than that.

He climbs into the boat, and the ferryman takes him onward.

He clings to his cup and he wraps his lips around Len’s name and prays to the only thing that could ever draw him away from his flames.

The journey takes forever and a day, and he feels as though he has endured every minute of it.

But at the other side his companion Life-in-Death, the Three-faced Hag, Lisa - glorious, wonderful, simple, beloved Lisa - waits for him.

He fixes his gaze upon her and does not let himself look at anything else, not the flames, not the dock, not the ferryman, not even the path beneath his feet, not until he is by her side.

“I have crossed,” he tells her.

“You have,” she agrees. She sounds approving, for once. It was a hard test to pass. “Give me the cup, and I will give you a man.”

He hesitates.

“I swear upon the start,” she adds, amused. “The weft and hue, the loom and the thread - and the twist.”

He gives it to her, recognizing that she has changed again: not Moirai at all right now, no, not the cruel weavers of fate and destiny. He’s looking at her truest form, singular and unlike any other.

Tyche: Lady Luck, Mistress Chance, Mazel and Shimazel both; the spin of the wheel and the adventurer’s byword, the flip of a coin that determines everything.

Len’s patron goddess, if he ever had one.

She takes the cup and it disappears in her hands, and then she reaches out and grabs his shoulders, staring at him right in the eye.

“I have reformed him,” she says. “And your journey, which has been long, is almost done: there is but one last test.”

He nods.

“Then I tell you only these words of caution, one you know and one you don’t: don’t look back, and -”

Her eyes shine black as the pit of entropy in which they now stand.

“- run.”

He runs.

He runs as he has never run before. He was never built for speed; he is powerful, not fast. He withstood the tide, he did not outrun it. But now he runs, and he doesn’t look back, and behind him there is a scream like he has never heard before:

A Great Eater at risk of losing one of its prey.

He runs.

The scream rises and rises like the wind in a hurricane until -

“Mick!”

It’s Len’s voice.

It’s Len.

“Mick, hold up a damn second!”

He runs.

“Damnit, Mick! Wait! I’m falling behind!”

He runs.

“Mick! It’s catching up with me! Just fucking wait! Just - listen to me, for once in your life!”

He runs.

Tears stream down his face, but he runs.

“Mick! Mick!”

He claws at his face, a habit he thought he’d grown out of years ago, turning his nails on himself when his anxiety grew too great and there was no way to make fire, and his nails gouge long tracks in his cheeks.

He runs.

“Mick! No! Mick, don’t leave me here!”

He runs.

“Mick!”

And then a scream.

He runs.

Don’t look back.

And then, worst of all, there aren’t any more words. No more words, no more sounds, no more scream, no more presence, just the absolute certainty that there is nothing behind him, that Len has fallen, that he is far behind him.

The feeling scratches at his eyeballs and tears at his throat, demanding - insisting - just one quick check -

Don’t look back.

This is a test of trust and a test of faith.

He forces himself to look ahead, nails digging into his temples as he forces himself to keep his face from turning, hands on both sides of his head to fight against his own instincts, and in the distance he sees her.

The albatross, large and glorious and beautiful, white and shining, and beneath her is a ship. Not his own, for that was torn apart, but another - older than his, of strange make, but a ship nonetheless, and it will carry him upon the waves of time if only he can make it.

He is abruptly certain, certain as the pit, that if he reaches that ship he will be safe - but he, and he alone, and what use is all this if he is still alone at the end?

But she told him not to look back, and she told him to run, and she is as close to Len as he can get in this pit of horrors, this land of the dead, and he will trust in her, in Len, when every fiber of his being cries out that she has lied.

He trusts in his hope.

He has to.

Faith is the substance of things unseen.

And all the things unseen, the nightmares that you wake up after panting and terrified but know not of what you dreamt, are chasing after Mick now, and they’re getting closer.

He runs.

His lungs are burning, his eyes are aflame, his head pounds, but he runs.

His muscles scream, his joints lock up, his feet drive iron nails up his heel and toes with every step he takes, but he runs.

He runs -

And then he’s there, the ship is there, the path leads there, and he throws himself forward into the ship and suddenly he’s tumbling-tumbling-tumbling for forever and eternity and -

Silence.

He opens his eyes.

He’s on the bridge of a ship. It is not one he has ever piloted before, but some principles of design are universal. In the window of the bridge he sees that they are falling further and further away from that rarest of sights in the theorized universe: a white hole.

A knot of spacetime with no start and no origin, which nothing may enter but through which you may leave.

His albatross.

They are back in normal space.

And so he turns, barely daring to hope, barely able to make himself twist enough to see, to check, at last to know -

Len is lying there beside him, just as he remembers him, blinking awake even as he stares at him.

“Len,” he whispers. “Len. Len…”

He cannot say anything else.

Len’s beautiful eyes widen and dart around, before fixing on his face, and then he smiles. “You got me out,” he says, as if he knew it all along, as if there was never any doubt, as if his faith in him was as great as his in Len.

“I gave up my name for you,” he says helplessly, when he means to say ‘Of course’ and ‘I was always coming for you.’ He doesn’t know why. It’s not important, a name, not when he could have this.

Len smiles, and reaches out, and he trembles at the touch of Len’s hands, human-warm and Len-cool, as Len cups his face in his palms.

“That’s okay,” Len says. “You’re my Mick; that’s who you are.”

And so he is, and was, and will forever be.

Len’s Mick.

[little-red-2404]

The Technicalities of Tomorrow Prologue

It’s finally here! I just wanted to remind everyone THIS IS A SPINOFF of my first flash series Technical Difficulties! It is completely separate from the sequel to Technical Difficulties called Technical Delays. However, before you start this one, you must read the prologue to Technical Delays, it explains what happened to Leah before the singularity that killed her twin, Ronnie. You can find it at the bottom of my masterlist, HERE! Although it takes place after Technical Difficulties, it is a separate universe from Technical Delays where Leah choose a different path after the permanent death of Ronnie. Please do enjoy! (PS I will be writing this and Technical Delays at the same time).  

So, welcome to my first Legends of Tomorrow fanfic :D

Introduction: A New Start

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

*Three Months After “Before the Fall” (first chapter of Technical Delays)

      “There’s so many boxes,” I sighed, taking a seat on the floor considering all my furniture had already been moved into my new apartment. The apartment was almost bare now; I had taken down all the pictures and with bright lights reflecting off the empty walls, everything looked new as if I hadn’t lived there for the past decade.

          “You have so much stuff,” Caitlin breathlessly giggled, taking a seat next to me. She pushed her hair back out of her face. “Is all this stuff going to fit in your new apartment?”

          I nodded, “It’s big. I promise.” She hadn’t seen it yet, no one had except me. It was brand new and all mine, and right smack dab in the middle of Star City.

          “And you found yourself a counselor there, right?”

          I nodded, keeping silent this time. Going to counseling wasn’t something I enjoyed, but I knew I needed it. Ever since the singularity explosion, I had a growing fear that I’d lash out with my powers again. Last time, I severely injured Cisco and I in a car accident because I had missed Ronnie so much, and I wasn’t looking forward to doing something like that ever again. Unfortunately, Cisco didn’t agree with this idea. I understood where he was coming from; he was hoping that he could help me heal and feel okay again, he didn’t want to be “second best” to people who didn’t even know me. I couldn’t get him to understand that I didn’t want to hurt him, that I was dangerous: he kept telling me it was going to be okay, but I was scared because there was no way to know for sure.

          So, he walked out. And I let him, knowing I’d never be able to get him to understand.

          But after three months of sulking around in the same apartment and the same city, I decided I needed a change. I needed a new apartment in a new city.

          “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” She asked in a quiet voice.

          “Sure, I will.” She gave me a look then and I sighed. “Caitlin, I’ll be fine. And I have Oliver and the others there in case I need it.”

          She sighed, “Yeah? And what about Techna?”

          A silence hung in the air after I molded over the question she was asking. It wasn’t “are you going to keep being Techna?” it was “what happened to her? Where did she go?”

          I shook my head, “Central City will be alright without her. Besides, they still have Flash.” She nodded although I could tell she didn’t fully agree. So I asked a question I had been meaning to find the answer to since Team Flash broke up, “Have you heard from him? Barry?”

          The smile on her face was obviously forced, “No. He hasn’t spoken to any of us.”

          “He will,” I assured her. “He just needs time. Everyone does.”

          “And you?”

          I gave her my own forced smile, “My time is up. Time for me to move on. Hence why I’m going to go find something new in Star City.” I jumped up from the floor and picked up the nearest box. “Well, come on. My new apartment isn’t going to furnish itself!”

          ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

                      *Six Months after “Before the Fall”*

          My new apartment is covered in large lamps and ceiling lights. The only time I’ve used my powers in the past six months is to turn them off and on without having to touch the light switch. Without the threat of metahumans every two seconds, I only use my powers for the little things. The old team would laugh at my usage of something so unique… Or they would scold me. I’m unsure.

          I’ve only kept in touch with Caitlin and Stein recently. Due to some unexpected issues, Stein found someone new to fuse with; his name is Jax Jefferson and Stein says he’s still warming up to him. I haven’t met him yet… I’m not sure how I feel about it… Caitlin works with Team Flash again as they stop the metahumans of Central City. It’s nice to know they are okay.

          However, when I got a text from Barry, I found myself in my car, driving back to Central City to see the team.

          Barry: hi, Leah. Hope you don’t mind, Cait gave me your new number. My dad is getting out of prison this afternoon! Long story, but I finally got proof that he is innocent. I know its short notice, but want to come to his “Welcome Back” party? We’d all love to see you there.

          To my surprise, I didn’t hesitate to respond immediately.

          Leah: Congratulations, Barry. Where’s the party at?

          I don’t know what made me think it was a good idea. Just drop everything and head over to a friend’s who I haven’t seen or heard from in six months. Go back to the world I had left behind and all the memories that lie within it.

          As I passed the familiar buildings, and the reconstruction of the city, the pit in my stomach grew larger and larger. I almost expected myself to hit the brakes as hard as my heart was slamming against my chest. But I kept driving until I was finally at the curb of Joe’s house.

          Barry has briefly explained that the party was going to be held at Joe West’s house and the party was to start at two o’clock. As I sat in the car and looked up at my destination, it was already two-thirty. I’m allowed to be a little late, right? I mean, I’m coming from a whole other city!

          I could feel my palms sweating and I was really glad I had worn extra deodorant. As I exited the car, I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to relax a little, but failed.

          Maybe I shouldn’t have come… I didn’t even bring anything! Don’t people usually bring food with them to a party like this? Was I supposed to bring something with me?!           I barely made it to the driveway, however, when a voice interrupted my thoughts.

          “Leah Raymond?”

          I turned at the sound of my name to come face to face with a man in a long, brown trench coat. His eyes were serious yet bright, and the contrast was honestly sort of frightening. As soon as it registered that this stranger had said my name, I took a step back.

          “D-do I know you?” I asked, hating how timid my voice sounded.

          He shook his head with a bit of a dry chuckle. “No, not yet. But you will.” He held up a device in his hand, something rectangular and silver. “I need your help,” he explained before pressing the device’s button. There was a flash of white light and then everything went black.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I woke up with a slight dizziness in my head. The ground was cold and hard as I propped up on my elbows and blinked until the world stopped spinning.

“Raymond?” Someone coughed beside me.

“Who, me?” Another more innocent voice asked.

“No, not you. Her.” I turned my head to the right to see a man dress in a large, blue coat with ice blue eyes to match. Everything about this man gave off a cold vibe. When our eyes met, he gave me a knowing smirk, “Leah Raymond.”

Something about the way he was looking right through me sent a cold shock down my spine. “Do I know you?”

“No.” He curtly replied before standing up. “But I know you- well, of you. And your crew. Barry and them?”

Feeling the ice settle in my back, I stood up on shaky legs, “I don’t know what you’re going on about…”

His eyes narrowed when his smile grew wider. “Don’t worry, I’ve kept his little secret for a while now.”

“What secret?” A broader man with large shoulders… Well, large EVERYTHING took his position next to the colder man.

“The name is Leonard Snart.” The man with icicles for eyes announced, ignoring the other man’s question. “This here is my partner in crime, Mick… Though, I believe your boy toy likes to call us Captain Cold and Heatwave.” He shrugged his shoulders shortly, not noticing my heart drop at the mention of Cisco. “It’s kind of grown on me if I’m to be honest.”

“Yeah…” I managed to speak through the lump in my throat. “He does that sometimes.”

“Techna, right?” He then asked, taking me by surprise before shrugging his shoulders again, “Your little Flash and I… We cooperated with each other once. In the meantime, I learned a thing or two about you guys.”

“Well,” I quickly straightened out my jacket as I noticed his buddy look me up and down. “If you must know, I don’t go by that anymore.”

“Leah?”

I sighed, tired of hearing my name so many times today, until I turned to see who it was. “Professor?!” I was quick to step forward and hug the man. Either I had gotten taller (which is unlikely) or he had shrunk slightly as my forehead now reached the top of his shoulder.

“What are we doing here?” He asked after giving me a hug in return.

“I’m glad you asked,” the voice from before had spoken up. We all turned to see the man in the brown trench coat standing there with his hands in his pockets and a pleased look on his face. “You’re all here to help me.”

“Why would we do that?” The man named Mick asked, crossing his arms over his large chest. I couldn’t help but wonder how quickly he could snap someone with them.

“Because if you don’t, in the future, your world will look like this.” He pulls out yet another rectangular shape, black in color this time, and presses the button. The scene around his changes were sirens are going off down every other block and buildings are lit on fire so intense that the firefighters can’t keep up with it. And for the firefighters who can keep up with it, they’re on the streets, risking their lives against some highly trained fighters and guns.

When the scene goes back to the normal view of skyscrapers that we can see on top of the roof we were standing on, he speaks up again. “I could’ve picked any time and place, seeing as I’m a Time Master. But I picked here and I picked you nine… I hope you won’t let me- I hope you won’t let the whole world down.”

Another girl with long blonde hair crosses her arms over her chest as well. “What do you need us to do?”

“Defeat Vandal Savage.”

“Vandal Savage? That’s impossible.” The darker skinned girl with curly hair states.

The man standing beside her nods. “If you’re really from the future, he should be dead. We killed him with the help of some friends.”

“Unless he is struck down by one of you two, he can be reborn from nothing but a single cell.”

“And we’re somehow supposed to kill him?” A darker haired guy asked. I think I’ve seen pictures of him in Oliver’s headquarters.

“I picked you nine for a reason.” The man assures us. “Where I’m from- in the future- the nine of you are legends.”

The term “legends” sends goosebumps spiking up my arms and legs.

“Not to kill the mood, but legends being the term people use when someone is dead?” Professor Stein pointed out.

“Uh, yeah, no. That’s a deal breaker for me.” The younger man next to Stein sighs. He heads for the nearby exit. “I’m out.”

“Please…” Trench Coat sighs and runs a hand over his face. “The world is in grave danger.”

“Sounds like my life is in grave danger.” The young guy snaps before heading out the door.

“We don’t even know your name.” The darker girl reminded him.

“Rip Hunter… And again, like I mentioned countless times before, I need your guy’s help.”

Little did I know that I was not going back to my old team, but I was about to become a member of an entirely different one.