Chapter Text
People don’t bother Cisco Ramon. It’s just a rule.
One that started out unspoken at first, but then as people rotated it became a ‘new person tries to approach’ and a regular ‘shakes their head frantically’ sort of thing. He hadn’t done anything mean or terrible to get this kind of treatment, not really. The first time he had been disturbed he accidently made a television screen crack and shatter, the second time someone’s espresso shot glass burst. If it weren’t for the fact he’s a computer wiz-kid and a genius with technology even beyond that, he would’ve been reported to the DMH a long time ago.
As it is, though, he’s focusing on trying to read through Cadmus Labs’ codes—he broke through the firewall hours ago, but data isn’t exactly streamlined on this side of the information like it is in the movies—when a shadow falls over him. He ignores it for a full minute before he realizes that shadow is not going to go away and he forces himself to focus on the real world for a moment. Cisco kind of regrets it a second later. It’s nowhere near fair for people to be that attractive outside of a magazine or a CW show.
How is it most of the people in his life are so attractive? Caitlin Snow, Ronnie Raymond, and even Hartley Rathaway when he’s not being a jackass.
And these two, they’re right up there. The woman has wonderfully dark skin and dark brown eyes with a determined fire burning in them, the vibes he gets from her just screams that she won’t back down from whatever they’re here to ask him about. The man is golden boy perfect: blond hair and baby blue eyes that are seriously the color of a clear sky, his vibe is softer but equally determined. She’s a wild hurricane ready to hit and he’s the rolling, booming thunder.
Cisco can hear the sound of war drums in his ears looking at them together—
—yet something’s missing.
“Cisco?” the woman says. She takes the seat directly in front of him without him even confirming his identity, which he’s not sure he wants to do. “I’m Iris, this is Eddie.” They’re holding hands, tight enough their knuckles are white. “We heard around that you’re the one to talk to about metahumans.”
He absolutely does not stiffen in his seat, but he does give them a wary look as he closes his laptop. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t think we do.”
Cisco swallows. “Look—.” He cuts himself off when Eddie raises his hand and the tips of his fingers turn a light, shimmering blue, almost like a flame. It matches the color of his eyes. Cisco sucks in a breath. “You’re a metahuman,” he says.
“And I have a metagene,” Iris adds, her voice hushed. “No powers, but it counts a little. ‘I have the potential,’” she mocks. She glances around. “We’re on your side. We need your help.”
“My help?” Cisco says, er, squeaks. Because these people don’t have a computer or a tablet or a mp3 player. They don’t want his help with technology, they want his help with something metahuman related even though the most famous metahuman disaster—cleverly named the Metahuman Incident—has his name unfortunately attached to it, along with every known metahumans’ as well. “With what?”
“Our boyfriend,” Eddie says. And, whoa, not expecting that. “Three months—” And that’s all he says before he presses his lips into a thin line. His eyes turn a little brighter blue. He seems to visibly struggle with what to say, but Iris doesn’t interrupt. “—Three months ago he was in the CCPD when Clyde Mardon went crazy.”
“Oh,” he breathes, pauses, then says with a little more empathy, “Oh shit. I’m sorry.”
The Metahuman Incident, of-fucking-course.
Iris shrugs. “It wasn’t your fault.” She grins, just a hint of bitterness in the curl of her lips, at the twisted expression on his face, disbelief and guilt. “My dad… my dad died that day in the chaos, and I can tell you with a steady heart that it wasn’t your fault. General Eiling, ARGUS, Stagg, it was their fault. I don’t see any fault in you except you happen to be a metahuman who worked for a big company who’s provided some great toys to keep metahumans contained.”
Okay, that doesn’t really make him feel better. Shit—Iris’s dad died and their boyfriend disappeared? He didn’t play any part that was the chaos that is the Metahuman Incident, but the underlying guilt and responsibility because he’s a metahuman and could have done something to help is still there. Almost all good-souled metahuman feels the same way. So many people were lost that day—through death or by other means.
“Playing Devil’s Advocate here,” Cisco says. “And this is going to sound harsh, but what makes you think your boyfriend isn’t dead? A lot of people died.”
“He is a metahuman,” Eddie says, emphasis on ‘is.’ “And he was the Flash. Eiling knew his identity before he came to collect Clyde.”
Cisco gapes at them. “’The Flash?’” he repeats. He squeezes his eyes shut and puts a hand to his temple, willing the coming headache to not come. His other hand goes up to ward off anything else this trio-minus-one wants to say. “Hold on a minute while I try to comprehend this,” he says. This is way more complicated than he initially believed. “Your boyfriend is the most famous metahuman in the world?” he asks, just a moment of clarification. They nod, in sync. “And what do you want me to do?”
“We’ve tried everything the last three months,” Iris says, latching on, obviously, to the fact he hasn’t outright told them to get lost. “Nothing’s worked. We can’t even find where they took him. I heard from Thea Merlyn you’re good at hacking and sensing when people are in places. I was hoping you could tell us where he is.”
“The sensing people thing isn’t accurate,” Cisco points out, tapping his fingers on the lid of his laptop. Remind him to have a talk to Thea about telling people he’s a metahuman and a hacker. “I get this vibe off them and each person has a specific vibe. If I’ve never met them before then I won’t instantly know who it is. You feel like a storm,” he tells Iris. “And you feel like thunder,” he says that to Eddie.
“He’d feel like lightning,” Eddie says eagerly. “You’ve seen the Flash on the news, before, you’ve see the lightning that follows him around when he runs. It’s not just following him, it’s like he is lightning—fast and brilliant.”
Cisco smiles at the obvious emotion in his voice, this vibes screaming love and desperation. If their boyfriend really is the Flash and the famous General Eiling knew his civilian identity before the Metahuman Incident, then there is a ninety-eight percent chance he’s still alive. Not in good shape, but still alive, held prisoner, being experimented on—nope, he doesn’t want to think about it.
He feels terrible for saying this, but he says it anyway with a sinking heart:
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
Their open, eager expression just shut down. Eddie seems to fold in on himself, his eyes growing a little duller—Cisco can’t tell if it’s emotion that’s doing that or his powers are some how connected to how fucking bright his eyes are—but Iris leans forward, frowning.
“Why. Not?”
He squares his shoulders and meets her head on. She’s not going to hurt him as much as it looks like she is, she’s just angry and heartbroken and terrified and worried. “One of my friends was taken by the army on the same day as the Metahuman Incident. I’ve been trying to hack ARGUS, Stagg, Cadmus, the government, everyone for the past three months. I’ve got test results from all of them, but no locations or even indications of a location. If I haven’t found them by now, then don’t get your hopes up.”
“We know someone,” Eddie says. “A hacker like you. She’s a sympathizer, a trustful one. If the two of you worked together? Maybe then you can find where they’re keeping the metahumans they took.”
Cisco narrows his eyes. “Who is this person?”
“Felicity Smoak.” Iris checks her watch and swears softly. “We have somewhere to be. If you’re willing to help us, not only find Barry, but your friend, and help us expose what’s most likely happening to those metahumans in federal custody.” She places a card down on the table. “Meet us here tomorrow night. We’ll pay all expenses, it’s a long drive, shorter train ride.” She stands, looking a little defeated. “Thanks for listening.” —and then she’s gone out the door, muttering at her mobile.
Eddie climbs to his feet, but hovers around the table for a little longer. “Thanks for not outright dismissing us,” he says softly. “We’ve heard the rumors.” He rubs the back of his head. “I also heard you use to be a really friendly guy, someone who wanted to do the right thing even if people told you not to.”
Cisco’s eyes narrow even more. “Who did you—wait, you said, you said Barry.” His heart starts pounding, he only knows one Barry—. “As in Barry Allen? Was an intern for Harrison Wells before the Accelerator blew, that Barry Allen?”
Eddie smiles at him. “Yeah, he talked a lot about you, Caitlin, Ronnie, and his time at STAR Labs before he finally got the job with the CCPD. I’m going to guess and say you didn’t know he’s been missing?”
He shakes his head. “We kept in touch for little bit after he joined CSI, but it wasn’t much. We were all so busy.” He curls his fingers and presses them against this chin. “My friend is Bette Sans Souci. She was a EOD specialist for the army. General Eiling grabbed her before they went to the CCPD for Clyde Mardon. I’d heard the Flash was there too, I didn’t realize…” He reaches out for the card, black with dark green text. The Verdant. Billionaire Oliver Queen’s new club—Oliver Queen who is a low-key sympathizer and some how manages to stay on top of all the media hate. “Are you sure about this?”
Eddie folds his arms over his chest, trying to hold himself together. His vibe wavers. “I’ve known Barry for two years, the three of us have been dating for one.” He closes his eyes briefly. “Okay, if you minus the three months, we’ve been dating for only a little while, but there was always something there before, you know?” His eyes open and they’re bluer. “I would do anything for Iris and Barry. I am absolutely sure.”
Cisco’s nerves thrum with the rolling thunder coming from Eddie. He swallows thickly. “I’ll think about it,” he tells him, his mind already half made up.
The thunder fades ever-so-slightly. “Thank you, Cisco. Just the idea of you thinking about it means a lot.” He takes a step back. “I hope I’ll see you later.” And then he’s gone too, outside with an arm wrapped around Iris’ shoulders against the freezing wind coming from the shore.
Cisco watches them until they disappear from view. He flips the card through his fingers and glances around the hipster restaurant that has internet access and cheap, but good, food. Only a few people, the regulars, give him curious looks, and he wonders if they’d report him once he stops giving them free tech fixes/upgrades. The selfishness of people never ceases to surprise him, and he guesses that’s the point, once he gets on the level of no longer being surprised by what people do is when he should be worried.
He checks the time and pulls out his phone. It rings twice before picked up by Ronnie.
“Hey, can you put me on speaker? I have something to tell you guys.”
[…]
Mark Mardon will always be a criminal—even more so with the death of his little brother—but, as he eyes the steel doors he passes with each step, this is the type of place that could possibly change that.
Not from a criminal to an upstanding citizen. No, probably to something much, much worse.
He didn’t mean to get captured by the people who murdered his brother. Snart had sent him out first to wreck some havoc in Coast City, something to just slow down the army convoy cruising down the one-oh-one. If he got them to slow down then it’d be easier to track where they were going and thus easier to find Lisa Snart—who doesn’t have powers, but still has the potential.
They never knew it was a trap, not even the famous Captain Cold predicted the trap.
So, here he is. Somewhere he doesn’t know, walking down the stone hallway with an inhibitor collar around his neck.
How fucking kinky of them.
He saw Shawna in a testing room they forced him by earlier, the large glass window mirrored so she couldn’t puff through, electrical shocks disrupting her whenever she tried to puff from one corner to another, but also lighting up her body when she didn’t move at all. It made her hair stand on end, fluffed out like a dandelion, and he wishes he could’ve found it funny.
His wrists ache from being so tight behind him, his shoulders wrenched back, but Mark doesn’t so anything but snarl as his guard dogs. The inhibitor collar keeps him feeling drained, limp, numb. He use to be able to feel the storm in the air, the rain miles away, the bite of frost when he felt like it, now he feels so empty it’s a struggle to breathe.
They prod his back, shoving him out the door at the end of the hallway into a larger room. It’s built like a modern locker room, sleek and musty. There’s a few lockers against the wall, a shower with the uncomfortable stain of red in the grout, around the drain, and a gurney stowed away in the corner. All in all, it does not scream fun times.
There’s probably a faster way to this room, one that’s not through the entire compound laid out for him to see. There’s two doors, one without a window and one with that shows another, brighter hallways. This had probably been just a scare tactic.
And he’s a little ashamed to say, it worked a little.
“What am I doing here?” he rasps out, the collar tight against his throat and semi-choking. “Is the US government into gladiator fights now? Gonna pit us against each other to figure out what makes us tick, kill some of us off while you’re at it?” Because gym locker room immediately brings his thoughts to gladiator fights. For all he knows they could just want him to run around to test his heart rate or his speed or something.
He’s shoved out the door with no window and is immediately proven right.
There’s no screaming crowd, the audience is a line of cameras high on the ceiling from every angle. The room is large enough for a NBA game but with none of the parts that make it suitable for basketball. He stumbles, his ankle twinging, and the door behind him closes, a piece of the wall falls over it and the door was never there.
Mark moves his arms without realizing, for a moment, he could actually do it, the binds disappearing sometime between being shoved and the door vanishing. He rubs his wrists, wishing for a fleeting moment he either a) never became a supervillain or b) never ever met Leonard Snart.
The one thing he would never give up is his powers—but if he never became a criminal, his brother might still be alive because being a criminal put them on the police radar which made it so much easier for the DMH to find him in the end. If he never met Leonard Snart then he wouldn’t be a Rogue and would’ve never been captured by the army and handed over to their Department of Metahuman Hostilities—it’s stitched into every worker’s uniform like a brand of honor.
“So you’re just going to leave me alone here,” he says to the nearest camera. “That’s no fun. I’ll die of boredom.”
Something hisses on the other side of the room and a person comes stumbling in. The stranger, male and tall, lands on his knees, not even bothering to catch himself. He drifts to the side, his legs sliding from under him until he’s resting mostly on his hip. Mark furrows his eyebrows in confusion. If they were suppose to fight, then why does—
Maybe they weren’t suppose to fight?
The other person is so silent. It’s a little disturbing. And he’s so skinny, almost skeletal. The tight black, long sleeved shirt he’s wearing does nothing but make him look smaller, his pants loose jogging capris, and his shoes worn sneakers. He looks like he’s going for a run.
“Hey!” he calls. “You okay?”
He’s not worried about a complete stranger. He’s not.
—But if they’re capturing metahumans and metahuman potentials and if the image of Shawna burned into his mind means anything, then they really shouldn’t be hostile to each other. They’re all family now and there’s something so much worse out there now, against them. He can’t be openly mistrustful of someone, especially when it looks like they’ve been here awhile.
The man raises his head and even from far away he can see green, green eyes. They widen and his lips part in a gasp Mark can’t hear. “Mark Mardon?” he asks, voice carrying. “What—?” His head snaps up and he glares at the camera. “Real rich,” he snarks. “First you kill his brother and now you want to torture him. He deserves to go to prison for the crimes he’s committed, not be tortured.”
Mark holds back the snort of amusement. This kid—cos, really, he’s a kid, slighter, smaller, younger than him despite the fact he’s probably in his early- to mid-twenties at most—is going to torture him? Seriously? “I’m lost,” he admits. “You’re the one who’s going to torture me?”
He shakes his head and stands, staggering ever-so-slightly. “No,” he says, sounding almost apologetic. “They want me to hurt you. Show off my powers and show off yours, and hurt you enough that they can use my blood, my accelerated healing, to heal you all up again, then study you to see if you can give them any power combinations they can recreate.” He takes a deep breath, chest heaving.
God, he’s so skinny.
He sounds so defeated.
If this isn’t officially a scare tactic, it should be, Mark has never been more terrified in his life than what his future holds right now. His future that is staring at him with dull, dead, green eyes.
“It amounts to torture,” he adds. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Then don’t do it.”
He shakes his head again, the smallest jerk of his chin. “I can’t not. They know who I am, they know my family, my friends. They’ve already killed my friend's dad--basically my foster dad. If I don’t, if we don’t put on the performance they want and I don’t hurt you the way they want they’ll kill them.” He shudders. “If they’re not happy, well, it’s not pretty.”
His inhibitor collar beeps and he feels light again.
There’s the sound of an alarm, short and shrill, and Mark jerks in surprise. He glances across the room at his fellow prisoner—opponent—and gasps when he’s not there anymore. The squeak of shoes behind him has him whirling around, raising a hand instinctively to call down lightning.
The kid is there, closer, panting slightly. “My name’s Barry,” he offers. “Just so you know who to hunt down when we eventually get out of there.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Or if you want to haunt me.”
Then there’s nothing but yellow sparks and holy shit he’s fighting the Flash.
He’s so fucking screwed.