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Lewis Snart doesn't strike Mick as the kinda boss to stick with for the long haul, but he'll do for now. Besides, can't be worse than the Home.
Then he meets Lewis' kids and rephrases: can't be worse than the Home for him. Everyone else is pretty fucked.
Snart takes Mick into his little fake shop that served as a cover for his gang. Lighting's dim, but enough to see by if you've got resilient eyes. Rectangular room, cracked paint, dusty floors, with a counter in the back leading to a farther back room. Two vertical shelves in the center, the rest lining the brown paneled walls.
There's only one occupant. He leans against a shelf right next to a rickety chair in the far corner. His wrists are crossed over his crotch, palms facing up. Entire outfit's black 'cept for his dark blue jacket and silver gun resting in his thigh holster. When Lewis drags Mick into the shop, the guy doesn't even twitch. Honestly, Mick doesn't think he can, because here's the thing: not only are his blue eyes cold and empty, he's wearing a grinning clown mask that's been ripped to cover from the nose down. The mask's face is powder white, with red lips pulled back in an enormous grin of yellow teeth.
"Now then," Lewis grumbles, showing Mick to the corner chair by Clown, "all you gotta do is sit here and watch the place. Shouldn't be too hard for even something like you."
It's all Mick can do to stop himself from spitting fire at the saggy bastard. What stays his tongue is the reminder that he's gotta behave here. He don't behave, he get sent back to the Home, or worse: the Dark Place.
Better not to put an official title on that last one. Mick ain't one for official stuff anyway.
Lewis yanks on the back of his collar. "You hear me, numbskull?"
"Yes sir," Mick grunts.
"Good. You got questions, you ask my kid there." A nod to the silent bundle of joy.
Sad as it is, Lewis Snart's currently his best bet. Mick keeps his lips pursed until the jackass finally trudges to the back.
Soon as a door slams shut, Mick nudges Clown and says, "That bastard really your dad?"
Cold eyes settle on him at last. Clown nods.
"Shit. He make you wear that mask?"
Clown hesitates.
"Can't tell me your name, then?"
Oh, wait. Twitch in the fingers. But nothing else.
Great. This is gonna be boring as fuck.
Mick lights his match and settles as best he can.
And that's how his job starts. All day every day, with a couple breaks to refuel, Mick's ass is in his chair. Clown's settled next to him all day every day too. Once he's in his place, he doesn't move, doesn't talk. Sometimes when Mick asks him a yes or no question, he'll respond with a nod or shake of his head. Yet, when Lewis isn't around, his eyes wander the shop, vigilant. Then his dad comes back and he shuts down again, averting his gaze back to his crossed wrists.
It occurs to Mick, when his first week's up, the reason Clown always leans and crosses like that. Can't believe he didn't notice it sooner. The Home's made him dull.
“How many times you been caught?” he asks.
Clown looks up at him. It’s one of the rare questions Mick asks that needs more than a yes or no, so Mick’s not sure if he’s gonna answer or not. But, slowly, those wrists uncross and Clown raises his hands. His fingers flash ten, then two.
“Really?” Mick grunts, “Been twenty for me. Not a whole lotta people look at me the right way.”
Clown gestures to his mask.
“Yeah, but you don’t do much.”
Wrists re-cross. Eyes avert.
“Oh c’mon, I didn’t mean it like that. Just an observation is all.”
Shake head. Gesture to Mick.
“That your way of sayin’ I got a point?” a nod. “Nice. I like bein’ right.”
Those eyes meet his again. And this time, there’s a spark.
Mick’s second week introduces a new recruit, a young kid named Barry Allen. Incredibly hyper, heart of gold, and all smiles. Despite both of them making it clear they don’t want to be approached, Barry often talks to them anyway, about anything and everything. Sometimes he yammers just ‘cause.
When he’s around, Clown doesn’t look so empty anymore. But he does look incredibly sad.
Clown’s got a sister.
Lewis drags her into the shop by the arm, gun hidden under her jacket. She doesn’t stop struggling until she lays eyes on Clown.
“Wh-what—” she sucks in a sharp gasp, “Lenny?”
Lewis shoves her to the spot beside her brother. “You behave,” he growls, “or Mick here’s gonna use those pretty matches on your brother.”
On reflex, excitement burns hot in Mick’s gut. He can’t help it; when he’s told there’s an opportunity to set somethin’ on fire, you bet your ass he’s ready and rearing.
But…he kinda likes Clown. For all that he doesn’t talk, at least he responds to Mick, and lately he’s even given some snarky looks. Mick’s never had a friend before, but Clown’s the next best thing.
For the first time, Mick’s excitement’s extinguished.
Barry’s allowed to settle on the girl’s other side. His smile’s turned to her, bright and kind. “Hi!” he exclaims, “I’m Barry! What’s your name?”
Lisa shudders, tears filling her eyes. Yet the moment she leans back, she touches Clown—Lenny; Mick’s finally got a damn name—and she gasps again.
“Fuck,” she hisses, “shit, fuck, damn it, fuck!”
With shaky hands, she cups Lenny’s face. His eyes are desperate, roving over her face like he’s seeing her for the first time.
“That sick bastard,” she whispers, “what the fuck did he do to you?”
And Lenny makes a sound. A broken, muffled “Hmph.”
His sister trembles. “You’re—are you still in there?”
“Hmph.”
She tears his mask off, and—oh. That’s why he’s so quiet.
Lenny’s mouth is sewn shut, forced into a permanent smile. When his sister sees it, she recoils, mask falling out of her hands.
“Shit!” she sobs, “Lenny, oh shit, Lenny—”
Her back brushes against Barry. Again she recoils.
“Hi!” exclaims Barry, “I’m Barry! What’s your name?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the sister, who Mick now knows is named Lisa, growls at Lewis, “You sick fuck!”
Lewis rolls his eyes. “I fixed them. Nothin’ wrong with that.”
“Fixed—you call this fixed?”
Lewis grins. Looks unnerving on his face. “Now your brother’s smiling all the time. He’s nice and quiet, too.”
Lenny, whose mask has been replaced, keeps his eyes fixed on his wrists. Mick falls to his left so his head’s resting on his arm.
“And look! He’s made a friend.”
Lisa covers her mouth with her hand as she takes in Mick. Not surprising she didn’t seem him before—his chair’s set in the shadows most of the time, and she’s been preoccupied with her brother.
“How many—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Lewis says, “I plan to fix many more. You’re my next project.”
Lisa sobs.
Mick’s head is now on Lenny’s thigh, with Lenny’s hand on his head. That’s alright, though; Lenny might be cold, but it’s nice.
“Y’know,” he says, startling Lisa, “I don’t actually wanna burn you. ‘S weird.”
Lenny’s thumb twitches over his temple.
“You can talk?” Lisa whispers.
Mick snorts, “’Course I can talk. Just like Lenny can move.”
In response, Lenny taps Mick’s temple.
“What?”
Slowly, Lenny traces something on his skin.
L…E…N.
When the finger doesn’t move again, Mick asks, “You wanna be called Len?”
He looks up. Len nods.
“’Kay then.”
Lisa’s wide eyes look at them in disbelief. Cautiously, she grips her brother’s shoulder.
“Len,” she says, “if you can move—”
“Technically,” Mick says, “he can only move his arms and neck.”
Lisa deflates. She takes Len’s arm and moves it. There’s a soft crish-crish sound on Len’s shoulder. When she tests his legs, they’re frozen in place.
Mick says, “Most of ‘im’s wax. Lewis made some adjustments, but not much.”
When you walk into Lewis Snart’s toy shop, you will see many things. None of them compare to his famous life-sized attractions.
There are four of them in a row, settled in the corner. The newest one is a pretty woman with lovely curls in a ruffled dress with a buttoned collar. Her mask is white with gold accents. Her arm is crooked around a wind-up doll, hands resting demurely on top of each other. Her partner is dressed in a lovely red suit, head resting on hers. His smile is sweet, and when he’s wound up, his voice makes the kids laugh.
Next to them are the dolls that adults usually like because they’re more gruesome looking. One’s got a clown mask on the bottom half of his face, glass eyes crinkled at the edges like he’s smiling underneath his fake one. In his lap rests the head of a bulky plastic doll, the rest of which sits in a chair.
When people look at him, cogs creak and machinery whirs. He smirks and says, “Hey.”
People usually shriek and laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
They laugh some more. That’s when a mechanism clicks. The fake gun wrapped in his fingers shoots fire.
Most people run off after that.
Mick chuckles and says to his wax companion, “What d’you think, Len? We ever gonna find someone who doesn’t run?”
“Hm.”
Mick laughs then. “Didn’t think so.”
“Hi! I’m Barry! What’s your name?”
Oh great. Does Lewis have to wind him up every twenty minutes? Fuck’s sake.
Mick presses his lips to Len’s palm before settling down again. “Maybe I’ll set one of ‘em on fire one of these days.”
“Hm.”
“Shuddup.”
Len’s hand comes down hard on Mick’s head.
“Hey! Watch it!”
“Hmph.”
Next customer.