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i. our winnings and our injuries
By the time Mick finally shook off the cameras, and the ring doctors, and his trainer, and the boxing bunnies, he felt ready to just go home and sleep for a week.
Christ, I’m getting old, he thought. Used to be, after winning a big match--like a goddamn regional championship--he’d have gone straight out to the clubs, partying until the sun rose, taking anything and anyone offered to him and drinking until he couldn’t feel the bruises he’d earned in the ring, possible concussion be damned.
Mick sighed; all he wanted now was to get home, take a long, hot shower and maybe try to stay awake long enough to catch the highlight reels on some of the other weight classes before passing out. It’d be nice to know who else would be going after a World Champion belt in two months.
Waving halfheartedly at some of the chauffeurs in the VIP lot, Mick walked over to where his truck was parked in a back corner, and pulled up short when he saw someone leaning against it.
Not again.
“So who sent you?” Mick asked wearily as he pressed the remote to unlock the truck. The man didn’t startle as the truck beeped and flashed its lights behind him, and that was something at least. The last kid he got sent, and she really was a kid, barely fourteen if Mick was a day, had looked about ready to jump out of her skin when she saw Mick, if she didn’t shake to pieces first.
Mick had sent her on her way with his jacket and a couple hundred bucks for a bus ticket and a fresh start, but the fact she’d been there at all still boiled his blood to think about. At least this time, whichever mob boss had sent him a hooker had picked one a little older.
Quite a bit older, Mick saw as he stepped closer. The guy looked about Mick’s age actually, just the other side of forty, with buzzcut hair that was starting to go grey in patches and glinting eyes that said he always knew what he was doing, and could show you ways of doing it you’d never even imagined.
The man was dressed in a motorcycle jacket, black jeans and combat boots, and if Mick hadn’t been so tired, and the guy so obviously been there as a bribe, Mick would have been tempted. Sorely tempted. Hopefully repeatedly.
“Excuse me?” the man asked in a drawl that was pure Central City.
“Who sent you?” repeated Mick as he opened the passenger side door and threw his gym bag in. “Was it the Russians? The Italians? The Irish? I’m guessing it was the Central City mob, but I’d hate to presume. It’d be impolite to send the ‘Thanks for the hooker, but fuck you’ letter back to the wrong people, after all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” said Mick. “No offense, you’re exactly my type. So yeah, good job there.” Mick looked the man up and down again because why the hell not. He could still look at the menu even if he wasn’t ordering.
A thought occurred to him. “You’re probably expensive though, huh? I guess you prefer ‘escort’ or something?”
“Or something,” the man said with a wry grin. He followed Mick around to the driver’s side of the truck and leaned back against the door before Mick could open it. His smile bloomed into a full grin when Mick glared at him.
“It must seem pretty likely you’re going to win if you have all those different… agencies vying for your attention.”
“Sure,” Mick shrugged. “Word gets around that Mick “Heatwave” Rory is taking one last shot at the WBC title belt, and suddenly everyone wants to pay him to take a dive. You can tell your bosses the same thing I told the rest though, I’m sure they’ve seen where I live, where I train… Hell, you can see my truck, you think I’d be driving this piece of shit if I could be bought?”
“What about threatened?”
Mick narrowed his eyes. The hooker only seemed honestly curious though, so Mick indulged him. “With what? No real friends, no living family. What you see is what you get, sweetheart. Just an old boxer taking one last swing at the title before fading off into obscurity. Now, get.”
Mick reached past the man and pulled on the door handle. The man stepped gracefully forward with the momentum of the door, his shoulder brushing across Mick’s chest as he slid past him. Mick wasn’t 100% sure, but he was pretty certain the guy did it deliberately.
“See you around, Mick,” the man said as he walked off into the night.
Mick watched him go. Maybe he’d skip the highlight reel tonight and just take an extra long shower before bed.
Mick grunted as he slammed an uppercut into the heavy bag again, and again. The bag bounced on its chains and swung as he stepped back to catch his breath. He put one gloved fist out to steady it. In the last few weeks, the offers had become more and more aggressive. Some bribes, some threats, and he still wasn’t sure which one walking out of his apartment and seeing every car on the block except his lit on fire was supposed to be.
The downside though, was that no one at the gym was willing to train with him, or even make eye contact if they could help it. Even the old timers, who could have made a killing passing themselves off as his manager or promoter, kept their distance. Less than two weeks to Mick’s final fight, and he didn’t even have anyone to talk about it with, or help him get his nerves out. And if his mind occasionally strayed to a black leather jacket or sinfully tight jeans… Well, that was the price Mick paid for having principles.
He snorted. Him. Principles. Who’da thunk?
“Rory!” Ted, the gym manager, yelled down at him from the stairs up to his office, while looking at anything in the gym except Mick. “Visitor, my office.”
Mick grumbled. He loosened his gloves enough with his teeth to get them off and threw a towel across his bare shoulders. He started to unwrap his hands as he climbed the stairs up to Ted’s office. Whoever it was better have a damn good reason for interrupting his training. Just because he was going at it alone didn’t mean he forgot the importance of keeping to a schedule.
“Whaddya want?” he barked as he stepped into the office, then stopped dead. Oh fuck.
There, lounging at Ted’s desk and flipping a pen idly through his fingers, was the hooker from his last fight. Except it was pretty fucking obvious that this guy wasn’t actually a hooker.
Or even an ‘escort.’
If the fact that he had taken over the sanctity of Ted’s office while Ted kept his eyes respectfully lowered like the man was goddamn royalty wasn’t enough, the way the man was dressed now was a long way from the leather and denim of the other night. Mick wasn’t exactly into gambling or fashion, but he’d lay even odds that the guy’s three-piece suit cost more than Mick’s truck-- before he'd dented the grille.
“Mick, this is Leonard Snart,” Ted mumbled.
Oh fuck, again. Mick had seen the news, Len Snart was the head of the Central City mob. Had been since he’d crawled his way up out of nowhere and united the mob families in the city almost two decades ago. Great for Central City, their crime rate was one of the lowest in the nation, but God protect anyone who fucked with him, because no one else could.
“We’ve met,” said Len.
Mick gripped the towel over his shoulders more tightly as a cold frisson of fear ran down his spine, “Are you gonna kill me for calling you a hooker? Or just make me wish I was dead?”
Snart smiled that same half smile Mick had seen on him when they first met at his truck, and in Mick’s dreams a dozen times since. “Please, say that a little louder, Mick. I’m not sure the entire gym heard you.”
Behind him, Ted snorted, then looked terrified.
“Mr. Johnson, please close the door on your way out,” said Snart as he effortlessly transferred the pen across the knuckles of his right hand to his left.
Mick and Snart stared at each other in silence as the door clicked softly shut. After a long moment, Snart spoke, “They really are quite something up close.”
“Huh?”
Snart nodded at Mick’s bare arms, “Your tattoos. Full sleeves of flame. Very impressive. Your dedication to a theme is commendable. I have one or two myself, you know, although with a slightly different motif.”
Mick schooled his face into a blank mask as he tried not to guess where Snart’s one or two tattoos might be. Jesus, there Mick was, moments from his death, and all he could do was think X-rated thoughts about the guy who was going to kill him.
Typical.
“Is this the part where you tell me it’s just business, Snart? Nothing personal?” Mick asked.
Snart grinned, or something like it. “‘Len’, please. I never much cared for ‘Snart.’ Actually, I was thinking of going more for a ‘We’re not so different, you and I’ speech. It’s actually true, you know, I’ve done my research. Delinquent kids who scratched their way to the top. You know we actually went to the same juvie? Just missed each other by a few weeks.”
“One of the guards taught me to box, helped me focus,” said Mick. His hands relaxed on the towel, but now he couldn’t help but feel almost completely naked compared to Len’s, well… everything. “I got out early for good behavior.”
Len ran his free hand over his waistcoated side in a gesture that seemed unconscious. His eyes dimmed. “Pity.”
Mick paused for a moment, considering. It seemed only fair to be on a first name basis with his killer. His voice softened as he continued. “Len, if you know my history then you know I’m not going to take a dive.”
Len put the pen down and spread both his hands flat on the desk. “I hate to use another cliched villain speech, but it’s not your past that interests me, Mick. It’s your future.”
Len leaned back, hands still resting on the desk. “After the championship, win or lose, what are your plans?”
Mick shifted his weight. That was something he’d been trying not to think about. “At this point, I figure, I win, I’m dead. And if I lose… I’m probably dead too. I’m a marked man, no one’s gonna want me as a trainer and boxing’s just about the only thing I know how to do.”
Len jerked his head towards the corner of the room. Mick looked over and saw a briefcase he hadn’t noticed before. “There’s five hundred thousand dollars in that case. If I offered you that right now, as well as a guarantee for your personal safety in exchange for losing the championship fight, would you take it?”
It certainly was tempting, and Mick wasn’t a saint. But he was a hard-headed son of a bitch. “Sorry,” said Mick sincerely. “It’s kind of a pride thing at this point.”
“Besides,” Mick smiled, “If I’m not going to give up my morals for a hooker straight out of my personal fantasies, then why would I give them up for a mob boss?”
To Mick’s delight, Len laughed. “Why indeed.”
Len reached over and tore a sheet of paper off a small notebook on the corner of the desk. He looked up at Mick, eyes dancing, before twirling the pen again between his fingers and writing something down. He capped the pen and very carefully folded the paper into neat quarters before rising and walking over to Mick, stopping less than a foot away.
“Win the championship, Mick. I know you can.”
Mick stood still, shocked in place at Len’s words.
Len quirked his lips into that maddening little grin again. “Look at you,” he continued, “Your dedication, your focus, your commitment. Those are... powerful traits and ones I value extremely highly. After you win…”
He reached out and tucked the folded paper into the waistband of Mick’s shorts, the backs of those long dexterous fingers lingering against the soft skin at dip of muscle at Mick’s hip. Mick felt himself flush hot all over and barely suppressed a growl.
“After,” Len said, “if you’re interested, call that number. I’ve been thinking of setting up some sort of community program for the other juvenile delinquents in Central City. After all, if a kid has boxing to focus on like you did, he’s less likely to focus on taking control of Central City, like I did. Win/win.”
Len slid his fingers against Mick’s hips one more time, then withdrew and stepped past Mick to the door, his shoulder once again brushing Mick’s chest. This time Mick knew it was deliberate.
“What about your briefcase full of money?” Mick asked, teeth gritted as he clung to the last shreds of his self control.
“Keep it. Not as a bribe,” Len added quickly. “But as capital to start the community program. After all, a program started by a World Heavyweight Champion should have only the best of the best.”
“So you really don’t want me to take a dive, huh?”
Len turned, with his hand on the doorknob and grinned that sly fox smile again. “Mick, you just had a closed door meeting with the head of the Central City mob after you called him a hooker in front of witnesses. Everyone’s going to assume you’ll take a dive in the first thirty seconds just to save your skin. When you actually win, I’m going to make millions .”
“Besides,” said Len nonchalantly as he stepped out of the office, “I’d hate for you to give up your morals now, before I’ve gotten a chance to hear all about those personal fantasies.”
Mick grinned and went to rewrap his hands. After all, he had a championship to win.
ii. peril knows no bounds
Len Snart slips back into Mick's life on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon after four years of radio silence. It's as good a day as any for it; LA's seeing its first storm in what feels like years, so Mick's spent the day drinking cheap whiskey, smoking cheap cigars, and staring blankly out the window.
He's idly flicking his lighter on and off and half-considering setting his desk on fire just for the hell of it when the knock comes. The tall figure on the other side of the frosted glass is already shifting restlessly by the time Mick makes it over to the door. Christ but this guy's impatient.
Mick takes his sweet time flicking the lock open before he finally swings the door open. He forgets what he's about to say as soon as he sees who's on the other side.
"Hello, Mick," Len says. "Miss me?"
Mick's spent the last four years saving questions for Len, questions like where the hell'd you go? Can you tell me why I shouldn't punch you right in your goddamn jaw? Why'd you save my life on that battlefield? And then there's the question he can't even ask himself, can't even really think about.
"Don't worry, Rory. I'm not here to talk about the good old days," Len says. "Just here to collect on an old favor."
Ah. Well, that's one question answered, at least. Goddamn Captain Cold. Mick lets a few long seconds go by just to be ornery. It won't matter; Len'll see right through it anyway. "So what d'you want, Snart?"
A shadow passes over Len's face for just a second. "Your...professional help."
"I didn't think you were after my winning personality, pal. Try again."
Len's face twists up like it used to after he choked down the rotgut wine they used to get sometimes in France. "Missing persons case. Need you to track down my sister."
That Len even has a sister is news to Mick; he always kinda figured Snart'd hatched from an egg or something. Like a lizard. Len being cold-blooded would make a hell of a lot of sense. "Yeah, okay, that I can do. Still need more details."
Mick gets the rotgut look again before Len's expression goes blank. "I think our dad has her." Len pauses long enough for Mick to note that--has her, not is with her. "She was supposed to drive the getaway car."
And just like that Len's gone, and there's a stranger with his face standing in Mick's door.
iii. welcome every trespass
“So,” drawled a voice as Mick picked himself up off the cell floor. “What’re you in for?”
Mick spat blood and tested his teeth with his tongue. Nothing loose, which was something at least. Say what you will about the Rangers, but they hit harder than local law enforcement or even Pinkertons in Mick’s experience.
He turned to look at the occupant of the only other cell. It was hard to make out anything with just the moonlight that trickled in through a barred window at the far end of the tiny jail. Mick wished that the Ranger who had dumped him off with a farewell kick to the ribs had at least left his lantern behind. That would have been too much kindness for a dead man, Mick supposed. Or too much temptation.
After a minute his eyes adjusted. The man in the other cell was sitting on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of him and hands folded almost delicately in his lap. His face was shadowed by the Stetson he wore--black, like the rest of his outfit--but his eyes glittered as he regarded Mick.
Mick spat again. Less blood this time, which was probably a good sign. Not that it really mattered.
“Charming,” said the man, “but hardly a punishable offense. For example, I’m here for a holding a up a bank or two, maybe a stagecoach here and there, who can keep track?” The man examined his nails in an obviously exaggerated display of indifference. “All allegedly, mind you. Yourself?”
“Train robbery.” Mick sat down on the narrow cot pushed against the back wall of his cell. “Allegedly.”
“Really?” The man rolled to his feet in a single graceful move, then sauntered to the bars that separated his cell from Mick’s by only a few feet. He stopped and cocked his head. The angle let the moonlight illuminate a face that Mick recognized from countless “WANTED” posters. “And what was your role in said alleged train robbery, Mister…?”
“Rory. Mick Rory. I was the powderman. I blew up the tracks, blew open the safe, and blew up most of my worthless crew when they tried to cut me out of my share.”
The man nodded. “Seems reasonable. Leonard Snart, at your service.”
“I know who you are, Captain,” said Mick as he leaned back against the cell wall. Plenty of former soldiers causing mayhem across the territories. Not too many officers though.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been a Captain. Len is fine.” Len’s lips, which had been a harsh line as he assessed Mick, twitched into a faint smile. “Mick Rory. Irish, I presume?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Hardly. Far worse has been said about my parentage,” Len’s eyes glinted sharply. “Never by the same man twice, however.”
Mick nodded. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall. After a while, he heard the rustle of Len settling onto his own cot, then a soft metallic click followed by the hiss of a match being struck.
Mick opened his eyes. Len lay sprawled on his cot opposite Mick and had a silver cigarette case open in his lap. His hands cupped the small flame of the match as he lit a cigarette. His eyes were fixed on Mick as his cheeks hollowed, sucking in the first hit of warmth and smoke.
Mick licked his lips and leaned forward. Len smiled knowingly then shook out the match just before it burnt down to his fingers. “Want one?” he asked around an exhale of smoke.
Mick nodded again, and Len snapped the case shut before tossing it and a nearly full box of matches through both sets of bars right into Mick’s lap. Mick pulled a cigarette out of the case, then hesitated. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to give the matches back if he struck one.
“Keep ‘em,” said Len, breaking into Mick’s thoughts. “I picked the case off one of our esteemed Rangers, and it’s not like I’ll need ‘em much longer anyway.”
“They hanging us both tomorrow, then?”
“Mm,” Len hummed. “Been waiting on you. Apparently the execution of one outlaw just doesn’t draw the crowds like it used to.”
Mick laughed out loud. Len seemed startled for a moment at the noise, then pleased with himself. Mick shook his head as he lit his cigarette. He watched the flame of the match until it burned out with a sharp bite of pain against his fingertips. He sucked slowly on his cigarette, then laughed again before striking another match. After all, he only had to make them last ‘til morning.
“What’s so funny?”
Mick waited until his new match had burned out before looking over at Len.
“I was just thinking, roof over my head, plenty of fire, real bed, fair company and conversation...” he winked at Len and flashed him a broad grin. “They’re hanging me in the morning and all I really wish was that you had some whiskey stashed on you too.”
“Really? You don’t wish you were anywhere else? Out of that cell maybe? Or getting revenge on the remainder of your crew?” Len grinned wickedly, “Or maybe somewhere with a bigger bed and company you can do more than just converse with?”
Mick shrugged, “Sure. But I’ll let you dream big. I’ll take the simple pleasures.”
Len rose to his feet and tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the bars of his cell door. “Tell me, Mick, do you usually blow up your crews?”
“Only when they betray me.”
“And you’re good with dynamite?”
Mick glared at him. “The best.”
Len raised his hands in apology. “Strong too, I assume, even after that beating?”
Mick shifted, nothing felt broken, just bruised. “I’d back me in a fight against anyone this side of Paul Bunyan.”
“Excellent,” Len said, and with a gentle push, swung open the door of his cell.
Mick gaped as Len walked over and began fiddling with the lock on his cell door.
“The main door can only be unlocked from the outside,” Len explained as something clicked inside the lock and it opened. “I’ve been working on the bars at the other end, but they’re a two man job to get out without waking half the town.” He stepped back, pulling open the cell door with him. He turned and walked to the barred window as Mick scrambled to his feet. When Mick caught up, Len turned and looked Mick up and down.
“How about we start at the top of my wish list and work our way down,” Len purred.
Mick reached out and grabbed Len’s collar, pulling him in for a rough, hot kiss. Len groaned into his mouth as Mick pressed against him, knocking Len’s hat to the floor. After a minute he pulled back and they gasped for breath.
Mick smiled as he reached up to test the firmness of the bars. “Sounds like a plan to me, partner.”
iv. a little mercy
The worst part of the job, for Len, is watching the baby crooks get booked and hauled off to jail. At least five of them got paraded through the station today, all badly faked bravado and equally badly hidden fear.
Short a couple of good deeds and the kindness of strangers, Len would've been right there in their place, and he feels--not guilty, exactly, but he doesn't know what else to call it. If his father hadn't died in that raid...well. Doesn't matter much. Len is where he is and is who he is now, no changing that.
It's a quiet day for once, and Len is lounging at his desk in the precinct counting the hours to prisoner transport duty. West is shuffling through the heap of paperwork Len shoved at him about an hour ago; Len knows from experience that it'll take him about 35 minutes to review and 10 to approve. They don't like each other, Len and Joe, but they work well together now.
The relative silence of the squad room is broken by a loud yell and the sounds of a scuffle out in the hall. Len springs to his feet, almost grateful for the disruption, and heads toward the source of the noise.
Turns out the culprits are Norton--no surprise there--and a burly man about Len's age. Len pries them apart as best as he can, but the perp's still struggling against his hold after he gets them away from each other.
"Fucking let me go," the guy snarls, trying to elbow Len in the gut.
Len sidesteps him smoothly, taking care to keep his grip firm. "What the fuck happened here, Norton?" He tries to keep his tone even, because Norton's a rookie who wets himself every time Len (or any other officer ranked detective or over) talks to him, but some frustration leeches through. It probably doesn't help that Len's the youngest cop to make detective in the department, but he can't really help that.
Norton shrinks into himself, slouching against the wall like he's hoping to melt into it and fiddling with his uniform buttons. He's a bigoted moron with a hair trigger, but at least he knows when he's truly fucked up. "I...he was resisting? And I…"
"Didn't follow procedure?" Len supplies. "And then panicked? We always handcuff suspects immediately, Norton. And we never, never let them walk behind us. That chokehold should clarify that rule for you."
Norton shrinks back even more. "I guess."
Len sighs. "You're a moron, Norton."
"Yessir."
"And I take it this is my prisoner." It's not a question. Len always gets the hard cases; he's lucky like that. "Just...get out of here."
"Yessir." Norton lets the perp go and starts to bolt toward the bank of elevators. He turns back just after he reaches them; Len suppresses his disappointment. "This one's rough, sir. Just be careful."
"Always am," Len assures him laconically, yanking the guy toward the interview rooms by the forearm.
Rory, Michael (aliases Heatwave and Mick Rory; one count second-degree arson, one count breaking and entering; 15–20 years) is burly like only guys with nothing to do but lift weights and fight can be, with unsettlingly sharp eyes set in a brutally handsome face. His file says he's 40 years old to Len's 37, but he carries himself like he's much older--resigned but not particularly happy about the life he fell into. Len can sympathize with the last part, at least.
He ignores the curiosity tugging at his gut as long as he can. It's never been there before, that urge to ask , to know .
"So how'd you end up here?" Len asks finally, glancing at Rory's slumped figure through the grille.
Rory snorts. "How does anyone? Stories can't be that different, you hear enough of 'em."
Oh, you'd be surprised, Len thinks wryly. "Charges don't cover everything. What, yes. Not why."
There's a long charged pause. When Rory finally looks up he meets Len's gaze in the rearview mirror squarely. "I was a dumb kid who fucked up, and I'm still dumb. I keep getting chances to fuck up more, easy ones. Lots of cash. Ex-felons don't get a lot of legit job offers, so." He raises his arms and spreads them as far as he can with the cuffs on. "Here I am. Like I said--dumb."
"Don't seem so dumb to me," Len says despite himself.
"Then you're dumb too," Rory says derisively, probably breaking about 7 prisoner conduct regs. Len glances up to the rearview mirror again and isn't surprised that Rory's still watching him.
After about 30 seconds of their one-sided impromptu staring contest, Rory finally looks down. His voice, when he finally speaks, is rough and oddly hesitant. "Ever felt like there was something missing, Marshal? Like some piece of you just got lost in the mail?"
"...Yeah," Len says, hating himself a little for the admission. "Wish I knew what it was."
Rory hums in acknowledgment. "You and me both." His voice is unexpectedly gentle; something that sounds almost like longing threads through it.
Len sinks back against the worn-out cushion. "That's what scares me," he admits. "Spend enough time telling yourself you're something, you turn into it. Whoever I turned into...I didn't mean it."
"Too bad," Rory says. "We couldn't been something, you and I." His voice rumbles through Len, low and too-intimate.
The words hang heavily between them as signs flash by on the highway: IRON HEIGHTS, 5 MI. 2 MI. HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPING INMATES. IRON HEIGHTS, 1 MI.
"Almost there," Len says. He keeps his tone deliberately blank as he takes exit 51: IRON HEIGHTS CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. "You're a smart guy, Rory. Wish we'd met under different circumstances."
Rory doesn't answer until they've been cleared through the gates and Len's guiding him to the transfer entrance.
"Yeah, Snart. Me too."
There's nothing left to say, not really. Len settles for watching Rory as he's pre-processed and led away into a life that could easily have been Len's, too.
+1 this time we fire back
Len stared at the guard incredulously. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“You wanna be put on sanitation duty instead, kid?” the guard asked without even looking up from his clipboard. He pointed at a small building surrounded by a low fence. “Now get moving, work detail started five minutes ago.”
Len grumbled as he picked up his heavy bucket and stalked off. “Horticultural Studies” his ass. Just because some do gooder wrapped up in pretty language about how it was beneficial for “problem children” to do farm labor and then have to eat whatever they grew didn’t make it any less cruel and unusual punishment in Len’s opinion. The prison system just did it because they could spend less on food if they forced kids to grow their own.
He passed two other kids in jumpsuits. One of them also had a bucket and was pulling up weeds and tossing them in, while the other kid followed behind with a...hoe? Some kind of big gardening tool anyway. Len wrinkled his nose. He was Central City born and bred. How was he supposed to know what a hoe...oh. He snickered to himself, saving the pun for later.
Suddenly the kid with the bucket yelled as the kid with the hoe swung it down. Len turned away, slamming his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to witness the awful violence his dad had told him happened in juvie. The stories had kept Len up every night before Lewis dragged him on a heist, terrified of what would happen to him if he ever got caught.
When Len heard laughter instead of screams, he slowly opened his eyes.
“Fuck man, you cut it right in half!” The kid with the bucket reached down and picked up two halves of the biggest worm Len had ever seen. He felt his stomach heave.
“I heard, if you cut ‘em right in the middle, one half grows back with two heads and the other half grows back with two asses!” The boy with the hoe laughed. The kid with the bucket threw one half of the worm at him, and the other kid dropped his hoe to pick up a handful of dirt.
A whistle blew. “Ramirez, Daniels, cut it out!” the guard yelled. “Sometime today, Snart!”
Len dragged his bucket behind him, still shaky. Just because it was a false alarm this time was no reason to let his guard down. Ramirez could have split Daniels’ head in half before the guard even had time to react. Not that the guard had even seemed all that interested in what they were up to.
He wasn’t worried at all, Len realized with a start. He thought carefully. They surely wouldn’t give a big bladed weapon like that to someone dangerous, would they?
Maybe not all the kids in here were the inhuman monsters his dad had described. And Len wasn’t an idiot. Maybe he’d be okay. He could stay out of trouble. All he’d have to do was stay away from the gangs, and anyone who was obviously pushing drugs. And that Rory kid. Len had been in juvie less than a day and he’d already heard rumors about him.
Len finally pulled up to the fence the guard had pointed at. It came up to only about his waist, and surrounded a small yard with a low building in the middle that Len would have to duck to enter. He looked into the yard and faltered. Maybe he’d been too hasty. Maybe juvie really was full of monsters.
Inside the yard, dozens of beady black eyes stared up at Len. Chickens.
What the fuck did Len know about chickens? It wasn't like he’d ever even seen a live one before. And now he had to feed them and steal their eggs. Jesus. They looked bigger with all their feathers and heads still on.
Len wavered, trying to devise a strategy as the chickens stared up at him, clucking amongst themselves like they were making plans of their own. A few scratched the ground with their razor sharp talons and pecked at it with their pointy beaks. Len remembered learning that birds were descended from dinosaurs. That fact had never really sunk in until now.
“City boy, huh?”
Len turned. Someone was leaning against a fence post at the corner of the pen. Len tried to straighten up, assuming at first glance that the guy was a guard but then noticed he was wearing the same tan jumpsuit that Len and all the other inmates wore.
Len blinked. How was this guy still in juvie? He was massive, probably outweighing Len by 80 pounds of muscle alone and Len wouldn’t even come up to the guy’s shoulder. And yeah, okay, Len conceded that he was still kind of small for his age, but still. The guy had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he crossed his arms over the post. Something about the sight made Len’s mouth go dry and his stomach feel funny.
“And what, you’re the chicken whisperer?” Len asked before his brain could catch up to his mouth. Good job, Snart. Insult the biggest kid in here. Way to stick to that whole “Stay out of trouble” plan.
“Something like that,” the kid shrugged. “I grew up on a farm before well... y’know.”
Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. This was the kid Len had heard about. This was crazy Mick Rory, the guy who had burned down his family farm with his family still inside. And now he was telling Len about it? Was this some kind of threat? Oh fuck, Lewis was right. Len was dead already.
Len was so busy trying to contain his panic that he almost missed what Mick said next.
“What?” asked Len, not sure if he’d heard correctly.
“I said, there’s a trick to dealing with chickens. I’ll tell you, but it’ll cost you a Snickers bar.” Mick grinned. “I’ll accept credit.”
Asshole, thought Len. “I’m not too chicken to handle a couple of birds.” It wasn’t his best pun, but his nerves were still kind of shot.
Mick’s grin got even bigger and he leaned further against the fencepost, resting his chin on his arms like he was settling in for some sort of amazing entertainment. Len hefted up the bucket of feed and unlocked the gate with one hand. The chickens clucked even louder. Len cracked the gate open just a little and slid in sideways so none of the chickens could escape. One came up to him, and he pushed it carefully out of the way with his foot.
There, they weren’t really so scary. They were just chickens after all. Len reached into the bucket and pulled out a handful of feed. He’d seen this part in movies. He threw the feed out, scattering it across the yard, and laughed as the chickens ran after it, their fat little bodies scurrying and flopping. There were about fifteen of them ranging from dark brown to speckled white. Maybe if he stayed on chicken duty he could come up with names for them. Len watched one chicken bowl over two others in its rush to get at the feed. That one could be “Tank.” Or maybe “Mick.”
A few more minutes of tossing out handfuls later and the bucket was nearly empty. He dumped the rest of it out and turned to the non-chicken Mick triumphantly.
“That wasn’t so hard.”
“Don’t forget to get the eggs!” Mick called out cheerfully.
“I wasn’t!” yelled Len as he walked up the low ramp to the henhouse. He nearly gagged when he reached the doorway. “Was your trick not to breathe when you go in? Because I think I figured that out.”
“Nah…” Mick drawled as Len took a deep breath and stepped inside. “I’ll tell you for free. The trick is, the problem with chickens? Isn’t the chickens.”
Len rolled his eyes at whatever fortune cookie nonsense that was supposed to be as he stepped into the dark. He gave his eyes a second to adjust. There, just a few feet in, he spotted his first egg, sitting right in the center of an empty nest like the world’s least colorful and most obvious Easter hunt. Len picked it up delicately.
Ew. It was still warm. Just as Len started to place it carefully in his bucket, there was an inhuman shriek from the back of the henhouse. Len turned just in time to see something rushing at his face.
He screamed, dropping the egg and bucket as he stumbled backwards out of the henhouse. The thing was still attacking him, and Len could feel sharp swipes across his raised arms as he tried to protect his face. The sudden sunlight blinded him and he tripped as his foot slipped off the ramp. It seemed like he fell for an eternity, then Len hit the ground on his back with an audible thud, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could catch his breath, the thing was on him again, shrieking and attacking.
“Help me!” he screamed, when he could breathe. “Mick! Mick, help!”
Then the thing was gone and Len gasped. He opened his eyes slowly, still too shocked and confused to understand what was happening. Mick was standing over him, laughing so hard there were tears running down his face and under one big arm he held…a rooster.
A goddamn rooster. Len scowled as his heart beat frantically in his chest. He sat up, wiping his hands on his ruined jumpsuit. He was covered in feathers and feed and chicken shit and God knew what else. Above him, Mick laughed even harder.
“What’s it going to cost me for you to never tell anyone about this ever?” asked Len when Mick’s laughter finally seemed to be dying down. That just set Mick off again though. Mick crashed to his knees, laughing too hard to stand, narrowly missing landing on Len. In his arms, the rooster squawked indignantly at the sudden movement, and used Mick’s distraction to break free, running halfway across the yard before slowing and bobbing its head arrogantly like that had been its plan all along.
“Oh god,” Mick sobbed between guffaws. “Your face!”
Len looked away. Great. There went his last chance of getting out of juvie unscathed. Everyone was going to have heard the story by dinner, now. His life for the foreseeable future would be hell.
“Aw, don’t be like that, City Boy,” Mick said, still snickering. “How about this, you still have to tell everybody that I single-handedly saved you from getting your ass kicked, but you can say it was from four, no, SIX, six guys. Oh, and one of them had a knife!”
Mick sounded more and more and more strangled as he went on. Len looked over. Mick’s face was red and he was biting his lip, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
“Y’know,” Mick hooked a finger and swiped at Len with it. “A sharp, little, chicken claw knife!” Mick dissolved into peals of laughter and fell back, clutching his sides as he lay gasping on the ground, uncaring of the chicken shit and grime.
“Fuck you. Fine!” Len said as he got to his feet and dusted himself off.
Mick wiped tears from his eyes and grinned up at him. “I’m your hero.”
Thirty Years Later
Mick heard the whispers around him as he waited at the bar.
“...just kids at the time...saved his life…”
“...I heard it was eight guys, all with homemade machetes…”
Mick grinned as he collected two beers and headed back to their booth.
“...wouldn’t be alive otherwise…”
“...singlehandedly! I mean, I can believe it. No, don’t look…”
“You been telling stories again, City Boy?” Mick asked as he sat down across from Len.
Len reached out and took one of the beers. His eyes crinkled with laughter as he clinked the bottle necks together in a toast. “My hero.”