#captain cold parka

[pposyaa]

teehee

[abuddyforeveryseason]

This is the Buddy for September 23rd. Looking a bit like Captain Cold there.

I'm not too knowledgeable about DC comics and villains, but I kinda like Captain Cold. I read a Flashpoint story about him I thought was pretty fun and timely, and I like his costume. I think it could make for a fun live action villain, memorable, goofy, but realistic.

But, considering how the last Flash movie wasn't exactly a winner, it's unlikely we'll see Captain Cold on the big screen. Of course, even if we did, it's all up to the director how the character would be portrayed. Remember Mr. Freeze in Batman & Robin?

[grandlinedreams]

You! 🫵 You have an excellent way of weaving words, it leaves my heart in a kerfuffle! (no better way to describe it otherwise xD)

If your inbox isn’t already exploding, would you be up for a little fluff scenario with good ol‘ Law?

Trope: „Can we keep him? Pleeease?“ - Reader found a snow leopard baby . . 🥹 (If you know you know)

I let you channel your inner Law, I‘m curious how you‘d set the scene :3

Hope it ain’t too dull of a trope - thank you ~!

OUGH I'M HONORED 🥺 he really does just bounce around in my head like a lil dvd screensaver but also PLEASE that little baby 🥺🥺🥺

[Heads up!: fluff, Law is a sucker for puppy dog eyes we all know, Bepo is an accomplice]

It's cold.

Dangerously so, the wind making it difficult to keep on your course ㅡ how you're supposed to see anything in the vast tundra of blinding white is beyond you, but you press on.

You have to.

You tug at the fur-lined rim of your parka hood, trying to tug it over the rapidly numbed quality of your lips and nose. You'll be fine, you know that ㅡ the others can't be far from here.

Longing for the warmth of indoors and needing to tell Law what you'd seen in your scout ahead (a whole lot of nothing, unfortunately), you hurry your pace, only to halt at a faint, muffled cry.

Was someone else out here? You still, eyes narrowing as you strain to hear above the whistle of wind.

It takes a minute to hear it again ㅡ raspy and high, like the cry of a child. Your heart sinks as you turn to search for the source. You know Law will scold you if he finds out, much less if it's a trap of some sort ㅡ but the likelyhood of an enemy is low, and you can't just leave a child out here to freeze.

It takes several minutes of searching and stopping to pinpoint the cry before you find the source, and you stare with wide eyes.

No way...

ㅡ

"Cocoa, Captain?"

Law looks over as Bepo places the mug of steaming hot chocolate down beside him, watching tiny marshmallows bob in it before his attention shifts back to the door of the little cabin they've commandeered as a base of sorts.

"[Name] should've been back by now." You'd gone out to scout ahead, take not of any potential enemy activity ㅡ but you've been gone for a while now. And though Law is concerned, he masks it with the rise of irritation.

As if summoned, there's the darkening of the window set into the front door and he tenses for a second before you step in, quick to shut the door behind you.

"[Name]!"

"Hey guys," you greet. "Sorry I'm late, I got a little sidetracked."

Your cheeks are flush with the contrast of cold to warm, as is the tip of your nose ㅡ but from what Law can see, you're unharmed. Good.

"Anything to report?" He asks and you glance over.

"Huh? No, no signs of enemy activity." There's something you aren't telling him, that much he can tell.

"Are you bleeding?" It's Shachi's question that snaps Law's attention back to your coat, spotting the smear of red that he'd missed on his first once-over.

"Oh," you say as Law stands, intending to assess whatever damage has been done, demand to know what actually happened ㅡ only to halt as you reach for the zipper of your parka. "No, it's this little guy's."

You tug the zipper down, and a rounded, fluffy head wiggles free. Wide, wet looking blue eyes blink at them before a mouth opens to reveal tiny, razor sharp teeth as the creature offers a raspy sounding mew.

"Is...that a snow leopard?"

Several eyes snap to Law for a moment, the familiar speckle of his cap ㅡ and then back to the cub you have cradled in your coat.

"He's been injured," you say as you shuck your coat entirely in favor of cradling the cub to you. It's far bigger than a kitten, but broad paws still curl against you. "I couldn't just leave him out there..."

"[Name]." Law's eyes narrow. "A word, please." He turns to retreat down the hall to one of the other rooms, listening to your footsteps in tow. He waits until you've shut the door behind you before he turns to you. "Explain."

"I scouted as far ahead as I could given the current environment and found nothing out of the ordinary. If there's really something going on here, it's higher up the mountain." Your tone is calm and cool, professional ㅡ and he sighs.

"I meant the cub, [name]."

Your expression crumples as you look down at the leopard cub, and Law notices the ragged cut in its side, fur wet with blood. "I couldn't just leave him out there, Law. He'd die."

"He's a wild animal, [Name]. It's the way nature works." He knows he sounds unnecessarily cruel ㅡ and there's the squeeze of his heart when you frown and cradle the cub tighter to you.

"That doesn't mean I have to let it happen." Your fingers curl into soft fur, stroking gently. "I know he's a wild animal, but I want to help. Can't we keep him? Just until he gets better?"

You look up at him, and Law tenses. There's a shine to your eyes ㅡ he's never seen you cry, and you're about to over a damn cat? No, he knows this tactic. He knows exactly what you're doing.

Damn Bepo for teaching you his weakness to puppy eyes.

His teeth grit, muscle in his brow twitching as you continue to stare, silently pleading. All you're missing is the jut of your lower lip, and he jerks his head, scowling.

"Fine. But he's your responsibility. Now stop looking at me like that, damn it!"

You smile, pleased as you adjust your hold on the leopard cub and step towards him, leaning to brush your lips against his cheek in a soft kiss. "You're cute when you're grumpy, Law."

And then you're gone, hurrying off to gather what you need to treat the cub and leaving Law to process the warmth of your lips on his cheek. "What a pain," he grumbles, but there's a faint upward quirk to his lips.

[b33zlebubz]

RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER TWO

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks, implied past SA "Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

FRIDAY DECEMBER 3RD 2016 NORWAY, 0700 HOURS

Simon decides he prefers the cold.

Brazil is a pretty place, sure.  Of all the places he has been stationed, it's been by far one of the nicest; the closest to vacation that Simon Riley will ever get other than medical leave.  Running in over ten kilos of gear and getting shot at while doing it is probably one of the only things that could ruin a free trip to the tropical continent; he swears he nearly waterboarded himself with the amount of sweat he produced.  He went through three masks alone just in the two short weeks he was there, two of which had to be replaced.

Norway, though, was a little more tolerable.

He's new to the area, to the camp and to the people.  It's a nice day, for winter, but the frigid sun still stings through the eyeholes of his mask and where his gloves don’t quite reach the sleeves of his parka.  A familiar feeling; one he didn't exactly miss, but was closer to home and sure as hell beat the sweltering tropical heat of Brazil.

Captain Walker walks just a few strides in front of him, droning on about the base and what Simon would be doing here.  He had wasted no time at all giving Simon a tour of the camp fresh off the plane after he met with a few of the other COs he would be working under over the next couple of weeks.

It's busy for a relatively small and temporary base.  Soldiers of all ranks dart left and right; training, talking, and commuting.  Most of which are British, like him, but others are foreign as well.  He takes some amusement in the juxtaposition between him and the shorter man in front of him as he walks, and he's sure the others do, too.  Even some higher-ups are curious, pausing in the halls to take in his form a second time in surprise.

Simon's grown complacent over the years, he will admit.  He's too used to being around the same bases for too long, too used to people not sparing him a glance as he walks past—or rather—too used to people being used to him.  Here, people of all kinds seemed to lose track of what they were doing as he strides past, staring shamelessly.  Of course, he stares back, and it's usually enough to snap them out of it and send them on their way.

"Of course, you've likely been given the run-down plenty of times already, so I'll spare you all that rubbish," Walker drones on.  He's short.  Older, for an infantry man, but still strong, and with enough temper to make up for what he lacks in youth and height.  "I expect you know what you're doing with that shiny new rank of yours.  Need more men like you around…experienced men."

It isn't often Simon is sent anywhere for instructional purposes.  But with a recent lull in the violence and bloodshed in the world, he finds himself on more and more assignments like these—things to keep him busy.  Keep him moving.  With his new rank, he's attracted more work with leadership than much of anything else.

Camp Viking, Norway.  Assist Marine and Navy Corps with Arctic conditioning and training.

Should be easy enough.

"So, what's the uh…the deal?"

Simon raises an eyebrow at Walker, deciding to humor him despite knowing exactly what he was about to ask.  "Hm?"

"The classified-up-the-ass skeleton getup," he clarifies, eyeing Simon up and down.  "You think you're some superhero or something?”

The beginnings of an amused smirk twitch onto the lieutenant's face.  One thing that would never get old no matter where he was relocated was fucking with people.

"Something like that."

That seems to quell the man's curiosity for the time being.  He raises an eyebrow with an amused, or annoyed, huff before he shakes his head and changes the subject.

"For some of these boys…you're the only thing standing between them and a promotion," Walker gestures loosely to the shooting range at his right, where a handful of soldiers have taken to practicing.  "Don't go easy on 'em.  Not that I expect you to."

"Copy," Simon remarks, eyes sweeping across the field as he follows the captain.  The older man gestures to a plethora of concrete buildings and a few important people to remember.  He talks a lot, much more than Simon cares to listen to—but he follows anyway, taking in the scenery and acquainting himself with what will be his life for the next few weeks.  He eyes the soldiers around the shooting range, committing their faces to memory before Walker calls them to attention.

They're quite the squad.  Young, experienced.  Ghost notes with a huff that it's silent—the typical general shenaniganry of the Marines nonexistent; the product of strict instructors.  The captain goes on with all the formalities, introducing Simon and what he's here to do with the squad. 

Simon's eyes sweep the soldiers, who all avert their gaze the moment his eyes meet theirs.

Yours, however, doesn't.

You're rigid-still.  So still Simon thinks that if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of your chest, you'd be frozen to the snow you stand on.  Spine straight as a pole, boots pressed together, hands clasped at your back; the only thing that moves are your eyes when they flicker up to meet his.  Simon lingers, staring at you, eyes squinting down at where your upper face is exposed from your uniform gator.  

At first glance, you're harmless.  A handful of years younger than him, maybe—you seem like just another soldier who was roped into a station she was less than happy about.  He also thinks, maybe, he can tell what you're thinking—because you hold your head just a bit higher to make yourself appear taller. 

Your face is banged up.  Your nose is slightly crooked and there's a healing bruise across the bridge and under your eyes.  A scabbed-over cut crosses your upper cheek and another one cuts into your brow.  Your cheeks are sunken and your eyes bagged; and if Simon didn't know any better, he'd say it looked like you've been outside in the cold for weeks. 

"Well," Simon huffs.  "Aren't you a sight."

There's a glint in your eyes and Simon quickly realizes he's already underestimated your confidence.  "Could say the same to you, Lieutenant."

He raises an eyebrow at your boldness.  For a second, it's silent.  Behind him, Walker's head raises—appalled by your lack of respect. 

"Ignore her," he says.  "She may look it; but she’s no angel.  ‘Got more insubordination on her record than I have fingers on both hands, at this point."

Simon swears he sees your expression twitch, a slight crinkle of your injured nose at Walker's comment.  Your eyes flash with a concoction of emotions all hidden behind a barrier of discipline.  Regret, anger—fear, maybe—at the edge in your Captain's voice.  Nevertheless, you remain stoic. 

Hm.  

"Seems like you've had quite the week."  Simon says to you.  "Eh, Angel?"

You seem to short-circuit at the new nickname he dubs onto you, or maybe at the vaguest empathy in his voice—he can't tell.  He can see your mouth open with a response before it snaps shut again.  Your gaze flickers from Ghost, to Walker, and then back to Ghost again.

"I…"  you trail off, and then straighten yourself again.  "I will not hinder the team moving forward, sir."

It’s not really the answer he’s looking for.  His eyes narrow at you and your stubborn resolve, as if maybe if he looked at you close enough, he could see behind the thick wall of discipline you’ve put up.  He has questions, and lots of them.  

He holds your gaze for another moment, as if testing you.  When your stare doesn't budge, he finally relents with an approving nod.

"Hm," he says.  "Good."

Walker calls the squad at rest and Ghost continues on with the tour.  He feels your stare linger on the back of his neck as he walks close behind the captain before you return to target practice.  Once you’re out of earshot, Ghost turns his attention back to Walker.

“Captain.”

The Captain sighs, already knowing what's about to be asked of him before Simon can say anything, “Lieutenant.”

“Her file. Whenever we get back."

“Copy that, Ghost.”

[murky-the-phantom-thief]

If captain cold loves the cold so much why does he wear a parka in fucking summer.

[coldflasher]

thinking about this weekend again and how once again i was, to my knowledge, the only captain cold at the convention. i saw loads of flashes, reverse flashes, and killer frosts, but even at a con with hundreds (thousands?) of flash fans in attendance, as always, no one was doing it like me <3

actually that's a lie tbf bc i did once attend a con where a couple entered the cosplay contest dressed as coldwave but the lady dressed as len had a khaki green parka on instead of a blue one and i was annoyed by her lack of effort. like girl did you even try

i'd have entered the cosplay competition in my own captain cold cosplay just to show everyone how it was done but that was the occasion where i had entered dressed as gary green's nipple so sadly i had to stand by and tut in silent disapproval at her inaccurate costuming

[longitudinalwaveme]

The Rogue Backstory Information Masterpost

Or, everything you always wanted to know about the Rogues' canon backstories, but were afraid to ask.

This post would be much simpler and less confusing if writers weren't constantly retconning each others' work.

Captain Cold

Showcase #8 (1957): Len Snart is a, quote, "ambitious" crook, who has realized that, if he's going to be successful as a criminal, he's going to have to find some way of dealing with the Flash. Conveniently, the newspaper he's reading informs him that a "scientific magazine has prepared a comprehensive article on Flash!" Hoping that this article might give him an idea, Len breaks into the office of the magazine, takes the manuscript home with him, and reads it. From this article he learns that "a cyclotron might effectively interfere with Flash's speed". Cold decides to imbue a weapon with the power of a cyclotron, and, to this end, breaks into the cyclotron building that is located "in a a suburban area" a few nights later with what appears to be a toy gun. He turns on the cyclotron and starts fiddling with it, but pulls the levers the wrong way, irradiating the gun and alarming himself. Assuming that he's failed, he goes to leave, only to run into the watchman, who pulls a gun on him. Len, in response, points his own gun at the watchmen in the hopes of scaring him off, and accidentally pulls the trigger...which causes the watchman to be frozen solid. Surprised but pleased by this turn of events, Len designs a uniform for himself (his classic parka---which we would learn in Flash #141 was sewn by a tailor named Paul Gambi), and comes up with the costumed identity of Captain Cold. (Rejected names included Mr. Arctic, the Cold Wave, Sub-Zero, and the Human Icicle.) He then goes out to commit crimes and fight the Flash.

Flash #250 (1977): We learn that Captain Cold has a younger sister named Lisa Snart. She's a professional figure skater who goes by the stage name of Lisa Star, presumably in part to avoid being connected to her infamous brother. Len tries to talk her out of taking revenge on the Flash for the death of Roscoe Dillon (aka the Top), her boyfriend and his fellow Rogue, but fails pretty spectacularly. This issue also is the first time one of Len's parents is mentioned, albeit in an offhand way; Lisa says "mother would never forgive you for snuffing her only daughter!"

Flash #300 (1981): The backstory presented here is mostly the same as that seen in Showcase #8, with a few minor differences. "Many years ago, Len Snart was a small-time crook who broke into a research lab, looking for an experimental weapon he could use against me [me here referring to Barry Allen, who was reviewing all of his enemies' backstories in the hopes of determining which of them was behind the most recent plot against him]. What he stole was the prototype of a revolutionary cold-gun." The main change here is that Snart appears to have stolen his gun, rather than having created it by complete accident after pulling some levers the wrong way...though it is possible that perhaps Barry has been misinformed about the creation of the cold gun.

Secret Origins #41 (1989): This retelling of the origin is completely identical to the one found in Showcase #8; although the fact that it's being narrated by the Rogues' tailor Paul Gambi does give it some extra flavor. The only new detail is Gambi's suggestion that Len didn't do too well in school: "The trouble is---and this would not have surprised your teachers---you figured it wrong!"

Justice League Quarterly #2: This story may not be canonical, but in it, we learn that Snart calls his cold gun Shirley, after his mother, indicating that her name may be Shirley Snart.

Flash vol. 2 #165 (2000): "The place reminds me of my parents' house. Smells like cigarettes and pine sol. All my dad did was smoke; my mother cleaned. They didn't drink much. That was me and my sister's job." This was written by Geoff Johns, and he would later retcon out most of this information. This story was also the first to suggest that Captain Cold didn't have a good relationship with his parents: "My name's Leonard Snart. It's a bad name, I know. But my parents were bad people."

Flash vol. 2 #182 (2002): This is the famous Cold origin story, and still the best one. It establishes that Leonard Snart grew up in a trailer home outside of Central City. His father was unemployed and on disability; he had once been a police officer but was fired for being drunk on the job, which led to his partner getting killed and himself being shot in the arm. He abused his wife (who would leave for days, but would always be forced to come back due to lack of resources) and both of his children, both physically and verbally. He was especially aggressive in response to words of affection or love from his children.

Leonard's grandfather (who was his father's father) was "the only real adult in my young life". He intervened to protect Len and Lisa whenever he could, but due to his poor health, wasn't able to take the children in himself. The grandfather drove an ice truck and used the truck to take his children to visit places like ball parks and restaurants that they otherwise didn't get to visit. Unfortunately, this grandfather died before Len turned twelve, leaving him alone with his sister, his often-absent mother, and his abusive father.

Len left home himself in his late teens. At this point, his mother had been dead for over a year, and he was fed up with his father's abuse. His sister, Lisa, wanted to leave home with him, but Len had already gotten involved with a bad crowd, and didn't want to put his sister in danger. "Keep skating, kid. You've got talent. You'll be fine." It's clear that leaving his sister alone with their father later haunted him, and it seems to be one of his biggest regrets.

Leonard quickly joined up with a gang, and one of its members invented goggles that protected their eyes from gunfire and contained a police band receiver as well. Len thought that these were cool, and they would ultimately serve as the goggles he would wear as part of his Captain Cold uniform. He and this gang then went out to rob a pharmacy...only to be stopped by the Flash and sent to prison.

While in prison, and seeking revenge on the Flash, Len "studied kinetic motion and thermal energy. But what really caught my eye was an article on absolute zero....Absolute zero means zero atomic motion". When he was released on parole, he "broke into one of the labs I'd read about. I never was too great at all the science, so I needed some help. I stole some blueprints. And I made a weapon." From here, Len used this gun to become Captain Cold.

Flashpoint Citizen Cold #1 (2011): Technically, this takes place in an alternate universe, but it included a recap of the Snarts' past, and it seemed identical to the one provided in Flash vol. 2 #182, so I'm going to note a few relevant details that this issue added. First, Len's dad is named Lawrence, and second, he's suspected to have mob ties. In other words, there's a good chance that Leonard's father was a corrupt cop.

Rebirth Flash #14: Most of the backstory remains the same as what we saw in Flash vol. 2 #182. "I'm sure you know their father was a real piece of work. After their mother died, he lived off hate and drink. Lisa used to tell me that her grandfather would take them on his ice deliveries. It was their only escape. They felt protected with him in the cold." That being said, the notion that Len's dad only became abusive after his wife died is new; in Johns' version he was just as abusive to his wife as he was to his children. This version also claims that Len was directly responsible for Lisa's turn to crime; in all previous versions of the story she didn't become a criminal until Roscoe's death.

Rebirth Flash #38: "Y'know, Flash, every time my dad would hurt my sister and me? He would beg for forgiveness afterward. And then he would just do it again. [I'm not like my father.] I would never ask for forgiveness." I'm not crazy about Williamson's version of Captain Cold's past, and this is a big part of the reason why.

Rebirth Flash #72: We learn that Clive Yorkin (the criminal who is experimented on, A Clockwork Orange-style, and then becomes a monster in the 1979 Death of Iris Allen arc) was part of the gang Len was in before he became Captain Cold. Yorkin is a wild card, and nearly shoots Iris (who is reporting on the scene of their crime) despite Cold's attempts to talk him down. Barry saves her, and then defeats the gang and takes them to prison (as we saw in Flash vol. 2 #182).

Golden Glider

Flash #250-251 (1977): "The girl at the grave is Lisa Snart---younger sister of the notorious Captain Cold! Small wonder, then, that ice played a vital role in her life, too---as a champion skater who performed in ice shows all over the world!" Lisa performed for the Futura Ice Company under the name Lisa Star and was internationally famous for her unparalleled spinning ability---something that had been taught to her by her boyfriend, Roscoe Dillon, who was also her (presumably unofficial) figure skating coach. Their romance "blossomed for months--but undercover", during which Roscoe followed her from city to city to watch her performances---but then Roscoe died from a brain hemorrhage; the result of his battles with the Flash (see Flash #243-244 for more details on this). Lisa swore revenge on the Flash for her lover's death and became the Golden Glider in response, using her brother's cold guns, her boyfriend's tops, and a pair of ice skates which produced ice in mid-air (also invented by her brother, Captain Cold) as the tools of her deadly scheme.

Flash #257: We learn that Lisa can read lips. Where and how she learned this is never explained, but she can. We also learn that she apparently has quite the inventive prowess, as she is now armed with a whole arsenal of jewel weapons.

Flash #300 (1981): Barry's recap of Lisa's past: "At one time she was a world-renowned figure skater travelling all over the country as the star of an ice show by day....while carrying on a torrid secret romance from city to city by night. The object of her passion---an infamous costumed criminal who just happened to be one of my most cunning long-time foes---one Roscoe Dillon, better known to the rest of the world as the villainous Top!" After a brief detour into Roscoe's past (more on that later), he gives us some new information about Lisa's past: "Dillon shared the grim details of his imminent doom with only one person---his grief-stricken sweetheart, Lisa! The final spin for the Top came the following day---as Roscoe Dillon became the first of my personal Rogues' gallery to die in his prime." This story also reaffirms the notion that Lisa frequently made visits to Roscoe's top-shaped tombstone after his death.

Flash vol. 2 #165: Len claims that he and Lisa drank frequently.

Flash vol. 2 #182: Most of the backstory overlaps heavily with Len's; since they're siblings and thus had the same runaway mother, abusive father, and kindly but sickly grandfather. Lisa was left alone with her father by Len, but managed to escape a few years later by becoming a figure skater. The rest of her backstory is basically identical to the one that was already established for her, but this issue claimed that Lisa, in addition to wanting revenge for Roscoe's death, became a Rogue because "I wanted to be like my brother. With my brother."

New 52 Flash Annual #1: We learn that Lisa is Sam's girlfriend, and that she was not properly a member of the Rogues until Len got the bright idea to give the Rogues superpowers and she was put into a coma but also given astral powers. This backstory would be retconned out only a few years later by DC Rebirth.

Rebirth Flash #14: We learn that Lisa was coached in figure skating by a woman named Glenda Dillon (Joshua Williamson says she's Roscoe's mother.) Glenda implies that Lisa gave up figure skating and went into crime in order to protect her brother. "Leonard always thinks he's taking care of her. But the reality is Lisa takes care of him. It's why whenever he asks for help she follows him." This backstory also seems to suggest that Lisa never became a professional skater or dated Roscoe in this version of events and makes Lisa's motivation entirely about her brother, who appears to have led her into a life of crime in this version of the story (in contrast to all of Len's earlier appearances, where he tried to dissuade her from becoming a criminal until she made it clear that she was going to become one no matter what he said).

Flash Rebirth #83: We learn that Lisa, for some reason, was terrified of dogs as a kid, and that Len knows this and thus also presumably knows why. Did it have something to do with their father's abuse?

Trickster #1 (James Jesse/Giovanni Giuseppi)

Flash #113 (1960): James Jesse is the youngest member of the Flying Jesses, a family of high-wire walkers who work for the creatively-named Big Circus. His mother's name is Helen; his father goes unnamed. Unfortunately for James, he's afraid of heights (or, more accurately, of falling) and thus is resistant to practicing. He prefers to read books, particularly books about his "reverse-namesake", the outlaw Jesse James. James' parents do not approve of his reading choices, and insist that he focus more on practicing (in part, I think, since he hasn't ever told them about his fear of heights).

In spite of his fears, James still wants to be a famous aerialist, so he invents a pair of shoes that use jet propulsion systems to let him walk on air. It takes him years to create and master the shoes, but once he completes them---from all appearances, when he's still a teenager!---they allow him to become a champion tightrope walker and the star of his circus. He also earns his parents' praise for his abilities.

However, this soon proves too boring for James, and he decides to become an outlaw like Jesse James in order to get more excitement. "But instead of holding up railroad trains like he did---I'll be a 20th-century version of Jesse James---and hold up airplanes!" James proceeds to do just that, and becomes the Trickster.

Flash #300 (1981): "I'll become a famous criminal--like him...a 20th century version of Jesse James! With my jet-shoes I can pull of the trick! And that gives me my name, too! I'll become---the Trickster!" That seems like a bit of a stretch, but I guess that's where the name came from. Barry also calls James "the most famous acrobat of all", implying that he did pretty well for himself in the circus.

Secret Origins #41 (1989): We learn that James Jesse is a stage name, with James' real name being Giovanni Giuseppi. His family comes from Naples, so James is either Italian or of Italian descent. This version of the origin story also strongly implies that his father was an unpleasant man; he insults James for reading and wrenches James' arm out of his socket when he gets distracted by some of the women who work with them at the circus. "It wasn't the heights you were afraid of---it was the old man dropping you!" This story also suggests that the Giuseppis did some trapeze artistry in addition to their high wire walking.

And then there's James' explanation (in song, no less!): "Oh, I flew through the air with the greatest unease, till I thought it all over and came up with these! My airwalker shoes were undreamed of by sages, and I did in one song what took Gambi two pages!"

New Year's Evil: The Rogues (1999): We learn that, twelve years prior to the start of the story, James had a relationship with a woman named Mindy Hong, whose family had its roots in a fictional Asian country called Zhutan. It's not 100% clear that this relationship happened prior to his becoming the Trickster, but it seems likely. This relationship also produced a son named Billy.

Rebirth Flash #66: The basic backstory for James remains the same (circus, reading about Jesse James, fear of heights, airwalker shoes) but a lot of the details are different. This story doubles down on making his parents awful; both of them are neglectful of and verbally abusive towards James. They're also portrayed as being con artists who use their act as a distraction while they pickpocket people, rather than being legitimate performers as in previous versions. The origin of the airwalker shoes is also quite different in this version of the story. Instead of making the shoes on his own so that he can better perform in the family's act, in this version he ran away from his parents and the circus, and pulled a "long con disguised as a lab tech at S.T.A.R. Labs. Fooled some lonely scientist into falling in love with me. And I stole her research and sold it to Lexcorp. But I was living that scam long enough that I picked up a few things. Like how to make shoes that run on air." Then he became the Trickster. Interestingly, this version of the story also removes any hint of James' family being of Italian descent.

Captain Boomerang, Sr. (George "Digger" Harkness)

Flash #117 (1960): Digger Harkness, a criminal who has spent "years hiding in the Australian bush hiding out from the law", is reading a newspaper when he finds an ad from W.W. Wiggins' toy company. Wiggins is looking for a person who can throw boomerangs expertly to be a mascot for his toy boomerangs, and Digger, who has been thinking about becoming a costumed criminal and becoming famous, decides to apply for the job himself under the alias of George Green. He is promptly hired, due to his incredible skill with boomerangs, and is given the name and costume of Captain Boomerang. Digger does work for the company for awhile, serving as the mascot, but commits crimes at the same time. Eventually, he and the Flash come to blows and he is exposed and arrested as a criminal.

Flash #227: We learn that Digger's father is called "Aussie" Green, and that he's a small-time crook from Australia.

Flash #300 (1981): Barry gives a beat-for-beat retelling of Digger's origin story from Flash #117. No new information is given.

Flash #310 (1982): We learn that W.W. Wiggins has a young son named Willard Wiggins Jr.; later revelations would make Willard Jr. Digger's younger half-brother.

Flash #311 (1982): "Regardless of the exact year, we calculated the arrival would take place somewhere over the South Pacific---which means a splashdown in the ocean---and my parents never taught little Digger how to swim!"

Secret Origins #41 (1989): Gambi gives another beat-for-beat retelling of the origin story from Flash #117.

Suicide Squad #44 (1990): This is the famous Captain Boomerang origin. It establishes that Digger grew up poor in Korumburra, a rural town in Australia. He lived with the man he believed to be his father, Ian Harkness, his mother, Betty Harkness, and his older half-brother Tom Harkness (who would eventually become an accountant). His mother was loving towards him, but his father was neglectful and abusive.

George made his first boomerang in elementary school, and, after being taunted about it by a kid named Mick Wentworth, he threw it in anger and managed to hit a kookaburra with it...which set him on the path of using boomerangs as weapons. Digger and Wentworth (so called as to not have him confused with Mick Rory/Heat Wave) promptly became friends, and proceeded to cause all sort of trouble together as juvenile delinquents. (His mother bailed both of them out of trouble frequently.)

When Digger turned 18, he tried to rob a general store, got caught, and narrowly managed to escape using a boomerang. This led to an argument with his father, and, after his mother tried to take his side, arguing that he was Ian's son, Ian flipped out and slapped her across the face. Digger responded by punching out his father, and his mother, in a panic, contacted W.W. Wiggins and had Wiggins give him a job in America. Wiggins made him a toy salesman, but after a few weeks (maybe months) on the job, Digger got sick of being a toy salesman and tried to pick somebody's pocket. The Flash saw him and tried to intervene, but Digger managed to tag him with a boomerang and knock him out. This led to Digger's official career as a costumed criminal.

It wasn't until Digger attended his mother's funeral that he learned (from W.W. Wiggins) that his mother had had an affair with W.W. Wiggins when he was a soldier stationed in Australia, and that that affair had been reignited many years later when Wiggins returned to the country, this time as a toy salesman, albeit only for one night. This affair produced Digger---and was the main driving force behind his father's dislike of him.

Flash (2010) #7: This origin is basically the same as the one from Suicide Squad #44, although in this version instead of completely ignoring his son for 18 years, W. W. Wiggins sends little Digger boomerangs. Also, Digger tried to rob a pawnshop instead of a general store at age 18, and it was he rather than his mom whom his father hit. This version of events also implies that W.W. Wiggins went bankrupt trying to promote the boomerangs, and that it was this financial difficulty that led to Digger becoming Captain Boomerang---he wasn't getting paid because Wiggins had no money, and so decided to steal money instead.

Suicide Squad #47 (2019): Most of the backstory remains the same, but now Digger was also at some point a secret agent for the Australian government. No, really. This is actually a thing that was established in this issue.

Heat Wave

Flash #140 (1963): "I used to be a fire-eater in the circus, but I lost my taste for the work! And then one day a week ago I finally made up my mind for---er---private reasons, I must say--- to embark on a criminal career in a big way! Naturally, with my circus background you understand why I chose the character of Heat Wave! I created my own uniform---and my weapon--a heat gun!" The "private reason" for Heat Wave's criminal career was...a desire to impress a local TV personality called Dream Girl. No, really, that was why.

Flash #266 (1978): Mick, at the age of nine, went on a field trip with his school to a meat packing facility. Being curious, he wandered off on his own, and accidentally shut himself into a meat locker. After nearly freezing to death, he managed to use the heat of his breath to "un-numb" his fingers enough to open the latch on the door and escape. This near-death experience gave young Mick intense cryophobia and a love of heat and warmth. Mick felt comfortable only when wearing several layers of clothes (even in the summer) and he spent his teenaged years experimenting with heat. When he became an adult, he became a fire-eater in the circus, and then fell into crime (presumably for fame and/or to impress girls as per Flash #160). It's also worth noting that we see two people who look very much like they're probably supposed to be Mick's parents looking at their teenaged son with concern as he experiments with fire, indicating that his parents did not die when he was a child.

Flash #300 (1981): Barry gives a beat-for-beat retelling of the origin from Flash #266, with one exception...Mick is said to be ten years old, rather than nine, during the meat locker incident. This was probably just an error on writer Cary Bates' part, rather than a deliberate retcon.

Secret Origins #41 (1989): Gambi gives us a mostly beat-for-beat retelling of the origin from Flash #266; the only new information we learn is that Mick ran away from home in order to join the circus as a fire-eater.

Flash vol. 2 #218: This is the famous Heat Wave origin. It mostly follows the facts established by the previous origins, but adds a really disturbing twist to them.

Mick Rory grew up on a farm with his mother, father, grandmother, and brother. He had a mostly idyllic life---but he was a pyromaniac, obsessed with flames. (In all previous retellings, Mick was obsessed with heat more than with fire, and his obsession only manifested after the meat locker incident.)

When Mick was 12 years old, he couldn't resist the urge to set the family house on fire...and was so transfixed by the flames that, even though he wanted to help his family, all he could do was watch as they burned alive. Mick was then sent to live with his uncle.

Mick's classmates made fun of him because he wore winter clothes at all times of year, and one day, on the tour of a local slaughterhouse, Brad Riker locked Mick in a meat freezer. Mick took nearly an hour to free himself, and the next night, he felt compelled to lock Riker and his family in their house and burn it down. Horrified, Mick then ran away from his uncle's house and joined the circus, where he became a fire eater. He was happy there for a few years, but then his urges surfaced again and he set the circus on fire. And this time, he took pictures.

When Mick saw the developed photos, he was disgusted with himself and what he had done, and, when he saw Captain Cold on the news, he decided that the best way to get his urges under control was to make them into a gimmick for costumed crime.

"I designed a heat-gun based on the flame-thrower. I compacted the fuel in catridges at the base of the gun, focusing on a mixture of Greek fire and butane gas. Originally, the ignition system in the tip was the typical electrical coil. Through the years, I managed to improve it, adding in a laser that super-heated the fire and helped me control its shape. I lined my fireproof suit with hoses filled with the fuel. And gave the gun a quick reload system which would replaced the tanks whenever I locked it down into the holster." After completing his gun, Mick set off to become Heat Wave.

I'll be honest and say that, while this origin is iconic at this point, I don't really like it. I feel like the death of his family was sufficiently horrible and tragic to make the point about his pyromania; having him kill another family and burn down a circus was a bit much.

Mirror Master II (Evan McCulloch)

Animal Man #8, #17, and #21 (1989-1991): Evan McCulloch is introduced as a Scottish hitman, and is hired by an organization composed primarily of three powerful corporate businessmen to scare Animal Man away from crime-fighting, since his focus on protecting animals was cutting into their profits. They give him the Mirror Master costume and gear so that people will assume that the attacks are supervillain shenanigans rather than a corporate hit.

Evan readily agrees to harass and beat up Animal Man, but when this fails to scare off the hero, the organization then orders him to kill Animal Man's wife and two young children. McCulloch promptly refuses, as he doesn't kill women or children, and he is replaced as an assassin by someone willing to take the job. We also learn that he has spent a considerable amount of time in Glasgow.

Justice League #10-12, 15: We learn that Evan McCulloch grew up in an orphanage. Batman offers to donate money to it in order to get Evan to turn against the Injustice League formed by Lex Luthor.

Flash vol. 2 #212: This is the famous Evan origin.

As a baby, Evan McCulloch was abandoned in a basket on the doorstep of an orphanage in Kirkaldy, Scotland. A picture of his parents was tucked inside the basket with him. The orphanage was run by a kind-hearted woman named Miss McCulloch, who did her best to be a mother to all of the children at her orphanage, including Evan. As such, while he obviously wished for his parents, Evan was generally pretty content at the orphanage.

There was only one problem: an older boy named Georgie, who came into the rooms of the younger children at night, dragged them outside, and sexually assaulted them. When Evan was eight, Georgie dragged him outside and attempted to abuse him, prompting Evan to kill him in self-defense.

Evan left the orphanage when he was 16 and ran away to Glasgow, where he spent a few years on odd jobs, then drifted into crime. Eventually, he became a hitman, and was hired to kill two people in one day. The first target put up a fight and cut Evan across the eye, thus impeding his vision and preventing him from realizing that his second target was his father (whom he knew from the photograph) until it was too late. Evan shot his father, and, when he went to confess to his mother after his father's funeral, he found her dead in the bathtub from suicide. After killing the man who hired him to kill his father, Evan planned to turn himself in, only for the American government to turn up and hire him as their hitman. When Evan agreed, they gave him the Mirror Master costume and gear (again, to ensure he wouldn't be traced back to them). Mirror Master worked for them for awhile, then got fed up with them, trapped them in a mirror dimension, went to Central City, and joined up with the Rogues.

Pied Piper

Flash #106 (1959): "I am a master of sound! For years I studied sound in all its phases! Do you know what it's capable of? Maybe you've heard of sonic booms---explosions caused miles away by an airplane passing through the sound barrier!...Don't worry, I'll stop the Flash!" And for over twenty years, that was all the backstory we had for the Pied Piper!

Flash #300 (1981): Barry on Piper's mysterious past: "In all the years I've been battling the Piper, I've never been able to learn much about his pre-Piper days or the origins of his expertise in the science of sonics!"

Flash #307 (1982): Cary Bates provides us with what is effectively Hartley's definitive backstory.

Hartley Rathaway was born to the millionaire publishing magnates Osgood and Rachel Rathaway. He was born deaf, and his parents spent millions of dollars for highly-advanced hearing aids that would allow him to hear. Once he could hear, Hartley became fascinated with music, but didn't seem to have an aptitude or interest in much of anything else, much to his parents' frustration. What they didn't realize was that Hartley had begun to tinker with musical instruments----or that he would learn how to use them to control minds by the time he was a teenager.

For his sixteenth birthday, his parents gave him a silver-plated flute.

When Hartley graduated from high school, his parents bribed his way into a top college, bribed his professors into giving him good grades, and then bribed his way into an executive post at a major firm. Hartley wasn't interested in any of this, and instead just used his hypnosis to make things even easier for himself. Bored out of his mind by how easy life was for him, Hartley decided to become a criminal to finally experience risk and excitement (or at least, that's what his parents, Rachel and Osgood, seem to think). And so the Pied Piper was born.

To keep anyone from learning that their son was a costumed criminal, the Rathaways bribed everyone from the chief of police to the FBI to created the identity of Henry Darrow for the Pied Piper, and it was by this name that Hartley was known for much of his criminal career.

The Pied Piper himself also gives his own opinion on his childhood later in this issue, when he arrives at the Rathaway mansion with stolen goods and reveals that he has been giving much of the money he's been stealing to his parents---"At last I've paid back every Rathaway dollar my parents spent on trying to mold me into someone I could never be!" He also argues that his parents never wanted what was best for him, but rather "what was best for the Rathaway name! What I wanted never really mattered much to either one of you!"

Secret Origins #41 (1989): Gambi gives a beat-for-beat retelling of the origin from Flash #307.

Flash vol. 2 #32: This story establishes that Hartley has a younger sister named Geraldine, who appears to be about eight to ten years old.

Flash vol. 2 #190: This story is mostly the same as the one in Flash #307, but it does change some details and add a few things. This issue establishes Hartley's middle name as Robert and identified Dr. William Magnus, the inventor of the Metal Men, as the man who invented Hartley's hearing aids (when Hartley was nine). It also establishes that these hearing aids give him super-human hearing.

In this version, Hartley's parents are obviously neglectful---they went out every night for the first month of his life rather than spending time with him, and they don't even notice he's deaf until he turns two.

Hartley loves listening to music, but doesn't have much talent for playing it. He also felt as though he could never relate to his parents or their friends; the people in his social class looked down on him and gossiped about him behind his back.

Hartley got himself kicked out of every college he was sent to, apparently as a form of rebellion, and things only got worse when he came out to his parents. It sparked a huge argument, and in response, Hartley ran away from home, taking his musical instruments and some of his parents' money with him. He then used his knowledge of sonics in the hopes that he would be able to create and sell his own instruments...and then stumbled upon his mind-controlling flute, which gave him a sort of power he had never had over his life before. Intoxicated by this control, and angry at the world, he took to a life of crime as the Pied Piper.

Weather Wizard

Flash #110 (1959): Mark Mardon was a petty crook, and had been arrested for burglary on at least three separate occasions; once by a Central City police lieutenant named Jim Harvey. On his third arrest, he was sent to Tri-State Prison on a train...and escaped by jumping off of the moving vehicle! After his escape, he decided to hide out with his brother Clyde, whom he knew lived along the shores of Big Water Lake as something of a hermit.

When Mark arrived at his brother's house, he was surprised to find what looked like a scientific laboratory, and even more surprised to find that his brother was dead of a heart attack. Shortly thereafter, Mark stumbled upon his brother's notes and learned that his brother had been about to announce to the world that he had learned how to build a device that could control the weather. Clyde had intended to use his device to help the world, but Mark had a "better" idea: he would follow his brother's notes and build his own weather-controlling device to get rich and revenge himself on the men who had sent him to jail. After building the wand using the notes, Mark dubbed himself the Weather Wizard, donned a costume that even he called "bizarre and original" and set out on a life of crime.

Flash #300 (1981): Barry gives a beat-for-beat recap of the origin from Flash #110.

Secret Origins #41 (1989): Gambi gives us what is mostly a beat-for-beat recap of the origin from Flash #110, but adds a few new details. "Your brother Clyde---who had always had everything better than you except a first name (and your mom almost made you switch that)---lived not far away on Big Water Lake." This is the first evidence we have that Clyde was favored over Mark by their parents. Or at least their mother.

The Flash: Iron Heights (2001): We finally get confirmation that Clyde was Mark's older brother, and that he was a meteorologist. This is also the first time that Geoff Johns starts hinting that Mark killed Clyde after escaping prison (as this had not previously been part of the story).

Final Crisis: Rogues' Revenge #3 (2008): We get confirmation that Mark killed Clyde after escaping prison (albeit by accident). When Mark arrived at his brother's laboratory, Clyde went to call the police, telling Mark that he had to turn Mark in and that it was for Mark's own good. Mark reacted in a panic, insisting that he couldn't go back to prison (and perhaps hinting that something rather bad might have happened to him the last time he had been sent to prison--though that's speculation). In his panic, he grabbed the Weather Wand, and accidentally killed Clyde.

New 52 Flash #10: Marco Mardon is from Guatemala, and his older brother is now named Claudio. His family ran a drug cartel (because stereotypes). Their father didn't think either of them were fit to run the cartel, but after he died, Claudio became the head of the cartel anyway. Marco, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with the cartel and ran away to Central City, where he would ultimately join the Rogues. His brother, Claudio, later came to the city on a "business" trip, and attempted to convince him to join him in running the cartel. "When we were kids, you said you'd always look out for me." While he's on the phone with Marco, he gets murdered, and, as we find out later, the hit was ordered by his own wife, Elsa, who thought that Claudio was too weak to do what needed to be done as the head of a drug cartel. When Marco found out about this (after he became the Weather Wizard), he was understandably upset and attempted to kill both her and himself with a lightning strike (though he managed to survive).

Rebirth Flash #85: "Marco was a loner in a family of criminals. He tried so hard to escape that life---that family--and it hurt people he loved. He can never escape the pain." Weirdly, the art makes the Mardons look more like 1920s gangsters than a modern drug cartel.

The Top

Flash #122 (1961): When Roscoe Dillon was a boy, he discovered some toy tops in the attic and became fascinated with them, to the point that he preferred spinning tops to playing with other children. As he grew older, he drifted into crime, and, after the second time he was caught (he wasn't the most successful criminal), he hit upon the idea of using his old boyhood hobby of spinning tops as a way to improve his criminal career. He immediately plunged himself into research on tops and learned everything he possibly could about them.

"Tops are amazing! They're linked up with intricate scientific devices like gyroscopes! Although they've been just about forgotten, they are the basis for some of the most startling advances in science! The theory behind tops gave rise to guided missile systems---to the gyrostabilizers of ocean liners! And unless I miss my guess, the same theory will help me reach the top of my profession!"

Roscoe invented a huge array of weaponized tops, and also taught himself how to spin at incredible speed. This spinning also increased his brainpower, and, filled with newfound confidence and weapons, he set out to take over the world as the Top.

Flash #300 (1981): Barry gives us a beat-for-beat recap of Roscoe's origin from Flash #122, although the art does seem to indicate that Roscoe was playing with tops well into his teenage years.

Flash vol. 2 #120-121: Roscoe offhandedly mentions that growing up on the streets of Brooklyn didn't provide him with the education that he would need to become president. This doesn't really jive with any of the other backstory information we're given on him (the scenes of his childhood from Flash #122 seemed quite suburban, for example).

Flash vol. 2 #216: "His name was Roscoe Dillon. But you know him better as the Top. For a long time he was just another one of the Rogues. A crook from Central City who got creative like Len Snart and Digger Harkness. He had a talent for inventions and explosives, and an obsession with, of all things, tops. The only good memory of a horrible childhood, he claimed."

More specifically, it appears that his parents were extremely demanding of him. "When I was growing up, it was always be the best, be the greatest. Show the world you're my son. When I couldn't, I lashed out. I rebelled against everything."

We also learn that, while he was inventing his tops, Roscoe tested them out, hurting innocent people in the process.

Flash vol. 2 #217: This issue reveals that Roscoe visited a Wiggins Toy Company toy shop every day when he was a child, presumably because they sold tops there.

Trickster II (Axel Walker)

Flash vol. 2 #183: Axel Walker comes from an upper-class family. When his parents divorced, he drifted into juvenile delinquency, doing drugs and vandalizing buildings. Then he broke into one of James Jesse's old storage units in Keystone City and stole his costume, his tricks, and a pair of airwalker shoes. Axel then used these to become the new Trickster.

Flash vol. 2 #1/2: "When my mom divorced my dad, Pops told me, 'There's two things you can be in life, Axel. Either you're the Trickster, or you're the one getting tricked!'"--Axel, on his dad's life advice.

Mirror Master I (Sam Scudder)

Flash #105 (1959): Sam Scudder was sent to prison for robbery. While he was working in the prison's mirror factory, he made a mistake, putting a wrong chemical in the silvering of the mirror. The prison foreman (Tyler) ordered him to throw it out, and, as he was in the process of doing so, he was stunned to discover that the mirror had held the image of the foreman like it was a camera. Sam decided to hang onto the mirror, and hid it so that he could study it later. He spent the rest of his time in prison studying mirrors, and, upon being released, put his knowledge to good use to invent what was effectively a 3-D printer, which he used to commit crimes as the Mirror Master.

This issue also implies that Sam feels some level of resentment towards society generally: "Besides, why should I try to help science and society? What did they ever do for me--besides put me behind bars?"

Flash #206 (1971): "Posters of famous movie cowboys! That's why Mirror Master went through that gunslinger bit---he was a rabid cowboy fan! Probably wanted to be in a real showdown ever since he was a kid!"

Flash #255 (1977): "A nice save, old foe! How'd you know I couldn't swim?"

Flash #300 (1981): We get what is effectively a beat-for-beat recap of the origin provided in Flash #105, although Barry describes Sam as "a hard-case prison inmate", implying that he might have been arrested more than once prior to becoming the Mirror Master. Barry also claims that Sam didn't really start studying the strange mirror until after his parole.

Flash vol. 2 #212: "I'm not the first Rogue to go by this name. No. Sam Scudder was. Kansas City boy. Simple thug."

Flash: Rebirth #2: In a frankly unnecessary bit of grimdark retconning, Sam is sentenced to prison for burglary and murder instead of robbery. Barry Allen, police scientist, is responsible for his conviction (I have no problems with Barry Allen convicting Sam---but couldn't he have convicted him for robbery rather than murder?)

Flash: Blackest Night #2 (2009): "I know where you're comin' from, McCulloch. I was like you. Hatin' who Sam Scudder was. Puttin' on a mask to escape it. Like all the Rogues. Running away to Wonderland."

As you can see, we don't know much about Sam's backstory....

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: Cisco was sitting in front of the computers with his back to Len, as usual, as Barry hovered around in front of the engineer. Except, right now Barry currently had dark blond hair and was dressed in a blue parka with a version of the cold gun attached to his thigh. The younger man looked over at Len in the doorway and his big eyes went wide. "Are you mocking me, Barry?" Len drawled, raising an eyebrow in question and trying not to laugh at the image of the Flash dressed as a supervillain. - The team are surprised to find a time traveller from the future that shares a striking resemblance to one Barry Allen. But… if he is the Flash’s son… then why is he wearing Captain Cold’s gear?

Author: @holycafe

[qlala]

Long casefic mentioned: screaming crying tearing at the walls of my enclosure

listen I know I've been sooo lock and key about this one for years because I wanted it to be perfect before I posted any WIP snippets, BUT... 2024 we are all learning to say "death to perfectionism," so december 2023, I am also saying "After all, why not? Why shouldn't I share a little snippet?"

setting notes for the below: a CCPD precinct, a few months after Flashpoint. (If you never got there in the show, don't worry about it; Len doesn't know what it means, either.) Barry and Len haven't seen each other since Len tipped him off to the Trickster ambush the previous Christmas, and as far as Barry knows, Len has been off with the Legends ever since. (He hasn't been.)

It was fascinating to watch Snart pull the Captain Cold bravado around his shoulders, even with his hands cuffed to an interrogation room table and no parka in sight. He rolled his shoulders back, slouched down in the chair—as far as the cuffs allowed—and crossed one ankle over his opposite knee. Then he rolled his bored gaze insolently in Barry’s direction and raised an eyebrow. 

“Seems you have me at a disadvantage.” 

Barry realized his mistake, a moment too late; as far as the CCPD was concerned, he and Snart had never met.

“Right,” Barry said. He wasn’t an officer, so protocol was fuzzy on whether he was supposed to introduce himself to an... inmate? Had Snart gotten himself arrested again?

Snart’s smirk deepened at his obvious floundering, so Barry looked to Joe instead.

Joe gave him the same resigned look he’d just received from Singh, but unlike Singh, Joe took pity on him. He flipped shut the file he’d been reading, then slid it across the table toward him.

It came to a stop within inches of Snart’s fingertips, and Barry saw him test the cuffs covertly as if considering intercepting it. Barry picked it up before he could try, throwing him a knowing glare. 

Snart didn’t bother looking chastened. 

The file, Barry noticed, was thicker than most that passed through the CCPD. When he flipped it open and saw the FBI seal emblazoned on the front page, he understood why.

A paper clip held a picture of Snart to the next page: a recent shot, judging from the hints of gray in his hair. Barry started to turn the page, then became aware of the twin looks of apprehension he was receiving from Joe and Snart. When he glanced questioningly at Snart, he looked away, feigning interest in his handcuffs. Barry looked to Joe instead, and felt a prickle of uneasiness when Joe only shook his head, knuckles pale where they were wrapped around the back of the empty metal chair across from Snart.

Barry flipped forward in the file. The next few pages were background on Snart, with no major changes from what Barry had expected. He was familiar with Snart’s rap sheet already, and the psychological profile they’d drawn up on him was about as accurate as a tabloid horoscope. He did feel an old pang of guilt when he passed a memo noting the unexplained disappearance of Snart’s electronic files, but it was getting easier to brush that feeling aside every time.

Unsurprisingly, the medical records from Iron Heights were sparse. Several pages were entirely blank, but there was a scribbled correction stapled to the bottom of one, noting, of all things, a severe food allergy to pineapples. Barry couldn’t help but grin at that; for such a mundane detail, it had apparently only recently been wrested from Snart, and with great effort. 

He skimmed the rest of Snart's section. It was obvious that—tropical fruit allergies aside—the FBI knew less about Snart than he did. He pulled up short, however, when he turned to the next section and found another photograph clipped into the file.

“What is this?” He looked up at the answering silence, but Snart avoided his gaze, and Joe crossed his arms with obvious discomfort. “Joe?”

“Bartholomew," Snart interrupted, before Joe could answer, and Barry looked over at him in surprise. Snart gave him a slow, knowing smirk. “It is Bartholomew, isn’t it?” 

No one had ever said his full name with such obvious relish, and Barry seriously considered throwing back a Lenny just to see how he liked it. But he caught himself in time, and he bit back an exasperated sigh.

“How do you know my name?” he asked. 

It wasn’t very convincing, and a flicker of annoyance crossed Snart’s expression, obviously displeased that he wasn’t playing along with proper enthusiasm. Then the smirk was back, and Snart leaned back in his seat with an air of indifference. 

Barry watched him suspiciously; he looked far too in control of the whole situation despite being the one handcuffed to the table.

“Feds didn’t tell me much,” Snart said. “But this…” He dragged his gaze down and back up Barry’s body in a long, appraising look. “This, I can work with.” 

“Joe,” Barry repeated, pointedly ignoring Snart. There was a slightly hysterical edge to his voice, though, and Joe sighed and unfolded his arms. 

“What do you know about the Morellos?” 

Barry blinked; whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. The name was vaguely familiar, and it took him a few moments to put together where he’d heard it before. 

“They’re an East Coast crime family,” he said, slowly. He looked to Joe for confirmation, and Joe nodded. “They practically ran Metropolis during Prohibition. Not much from them, since? I think they’re still active, but… they’ve mostly been pushed out by other Families.”

“Someone’s been listening to his podcasts.”

Joe didn’t so much as glance at Snart for the interruption, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Until recently, that was the case,” he said. “Members of the other Families have started dropping like flies, and the FBI thinks the Morellos are moving to take back power.”

Barry flipped through the file until he found a brief on the topic, and nodded for Joe to continue. 

“Last year, they worked out some kind of alliance with the Russian mob,” Joe said, “and now they control ninety percent of the heroin passing through Metropolis. The FBI couldn’t figure out what they were trading for that kind of power, until they realized the drug deals were lining up with major art thefts in the city.”

Barry glanced up from the brief, thrown by the apparent non-sequitur. “What would the Russians want with stolen art?”  

Snart snorted, and Barry turned to him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Universal value,” Snart explained. He swept his palms in a broad gesture, though it was restricted by the limited reach of the handcuffs. “Markets crash, currencies fall. A Picasso stays a Picasso. And canvas is easier to smuggle than gold.”

There was a certain logic to it, though Barry suspected it was a lot more complicated than Snart was making it sound.

“And, what, you’re involved with this?” he asked.

Snart actually looked insulted. “Drug trade’s a nasty business,” he said, a curl to his lip despite his light, almost bored tone. “Messy work. Lotta bribes, lotta bodies. Hard to make a profit when the product keeps killing your buyers. Not my scene.”

“What’s this got to do with you, then?” Barry asked. He pulled the second picture out of the folder and held it up. “Or me?”

It was a copy of the photo from his CCPD identification. It was a few years old—his hair was longer on top, his shoulders a little narrower—and Snart’s lips twitched in amusement.

“Cute,” he said. 

Barry rolled his eyes and slid the picture back into the file.  

“Snart’s managed to get it into the FBI’s head that he’d make a good criminal informant. Apparently, he’s an expert in modern abstract expressionism,” Joe said, the last part clearly a quote. When Barry turned to him, surprised, Joe only shrugged. “I know. Surprised me too.”

“Learn all kinds of interesting things in my line of work,” Snart said, picking idly at the edge of his handcuffs. “Ab Ex dominates the market, has for decades. Post-War’s always in style. It's easy. People get it.” 

His fingers didn’t curl around air quotes; they didn’t have to, his voice going vapid in a way that almost, almost pulled a smile out of Barry. Leonard Snart, closet art snob.

 “Unspeakable horrors,” Snart continued, with a lazy, ‘and so on’ twirl of his fingers. “Expressible only through feelings over form…” He circled the gesture back the other way, with momentarily distracting, long-fingered grace. “Yada-yada-yada. Modern art fan, Bartholomew?”

He was having too much fun with the name, and Barry gave him a flat look for it. 

“Barry.”

Snart’s lashes dipped on another once-over before he met his gaze again, eyes sharp and amused. “Pleasure.” 

Barry didn’t need the way Snart leaned hard on the word, drawing it out even as his lips curled up at one corner, to tell him he’d walked right into that trap.

Snart lifted one hand and twisted the cuffs to extend the other out toward him, as close to offering a handshake as he could manage. “Leonard Snart. At your service.”

Doubt it, Barry thought. But he bit back the comment and crossed his arms instead, folding his hands pointedly against his sides, then said, “Yeah. I know.”

Snart’s eyebrows lifted at the slight, and he lifted both hands in surrender. “Ouch.” He dropped his lashes on a private smirk just to flick his gaze back up again, not finished with the taunt yet. “Thought we might have something in common. Civilian to civilian.” 

Even the decades-old camera in the corner could probably pick up the amount of irony dripping from Snart’s voice, but Barry’s warning glance didn’t deter him in the least. 

“What with you being an employee of the CCPD,” Snart said, tilting one hand in Barry’s direction before curling his fingers back to indicate himself, “and me being an employee of the FBI…”  

“Criminal informant's not an employee.”

Barry didn’t jump at Joe’s correction, but it was a near thing. What was it about Snart that made it so easy to forget that there were other people in a room? 

“Tomato, tomato,” Snart drawled. He didn’t so much as glance in Joe’s direction, attention still trained on Barry. “Feds want me to infiltrate the local underground in Metropolis, see if I can't rustle up a few Morello 'associates.’” That time, he did curl his fingers in quotation marks around the word. “I pass along the names, the feds arrest them. Everybody goes home happy.” He paused, then added, “Morellos excluded.”

Barry was tempted to ask Snart how long he’d been waiting for him to ask, but he had more pressing questions. “And you agreed to help, what, out of the goodness of your heart?” 

Snart leaned across the table towards him with a dangerous smile, handcuffs scraping pointedly over the metal surface. 

“Let’s agree to disagree about the goodness of my heart,” he said, and any lingering concerns that Barry might've had about Snart might not know exactly who he was disappeared at the private gleam in his eyes over those words. “But no. Feds had a little chat with the District Attorney here in Central City. Detective West knows the details, but—“ He drummed his fingers on the table, then ticked his head toward one shoulder in a shrug. “Like I said. Everybody goes home happy.”

When Barry looked at Joe for clarification, Joe shifted his hands to his hips before pulling his glare away from Snart, one hand settling pointedly beside his gun.

“The Mayor of Metropolis reached out to our governor," Joe said. "They’re talking pardons.”  

“Yahtzee.”

There were a hundred follow-up questions Barry could’ve asked. But Snart was clearly still enjoying himself too, and Barry wasn't in the mood for more roundabout non-answers. So Barry turned his back on Snart and faced Joe head-on. 

“I still don’t understand,” he said. “What's my role here?” 

“For the record," Joe said, slowly, almost placatingly, "I told Singh this was a terrible idea.”

Joe hedging was never a good sign, and for the first time, Barry felt the stirrings of real apprehension in his chest.

“You told Singh what was a terrible idea?” 

[stalkurs]

❥ ℙ𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕤 ༒ 𝕊𝕙𝕖/ℍ𝕖𝕣

❥ 𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕥 ༒ 𝔸𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕔 𝕄𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟

   Living within a small fishing town as a ship captains daughter was an easy life. There was no king, or mayor, that taxed you, and the only time someone was required to purchase something was when one of the fishermen brought in only a few, tasty fish. Or when the traveling merchant came to town with a cart of new clothes, and crops, sometimes a chicken or two. Yet, sometimes the people of the town got boring, and repetitive. Seeing the same people doing the same things at the same times every single day could send someone crazy.

   Especially if said someone was an adventurous 20 year old woman named Y/N. Yet her yearn for adventure never got her far, as the village she lived in with her father was located on a small island north of Antarctica. Far enough they had decently cold winters, and hot but short summers. By the end of her 18th summer she had explored nearly all of the above ground, from the edge of the dense pine trees untouched by the village, to the highest she could walk on the cliff peak opposite said forest. The island was about a quarter size of those island, enough to support one village and walk from side to side within only 4 hours starting from the furthest beach.

   Living on the island was a lonely existence without friends or family, and the villagers knew this. With the lack of a prison building, people of wrong doing are were beat with brooms, and ones who committed the worst of all crimes were thrown into the ocean to fend for themselves. With no government to tell them otherwise this is what the village did in means of keeping themselves safe and alive. But of course, with also the lack of any law enforcement it caused the people to leave the punishments based off of democracy. This sometimes leads to an unfair judgement by the village, making an innocent man well framed die.

   This was the fate of a boy named Matthew Williams. A friend of Y/N, a friend she had know since she was born. He was her neighbor all through her child and teenage hood, settling in a deep place in her heart. So when he was framed for a murder of a small child only born yesterday, and decided to be thrown to the ocean, her heart broke. She knew he would have never done such a horrid act to the villagers.

   The day was gloomy, almost as if mother nature was grieving for a fallen child, rain plummeted to the ground. Two large and burly men charged into the Williams home, despite the screams and pleas of his mother and little sister, they pulled the young man out of his home. His struggling left a trail in the muddy paths, leading to the docks where two men stood. Y/N father and on of his friends, a small fishing boat floating next to the creaky dock. Knowing about the event taking place Y/N had woken early, and stood quietly next to her father.

Hot tears falling down her face as she watched her friend being drug to his death. As she was noticed his pleas for freedom died down as he stared at her with sad and pleading eyes.

"Y/N please! Tell them, you know I would never do this! Please!"

She turned her head away as she wiped her face with the sleeve of her light parka, pulled the hood down so the fur lining hid her tired and glossy eyes. Seeing the betrayal Matthew went silent as he was lifted into the boat and had his hands tied together behind his back. By now over half of the village parents had gathered around, the women wrapping their sleep robes tightly around their frame, few holding their trembling children close to their sides. Others peaked outside their frosty windows, watching as the young man was being prepared for death. When the boys engine started the men and Y/N climbed into the dirty boat, Y/N sitting in front of her childhood friend.

She set a hand on his knee, rubbing her thumb across the top of his knee as they both sobbed. Within a minute of the boat ride she moved next to him, holding onto his underdressed and trembling form.

"I'm so sorry.. I couldn't do anything."

Her eyes became glossy and wet with upcoming tears.

"I'm sorry."

He moved so his head was resting in the nook of her neck as an attempt to comfort the heartbroken girl. They stayed like that for just a moment before they both lurched forwards because of a sudden stop from the boat. The motor noises slowly dulling down till they were nothing but silence.

"God damn old thing! Can't get nothin' done!" Y/N's father yelled.

He leaned over the back of the boat by his waist, slamming his fist on the side of the motor, causing large ripples in the water and any nearby fish to quickly swim away. Y/N sniffled, her cheeks and nose bright red against her pale and cold form. She glanced out to the water, the noises of her fathers anger a distant noise blurred by her mind as she focused onto the dark and calm waves. The sight of a fairly transparent fish similar to many normal fish caused her to jerk and quickly stand. Nearly falling off the other side of the small boat but catching herself and sitting.

The commotion got her family friends attention as he gave a strange look towards the young girl.

"Girl you okay there? You look like you just saw a ghost." He scooted closer. "Maybe the cold is gettin' to ya."

She frantically shook her head as she saw the fin expose fully along with part of the back it was attached to. A deep blue and slightly transparent skin with opaque black stripes quickly made its way towards the boat, and within a blink of an eye here father was gone. The only evidence of his disappearance being the large splash and ripples next the motor, along with sparse bubbles. In a panic the mans friend rushed over and made the same mistake of leaning over the edge as he ran his hand in the water. The man too was grabbed within a split second and pulled under, this time a red color colored the naturally dark water behind him.

Y/N screamed and began to sob at the sudden event.

"Y/N! Y/n! There's no time to cry! Grab the knife in the tackle box and untie me! Quick!" Matthew yelled, taking the lead of survivor.

Weakly nodding she followed his order, opening the messy tackle box and retrieving the hunting knife, beginning to saw at the cloth ropes with the dull and bloody knife. Blurring out the sounds of bubbles and aggressive splashing coming from most likely the monster in the water. Once the restraints were removed he grabbed Y/N by her arm and pulled her to the middle of the already small boat, continuing to mush themselves together.

"We need to stay in the middle. Its the safest place from that thing, plus we need to conserve body heat."

She nodded and removed her already overly large coat, draping it over both of them, more onto Matthew due to him being out here without any proper warm clothing longer.

_____________________

The monster made no other attempts to get at the two in the boat, only every now and then bumping the sides of the tinted green boat. The two cold young adults had also yet to see the thing harassing them, the closest they getting to see being the back and the back fin. It was beginning to get dark, and the friends were beginning to get tired. They had moved to lay on the floor of the boat, both curled up with their limbs intertwined, the coat draped over them. Each side held tightly to prevent a large gust of wind from coming through and essentially causing their death by making the clothing fly away.

Their eyes began to droop and they both fell asleep within a few minutes of each other.

By the time Y/N woke it was by angry splashing and masculine screams. Taking a moment to process what was happening she jumped up and over to the edge where a tail was flailing around and she could see Matthews bloodied and dismembered body floating. Letting out a fearful scream the monster quickly calmed and peaked its head out of the surface of the water, staring at the woman with hungry eyes. She sobbed as she jerked back and listened to what Matthew had said before, sitting in the middle of the boat. Despite her placement it seemed to not effect the monster at all, as it simply grabbed the side and began to yank it down.

Making Y/N scrambled to the opposite side the monsters long and clawed hands. Within no time the boat got enough water in it that it no longer evened out, and now began to sink to the right end. Despite her attempts the monster grabbed her ankle and yanked her body, pulling her into the frigid waters and against its slimy coated body. It let out a gleeful clicking noise similar to an orca as it drives down despite her wiggling and fight. Her attempts to hold her breath was futile as she eventually attempts to breath, instead being greeted with a harsh burning in her nose and empty feeling in her chest. Along with a feeling of panic in the bottom of her stomach as her vision began to become speckled by black dots. As her vision turned black multiple white fish fished figures filled her field of vision and her body went limp in the monsters arms.

[supervillain-smut]

Hoss we about Captain Cold being a little too warm 😉 and decides that being naked with you is more fun

Thank you ☺️

"Fuck! Oh, god!" Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold, and your boyfriend, groaned for the 15th time in about an hour. "Too hot, fuck I'm too hot! WHY IS IT SO HOT IN HERE?! MICK! I'M BLAMING YOU!" Len shouted loud enough so hopefully Mick could hear him while he was working on the AC in the backyard of your shared house.

"YEAH, YEAH, I KNOW! YOU TOUCH THE THERMOSTAT ONE DAMN TIME, AND NOW IT'S YOUR FAULT IT'S BROKEN!" Mick yelled back, throwing a bolt at the window he'd regret throwing later as he'd have to find it in the grass.

You, however, sat relatively cool in front of a box fan working its hardest, peeking over at the two men every time they spoke or made a noise. Apparently, this time Len had accepted the AC would take longer than him getting heat stroke and chose to shed his iconic parka. A rare sight indeed. You took the time to admire Len in his joggers and black thermal shirt. The shirt was tight to his body, to effectively trap his body heat, but its main purpose right now was leaving very little to the imagination of his torso.

Len was no Olympic athlete; no six-pack to be found on the Rogue who did almost nothing but sit around planning heists, drinking beer, and watching the latest hockey game until there was action to be had. He was no slob when it came to him and his body, personal hygiene included. His outline from his shoulders to his waist still formed a V, and his arms got enough work holding that cryo-gun all the time, let alone his strong legs from constantly moving around to avoid getting hit while trying to hit back. He was soft and comfortable, while still being fit for his job. It was perfect for you to lay on him but now wasn't the time.

You had shed your own long-sleeved shirt and joggers that were usually required when living with the Captain Cold, and had traded them for a tank top and shorts; they'd shrunk in the wash last time James did laundry, so you were fighting to keep them covering your butt completely. "Babe, can you grab me a water from the fridge? I'm dying over here." Len always asked you so nicely for things. He mostly liked to spoil you, so asking was a big deal for him.

"Sure, Len. I was just about to grab one anyway." You fibbed as you got up and sauntered to the fridge, feeling eyes on you the whole way, especially when you had to crouch to reach the coldest ones on the bottom shelf. When you turned back around, you stopped in your tracks at what was in front of you. Len, while you were busy, had taken off the thermal and was now sitting leaning back on the couch bare-chested and patting his face dry with a damp towel. You walked over and handed the water bottle to him.

"Thanks, babe, you're the best. Could you maybe do one more thing while you're up?" "Sure, Len." "Could you run this under cold water again?" "Yeah, of course." You had to stop yourself from muttering or whispering your responses as you grabbed the towel and ran it under the faucet, wringing it out so it wasn't soaked, and handed it back to Len, who pulled you into his lap for a quick kiss. As much as you loved the sight and feel of him half-naked, the sweat was not a great feeling, and you really wanted to get back to your fan, so you brought your cold water bottle to the back of his neck.

This, however, backfired when Len straightened up for a second in shock before letting out a moan. "Oh, that feels so good..." The sentence had sent a wave of heat straight to your core, and you tried to laugh off the awkward feeling. Len pulled you even further into his lap and leaned his head back into the water bottle to cool down. "I hate this heat. I wanna just strip and lay on an ice block. Anything would be better than this." Len groaned.

"Why don't you put that cold gun to good use?" You suggested, gesturing to the weapon sitting on the workbench. "I told you, the gun's not a power to abuse. Besides, it's going to leave an even bigger mess once the ice melts." "... What about a small layer? Wouldn't it just evaporate after some time? We could lightly frost the bed and just lay on it." Len looked at you amused for a moment before he changed to thought. "You know what, that would work; and it sounds like a capital idea. Come on." Len said as he got up after you and grabbed the gun, following you up to your shared room, his eyes never leaving your ass.

As soon as you were both inside, you shut the door only to squeak in surprise as Len pinned you against the door, attacking your neck with kisses. "Fuck, those shorts look so good on you. Just can't keep my hands to myself. You want me to stop, now's the time to say so." Len panted as he looked you in the eyes and loosened his grip on your wrists, giving you space and wiggle room; neither of which you wanted.

"Stop? I say go. Why don't we put that bed idea into action?" You spoke in a sultry tone as you gently pushed him backward towards the bed. "Fuck, I love you." Len breathed as he turned around long enough to lightly frost the bed, immediately throwing you onto it, and dropping the cold gun on the floor. You gasped at the sudden cold as Len climbed over you, resuming his attack on your neck.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and he began to grind into you half-erect. Len's hand drifted lower and lower down your body before pulling your panties to the side and dipping a finger into your heat, curling it. "Fuck! Len!" You cried out as he delved another finger past your folds. "That's it. You're being so good for me."

He continued to finger you for a while, and just when you felt that coil starting to tighten, he stopped. "Len! No! Please, don't stop!" "Sorry, darling, I have to if you want me to fuck you properly. You want me to fuck you, or do you wanna come like this?" You lay there panting as you thought. "I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me, Len." "Atta girl. Come here." Len kissed behind your ear as he pulled his boxers down and pumped himself a few times, a bead of pre-cum spilling from the tip before he pushed into you with a groan.

"Fuck, you feel so good. All mine. So beautiful and perfect, just for me." Len groaned into your ear as he pushed in until he couldn't anymore. He slowly drew back until just his tip was sheathed, then slammed back into you, nearly knocking the wind out of you with pleasure. You locked your ankles around his hips, encouraging him to set a steady pace as he fucked into you.

the smell and sound of sex filled the room as you went at it, coaxing a few orgasms out of each other, not noticing the temperature cooling as Mick had fixed the air conditioner. By the time you were both spent, you were shivering. Len pulled you into him and kissed the top of your head. "Here, lemme go get your robe. Keep you warm until you wanna get dressed." Len said as he pulled his joggers on, commando underneath, he left and quickly returned with your favorite fluffy bathrobe and helped you into it before climbing into bed and scooping you towards him, nestling your face into his neck as he massaged circles into your hip and lower back.

[lindsaystravelblogs5]

Days 12-14 The North Pole!!

Saturday

I doubt if anyone but me noticed it, but for the first time in history, my blog was up to date when I went to bed last night.  (Yet another first for this expedition!!!)  I can’t promise that it will ever happen again, but this voyage is quite unlike any of the others we have done, with a bit more personal time, so we will live in hope. (Having said that it might never happen again, I have great hopes that I will achieve it again in the next couple of hours!)

It was a relatively quiet day today, dull and overcast all day, with the temperature hovering between about minus three and minus eight.  Despite this, there were plenty of smaller activities to engage the plebs, and as plebs, we enjoyed a few of them.  The daily challenge is a little highlight of my day, and so far, I think we have only lost a total of three points in the six or seven challenges they have had so far – and some are REALLY challenging.  We didn’t spend much time on deck today, but we certainly needed our parkas when we were out in the elements.

We had a couple of lectures and an ‘exposition’ of this amazing ship by the captain and chief engineer (that I almost missed because I fell asleep in our cabin).  I won’t say much more about the ship because if anyone read my Antarctic blog last year, I think I described quite a bit about the ship, its features and its amazing electronic artwork (lindsaystravelblogs1.tumblr.com – Antarctica from Argentina).

There was also a very special brunch today, with the chef delivering an amazing array of food in the ‘posh’ restaurant – our usual slightly less formal ‘cafeteria’ being closed for the occasion.  The food was extraordinary but like almost all French cuisine, much too rare for my taste.  I have also commented before on the wine – all French (but of course, Monsieur) – a poor imitation of the wines we have grown to love in Australia and South America.  But still, someone needs to keep the French wine industry afloat, and I reckon they owe us a medal.

We have had a little more snow today, all very fine flakes and not a lot of it, although the table on our balcony had a couple of centimetres on it this morning.  Amazingly, we have had no bad weather at all – a bit windy at times, but not a soul could complain of even a twinge of mal de mer!

During tonight’s recap, they told us that our reaching the Polar Point of Inaccessibility had been officially recorded in the annals of maritime achievements.  They promised to give us a copy of the official record and I will post a photo when we receive it. (It arrived next day. See the last paragraph under the Arctic heading.)

The ice continues to fascinate me.  It is not really possible to show photos of it but, apart from its exquisite beauty, its physical properties, and the way it moves and interacts with nearby areas of ice, is mesmerising.  As the ship ploughs through, the thin grey ice-film on the surface (the ice that has very recently frozen due to the frigid air) is barely interrupted – I imagine it must disappear under the ship.  But the metre or two of pristine white ice, churns and cracks and bustles its neighbours, roiling the water and turning turtle, cracking and breaking almost like the five and six metre ice in the Antarctic.  We stand on our balcony and watch until it gets too cold, but it is quite phantasmagorical.  The wonders of nature.

During the recap, one of the scientists told us about their intention to leave a case of scientific instruments on the ice when we leave the North Pole on Monday.  These instruments will measure the ice depth and temperature gradient through the ice, as well as the depth and pressure below the ice, continuously over the next few months.  All the ice is continuously moving and as the ice on which the case is left heads towards the Atlantic Ocean, it will slowly melt, and the case will eventually sink to the bottom of the sea.  They have done similar experiments over a few years and the ice has always taken the same course until it melts somewhere near the northern end of Iceberg Alley, and they expect this case will follow suit - does that make it a suitcase?   We all had the opportunity to write our names on the case so when it sinks, a little bit of us will sink with it.  We both inscribed our names on it so when it goes down to the depths, we will go down in history. 

Just in case........

Sunday – 15 September – the North Pole

We awoke this morning to the most amazing sight - a very rare phenomenon.  The captain made an announcement that we should all look out on the port side to see the Sun Dog, or parhelion - an amazing view of the sun pillar between what looked like two segments of a rainbow.  It persisted for a few hours and is caused by the sun shining through, and being refracted by, ice crystals.  As the sun rose higher, the mini-rainbows faded slightly, but appeared to spread further apart and extend further along the ‘bow’.  I read that the distance from the sun to its associated rainbow parentheses is around 22 degrees.  It was an incredible phenomenon that lasted for quite some hours until it became lost in the fog.  

Of course, the highlight of the day was reaching the top of the world - the Geographic North Pole.   It was a huge event, and we were all summoned out to the helicopter deck with the captain broadcasting that he was not crossing to the North Pole until we were all on deck - not that he had any way of knowing if we were all there or not.  There certainly was a huge crowd of passengers and staff with the countdown from 89 degrees, 59 minutes and 50 seconds to the magical 90.00.00 degrees being broadcast to huge anticipation, and then acclamation, from the entire assemblage.  For almost all of us, it was a lifetime of wonder and anticipation coming to pass in a magic moment.   There was a long blast on the ship’s horn (followed by several more a little later), with a long line of flares being lit, and much singing and dancing.  The helicopter was parked to one side and there was a quarantined area in the middle of the deck that opened, and the helicopter elevator slowly rose, covered in tables crammed with glasses of French champagne and many kilos of black caviar – all to be consumed by the excited horde.  (The helicopter is normally housed below deck and the deck opens up and the elevator platform lifts the helicopter into position for its deployment - but they made better use of the device today.) The captain has been beside himself with excitement all day. (He has the enthusiasm of a roomful of little kids, and it is completely infectious. He has really added enormously to this trip - in complete contrast to the captain of the same ship we were on in the Antarctic!) He made a short speech to commemorate the occasion before popping the cork on a magnum of bubbles (using a short sword in the traditional way) and spraying all who were close enough to cop it. Then we all got into the champagne and caviar with great elan! What an event!!!

I tried to photograph the screen on Deck 5 when the ship was at exactly 90 degrees North but missed it by a few seconds.  Because the ice is always moving, it is almost impossible to hold a ship in an exact position for more than a couple of seconds.  (As an example, during our first walk on the ice a couple of days ago, the ship and the entire enormous icefloe to which we were tethered moved 1.7 kilometres south, despite them keeping the engines running throughout to stabilise the ship. And overnight last night, the ship moved about 17 kilometres, despite being embedded in the huge icefloe.)  Once the celebrations died down a little, the ship moved to a better position for our afternoon landing, and I was watching the screen as the ship nudged westward to its new position.  Because we were so close to the Pole, the lines of meridian are very close together and as I watched, the screen showed us moving from 50 degrees East to 22 degrees West (almost a third of the way around the world) within about a minute.  I wonder how many other people have observed that in the last few thousand years? Certainly less than I could count on my fingers. From the North Pole, every direction is south!

They let down the gangway on to the ice so everyone could enjoy a few hours off the ship during the afternoon. It snowed most of the day, often a bit heavier than on previous days, but almost everyone went out for some time. The Chinese, in particular, revelled in it, jumping around, lying in it, and taking tens of thousands of photos - probably hundreds of thousands.

The crew set up some items in the snow to focus the photography and we indulged ourselves too for an hour or so. We posted some postcards in the international letterbox (I wonder what stamps will appear on them) and posed at the signpost showing distances to many places around the world. Interestingly, no matter which way the signpost pointed every single destination was due south from our location. The only Australian destination on the signpost was Sydney at 13,773 kilometres away.

We also posed with a fake walrus and polar bear and several of the signs, as well as tasting a couple of hot drinks and helping to eat the profiteroles outlining a giant '90' on the snow. There was also a ginormous '90' outlined in rope, and all the passengers lined the rope for a photo demonstrating our position. The whole team had worked hard to make the occasion unforgettable, and they really excelled themselves. We only stayed out in the cold for an hour or so, but then stood freezing on the deck, watching the scientists take their case of instruments out on the ice, at least fifteen hundred metres by my guess, until they were mere dots in a world of ice. It took them ages to set it all up out there and we got very cold watching them through my telephoto lens, but they eventually abandoned their treasure with our inscribed names (just another tiny bit of history in which we both featured) and returned to the ship. They wanted to take it well away from the edge of the floe in case pieces broke off and they lost it before it gave them much data.

Leaving the case behind. At least a kilometre and a half out on the ice and at the extreme limit of my telephoto to even focus on them.

The nightly recap was interesting with a lot of avid passengers enormously excited about their day on the ice. Some of the more sensible ones (like us) enjoyed watching the ice, rather than lying in it or trudging through forty centimetres of snow, and freezing in the process, but the whole day was great fun and had a great sense of achievement about it.

Monday

We have stayed on board all day today, blogging and doing quite a few little tasks that had accumulated over the past week - never a quiet moment when there is work to be done. The daily challenge was two extremely difficult Sudokus that took ages to complete, but at least we got them done eventually to keep our reasonably good record intact.

A lot of people are out in the cold, enjoying their exercises at the North Pole, but we stayed warm inside and just watched from time to time. Santa called in on a sled (we think his reindeer were on holiday somewhere warmer) and lots of people were photographed with him. He exhorted several of them to eat their vegetables, or to clean their teeth every day, even to drink more milk - all good things in themselves, but he also regretted that so many people didn't believe in him these days and that made him sad.

A few more people did the Polar Plunge - in a big hole chain-sawed out of the ice. They had to keep skimming the ice that kept forming on the surface, so it was certainly cold.

I am going to post this now and if there is anything more to report from the rest of the day, I will start with that tomorrow.

[unknownjpegs]

420

“I can’t.”

“You can. It’s, what, forty minutes?”

“Matilda —“

“You are so strong, I believe in you.” 

Matilda shakes Nomi from her arm, but still keeps the distance between them minimal. Their shoulders brush, and the shared body heat isn’t just welcome but necessary. The dock is more than chilly; with the salty wind whipping around them, the prickle of oncoming rain, it’s downright freezing. 

They could have gotten any other ferry to the island, Nomi whines. Any other captain. But this one she apparently had history with. Matilda tried not to be too annoyed about that. The fact that Nomi had secrets she wasn't aware of; the second Matilda got information, it became Nomi's info too.

“I will bloody die.” Nomi hisses quietly, her fingernails squeezing Matilda’s forearm through her fluffy parka. “He asked me what position was best, Matilda. Not like in a —general sort of way, but like for me, y’know? Because he hadn’t been with —babe, you don’t get it. He was being thoughtful and like, inclusive! I can't.”

Matilda considers this. “Alright, yeah. Fine. I would probably lock him up somewhere. But if it wasn’t a weird goodbye…it should be fine. Just be normal. It's forty minutes of being normal.”

“I can’t be normal!” Nomi whines. It’s just loud enough that their soon-to-be captain, and a rare former Nomi hookup, peeks his head out of the cabin door. 

“Alright?” He asks. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, smiling slightly. “I’ve got the space heater on, if you’d prefer inside. But if it’s — I mean privacy’s fine, hey? Don’t want to intrude.” His accent is rougher than Nomi’s, which Matilda has always found enviably pretty. Working class attractive in a way Matilda respects. Matilda watches him hold hands up, palms to them in surrender. Nice hands, too.

“Or, we could swap if you’re chattin’ business? I’ll come out here, won’t listen in. And then you’ve got the heat to yourselves?” 

Okay, sure. Matilda gets it. But he's a little too cutesy for her taste, even still. She blinks at him and then glances down at Nomi, who has fully turned around to assess the horizon across the flat, navy darkness of the water. The tips of her ears are pink. Definitely definitely not from the chill. 

“Thanks, captain.” Matilda laughs and offers him a two finger salute from the temple. “Be okay for now, I think. Once we get the go ahead to leave let us know and we’ll come inside.”

Where they’re bundled, gloves and scarves and hoods, he’s only in a long canvas jacket — used to this sort of open-water cold. He looks a bit skinhead with the green trench coat and combat boot vibes, but the smattering of colorful tattoos on his forearms and silly graphic t-shirt counteract it well. 

He nods,tucks his hands into his pockets. Matilda clocks it more nerves than the need for warmth. “Sound, sound. Uh. Nomi, sorry. I’ve still got Geico, so—you can feed him if you’d like. Okay, I’ll just —just go wait, s’pose.”

Once he disappears back down into the cabin, Matilda turns to her. “You met his dog?”

Face in her leather gloved hands, Nomi mumbles: “It’s a gecko, actually.” 

*

(It’s a cute one too, she supposes. For a gecko. They all look sort of creepy and slimy to her. She hates that they don’t blink.)

The interior of the ship is mostly dated with old appliances and decor; orange-stained wood and brass knobs. Lining the walls are squares of lighter color wallpaper than the rest, each marked at the top with a punched hole or strips of lingering adhesive. At the tiny kitchenette, he’s pulled an extra two chairs beside the booth to bolt down.

As he and Nomi make stilted, awkward catch-up banter, Matilda assesses the rest of the cabin. The hems of each curtain (pattern from the nineties) are hand-sewn, slightly crooked but with an intricate stitch that she assumes requires skill or patience, and the captain seems to lack the latter. They brush the tops of counters polished to shine; the whole interior smells of something citrusy but not chemical, on top that lingered around men who lived alone. 

It wasn’t bad; he was certainly more organized and less crusty than most boat drivers, or whatever. Sea captains. She wasn’t sure if Nomi had been using her standards or head for this one, but at least he was cute.

“The couple who owned your boat before—“ her partner and the captain pause the middle of their conversation. Matilda trails off, assessing the pink on both their cheeks with an eye roll. “What happened?”

“Uh.” He rubs the back of his head, but there’s no charmingly sheepish smile or shy look. “Well, it was my nonna’s, and — it’s sort of a long story, but I got it here from Palermo so that was a fuckin’ fortune.”

That the boat was second-hand, had previously been in the care of more than one owner, and a couple at that— all a guess. Matilda got them right often.

Nomi’s a compact shape in the corner of the booth. Her forehead leans against the warm glass of the gecko’s enclosure. At even the slightest mention of something sentimental, her mouth fixes into a soft frown, eyebrows pulled up in the center. 

Matilda scrunches her nose, catching her gaze before offering a tiny shake of her head. Down, girl. Relax.

“Why’d you take their pictures down?” 

Maran’s demeanor shifts then. His broad shoulders tighten closer to his ears. He breaks eye contact with her, instead focusing on the water churning outside the window. 

“Like I said, it’s a long story.” His fingers drum on the table, pick at each other, then settle in his lap. “Definitely too long for the trip.”

“It’s still, what, an hour?”

“Depending.”

“On the weather?” 

Maran nods at her question, and seems to have relaxed a bit from the personal line of inquiry. She makes a mental note to revisit it — not because of the case or relevant information, but she figures she ought to glean whatever she can from him, given Nomi’s involvement.

“And how’s the weather been, lately?”

“I’m not from the area.” The young man clarifies. “I’m here escortin’ a pal while he’s on a job up this way. But…” he makes a strange face, eyes misting almost forgetful before they snap back into the moment. “It’s been weird. Inconsistent? It was almost eighty when we left this morning, around nine.”

“Eighty degrees?” Nomi glances at Matilda. “I’m assuming that’s Fahrenheit, yeah? But — that’s warm, isn’t it?”

“For the season and where we are? It’s pretty unheard of. Other sailors are guessing some sort of record-breaking wind pattern down south, but they’re not sure.” He shrugs. “With what’s goin’ on, though, it seems like the least of peoples’ worries.”

Matilda’s heard about some of the recent misfortune to befall the island. That’s why they’re here, anyway. Not long ago, a yong woman was apparently murdered. News hadn’t got back to the mainland for quite awhile. Long enough that some distant relatives had (for reasons behooving their own standing or not) gotten in contact with the press. 

Matilda and Nomi had intercepted the tip to the editor just a day before Benji had texted with the story himself.And both of course agreed they could do more with their (not always legally obtained) resources and less stuffy ethics than some small town paper. More spread on the internet, anyway. And according to Saha, their views weren’t bottled, they maintained a good engagement ratio, and even their long form content was largely watched start-to-finish. 

They weren’t the news, but if the news wasn’t covering some young woman’s incredibly mysterious murder in a small isolated community, then maybe the news was shit. 

*

Judging from how long it takes Nomi to end her conversation when they finally arrive on the island, Matilda will need to be keeping a sharper eye on the captain.

She lets her have a bit of time, naturally.

She watches as Nomi gets tucked between him, the awning of the cabin door, and the strong gusts of wind. To think that he’d said it was eighty degrees that same morning seems like a joke. Matilda glares at his fuzzy head; he can’t see Nomi’s face, but his is right there. And she has to admit, there’s a distinctly good-boy charm when that grin comes out, creasing his cheeks and bringing out a divot on one side. To his credit, he seems completely enraptured by whatever Nomi says to him. 

She almost feels bad interrupting, it’s so cute.

“Noms.” Matilda calls over the sound of the waves lapping against boats, the screech of birds who she very much would like not to shit on her coat. “Please.”

At first, Nomi only reaches behind her back and flaps a hand dismissively. When Matilda calls out again, she shoots a petrifying glare over her shoulder. Don’t make me do it, babe, Matilda thinks at the back of her head. She watches as the wind pulls at the cute little black beret Nomi’d selected for their trip. The captain catches it, his palm covering the back of her head. Over the sounds of the pier, Matilda hears the sharp, flustered snort of a laugh from her best friend. Mournfully, she decides drastic measures must be taken.

“Noms. I would really like to go inside somewhere warm, please.” She taps her foot, crosses her arms, and sighs. “Or I guess we can recount the Cabo case? With that crooked five-star resort manager and the hidden cameras? And the seafood restaurant followed by margaritas followed by you talking enthusiastically about wanting to—“

Nomi reaches her just in time, going up to her tiptoes to slap a gloved hand over Matilda’s mouth. It’s lucky she does, because the rest of the sentence comes out absolutely unfiltered. 

*

They’re staying in a small two-story off the east side of the island. It’s a quieter, less densely packed portion of lush dry grass. Maybe a hundred yard down to the lapping water. The beach beyond is partially rock, partially coarse gray sand. Everything about Innsmouth seems gray, to Matilda. The sky, the clouds, the dirt. Peoples’ clothing seemed to be more subdued. She figured that was because it was all built for purpose and utility rather than looks, but Christ. A good emerald green wouldn’t do any of the homely islanders harm, for fuck’s sake. 

They’re splitting the second story bedroom. It’s not a quality rental, just a fistful of cash handed to the traveling scholar who occupies the entire downstairs. Warm, though, and the view out onto the ocean isn’t totally awful. She’d rather be in Cabo.

Nomi scoffs when she shares that thought aloud. “Well, right, wouldn’t we all? S’fine though babe. We’ll get the mum’s side and some pictures. See if Benji can’t get us a bit of an inside scoop, and all’s done.” She snaps, blows on her fingers, and then makes a tiny firework in her air. She looks so cute doing it that Matilda pauses from her unpacking and strides over to take her face. 

“You are so out of that guy’s league. Run away with me, forget him, we’ll get eloped for tax benefits.” Matilda smolders at her dramatically, lip between her teeth. “I can show you the world, girl.” 

Nomi accepts the kisses laid over her cheeks and forehead with stuttering laughter, swatting and elbowing at Matilda until she’s freed. 

*

Their good mood sours quickly. 

The dead girl’s mother looks six feet under herself. Her straw colored hair is in a more-than-messy bun. It frizzes out of a tie that looks tangled. Her eyes are puffy and yet sunken into her face at the same time. And she tries to smile when she opens the door, but looking between Nomi and Matilda must do something to her. Her face crumples almost instanaously, tears springing to her eyes. 

“Oh. The reporters?” Her hands wring in front of her chest, then lift to press to her cheeks. “Oh, goodness. You’re both so lovely. My God, just about her age.”

Nomi, largely incredibly uncomfortable with strangers’ displays of emotion,  steps slightly towards Matilda. Their shoulders brush, their fingers intertwine and squeeze. Please take this one. 

“Yes, Mrs. Laun. I’m Rachel and this is Jen. We’re with the North Star Tribune? We spoke on the phone.” Matilda steps over the threshold, reaching for the grieving woman’s hands. “Oh my gosh, I just — I-I know this probably isn’t professional, but I’m so sorry for your loss.”

As Matilda leads her towards the sitting room and a threadbare couch, Nomi follows on the outskirts of the interaction. She stands next to a bookcase in the corner rather than join what is quickly becoming a hug circle.

“The fact that you even know about my Sarah is comforting.” She sniffles. “We’ve gotten nothing from them up here. Those fucking — oh, goodness. I’m sorry. I really— no. You know what? No, I do mean it. Fuck Harrison. Fuck the rest of them. You want to hear about it? I’ll tell you what really happened after they found her.”

Matilda and Nomi share a glance, eyebrows raised. Nomi pulls her phone out to record, and Matilda retrieves her notepad and fuzzy-topped pink pen.

*

An hour later, they stand in the center of Sarah’s room. Mrs. Laun closes the door behind them, goes to ‘start another kettle’. Matilda can hear her crying in the kitchen through the door. 

“Okay. Can I be real?”

“Please.” Nomi says, her big eyes shiny as they scan circles around the room. Neither of them move.

“This is creepy.” Matilda says, hand raised to gesture loosely at the dolls ringing the top of Sarah’s room. They’re all sorts — knit, stuffed, felt, porcelain. She hates every single one of their faces. 

Nomi is the first to step further in. She goes immediately to the desk, where a pile of college schoolwork and snack wrappers are scattered. 

“It’s weird. But kinda cool. She obviously knew what she liked and owned it.” Nomi says. She retrieves a tiny thumb drive from her sleek camera bag and plugs it into Sarah’s laptop. 

“You still kind of suck for selling data of victims.”

“I comb through it for anything really personal!” Nomi whispers defensively. “And keep your voice down. I don’t want that poor woman to know she has a couple of charlatans under her roof.”

Matilda crosses to the armoire. It looks like an antique, but someone — probably Sarah— has painted over the beautiful wood with a raspberry red. It’s chipping in several places, stained by makeup and other mysterious products in others. 

“She’s got one of those little— oh, look. Cute.” Matilda points to a display of pretty gemstones, a few vases, a chalice and incense holder. “She did like the witchy stuff. Hope this isn’t a karma-counterhex-rule of three bites you in the ass sort of situation.”

“Matilda.” Nomi admonishes. “The girl’s dead.”

She holds up her hands. “I’m just sayin’. It’s definitely not real, but I’m not fucking with it anyway.”

And despite their commentary as they pick through Sarah’s room for clues, they do stay respectful. It goes unspoken, but lingers in the air between them; the girl’s dead. Her youthfulness lingers in every corner. The stuffed animals on her bed, one of which looks like a teddy Nomi’s had for ages. The stack of journals and sketchbooks on her nightstand, which looks eerie similar to Matilda’s own with its myriad of half-finished water bottles. 

The girl’s dead, but not here. They’re standing in a room that bursts to the brim with energy, with the remnants of life. It’s harrowing to piece together what a girl Sarah Laun was — and the sort she wouldn’t grow to be. Privately, as she scans the titles of several books on monsters and art and queer cinema, Matilda thinks they might have gotten along in another life. It makes her sad to think about, so she turns to pick through the nightstand. Nomi can’t see the little tear that she swipes off her cheek, that way.

“She liked reading.”

“Nerd.” Matilda says, thumbing through a stack of loose-leaf notebook paper. In the back of a drawer is a pink stashbox. Immature, but probably the only one Sarah had ever used. Matilda holds onto a few things from her teenage years, too. And just that other point of camaraderie shared between a dead girl and one still breathing is enough to make her pause, address the stab of pain in her chest. 

“Should we take this before mom finds it?”

Nomi glances up from the monitor, where she’s already cracked the login. Her reading glasses are perched on her nose, even though she sits about six inches from the blue glow anyway.

“Wassit, just weed?” She smiles softly. “Nah, leave it. Give her a few years and it’ll be a nice, oh that little shit moment for her, yeah?”

Matilda does put it back, but not before lifting one of the pre rolls within. “Tonight for Sarah?”

Nomi rolls her eyes and goes back to her work, but she shrugs. 

Tonight for Sarah.

*

Later that night, just as the clock’s about to hit one a.m., Matilda shoots upright from her prone position on the floor. Her brown eyes are red-rimmed, lids heavy, but they widen into massive pools of shock when the contents of the page. It’s not handwriting or doodles or poorly spaced sad-girl poetry in typewriter font. No — the packet Matilda holds in her hands is printed on heavy, expensive-feeling paper. There’s a logo in the top left corner, but no company name. And the stark red word stamped on the front reads: CONFIDENTIAL. FOR AUTHORIZED INDIVIDUALS ONLY.

“Oh, that little shit.” She breathes, and pats across the floor to wake Nomi’s snoring heap under the blanket. 

*

Sarah had been nice enough to include a hand drawn map to her stakeout location. Matilda almost doesn’t believe what she’s reading in the report — about the offshore drilling operation four miles off the island to the south. Well. That’s what Matilda pieces together from the document, at least. Entire paragraphs have been blacked out, entire pages, but the bare bones of the truth are there. Somehow, Sarah had become aware of something happening off the island. Something that she was obviously concerned with enough to have a stack of stolen confidential paperwork. And something she was worried enough about — secretive enough about — that she had to hide its existence. From who? 

“Why wouldn’t she tell someone?”

“Tell who?” Nomi scoffs. “The ugly cop with bad facial hair? You know these kinds of places have one bar.” She lifts a hand and twines her fingers together. “I bet they’re tight like this.”

“You’re not wrong, but still.” Matilda shakes the lock, staring up at the window above. Sarah’s stakeout location is an abandoned barn near the south side of the island. About a ten minute walk in the dead of night chill. “If something scummy is going on, why not get the EPA involved? Why not make the town aware?” She shakes her head. “It’s gotta be something good.”

“Or something really, really bad. Do you think we’re stupid for being out here this late alone?” Nomi asks, rubbing gloved hands up and down her arms. “I think that —“

“Fucker!” Matilda yells, tossing the lock against the door. “What kind of dork thinks to lock it? Like, just make it easy for me for once!”

“Try 4-2-0.”

“No.” Matilda says with a shake of her head. “I refuse to tarnish her reputation like that.”

And yet the lock clicks open.

*

Inside Sarah’s makeshift investigatory headquarters is…really nothing of note. There’s a sleeping bag in the far corner, a fishing pole propped under the window, and a pair of purple slip-on sandals near the tiny cast-iron stove. Sarah was a resourceful girl. Clever. Matilda doesn’t want to think about the fact that her shoes are still here. She hasn’t read the autopsy report yet— she doesn’t want to know if she was found without shoes. 

Knelt down by the sleeping bag, Matilda brushes aside the cover to find a copy of a smutty romance novel. The cover showcases a short-haired lady knight cradling one equally armored with long tendrils of golden braids. 

Her heart twists. Poor fucking kid. 

“There’s a lockbox up here. Real intricate thing — like a puzzle?” Nomi peeks her head over the loft. “Spiders were guarding it. Nearly pissed myself. “

“Throw it down. I’m not fucking with this, though. I’ve seen enough Hellraisers.”

Nomi carefully climbs down the ladder, stumbling on the last rung. Matilda catches her and inspects the wooden box. There are several indents and grooves in the polished carvings. Sigils and markings that she doesn’t recognize, maybe letters in another language.

“We could ask Dr. Sullivan about that.” Nomi says, pointing at the unfamiliar writing. “But there’s also a keyhole on that side, so I figure we could just find that.”

“Dr. Sullivan?”

Nomi stares at her. “Matilda. The professor? We’re renting her spare room!”

Truthfully, the professor hadn’t pulled her attention enough to interact. Dark haired and moody, communicating to Matilda in monosyllables or a scowl when they’d first arrived. She doesn’t think they introduced themselves at all.

“Oh, right. Well. We should head back anyway — “

A great, ear-splitting noise cracks open the air. She has no word to describe it. Not a horn or a siren or a roar, even. But some terrible earth-deep noise. Something that rattles the thin windowpanes and shakes the floor beneath their feet. Matilda shrieks and slaps her hands to her ears. When she looks frantically at Nomi, she’s done the same. A little trickle of blood touches the corner of her mouth, the delicate red rivulet sourced from a flaring nostril. Matilda touches a finger underneath her own. It comes back slick and red. 

“What the fuck was that?” She hisses, palming her forehead in an attempt to minimize the throbbing of her head. “Nomi, are you alright?”

“Are you? You’ve a nose bleed, babe. What—“

The noise again. They yell and clutch each other, stumbling with the force of the earthquake.  At least, Matilda figures that’s what it must be. She’s never experienced one, but isn’t it textbook? The shaking earth, the strange drone far-off as if her body knows the horrible alien sound of tectonic plates shifting. 

The sick teal light that filters in through the windows, that circles to a purple then gold and back — a whole display of colors so vibrant her eyes burn even looking at their washed-out refraction on the walls of the barn.

“What the fuck was that? An explosion off the coast?”

Nomi stares up at her, eyes wet and terrified. Her sharp nails have dug into Matilda’s forearm hard enough to draw blood. 

“I do not want to fucking be here anymore, Matilda.”

Matilda stares at her. For one awful moment, she’s frozen. Her feet don’t move, her fingers don’t twitch. Even the breath feels caught in her chest — not internal, but like something is squeezing her in place. Keeping her still. Matilda thinks of a fisher’s lure, bobbing in the water, and nearly sobs.

All at once, she breaks the strange spell of shock. Shakes it from her like a wet dog. Matilda nods frantically, clutches at Nomi, and her feet begin to move.

Whatever Sarah Laun discovered, whatever she was aware of, whatever she’d been watching? It could wait until morning. It can wait until they’ve found someone to tell, until they have reinforcements. Until they’re not out here, alone, in the cold air surrounding Innsmouth.

[raptorific]

This man was born to wear a bright blue parka and fire a freeze ray at Green Arrow or somebody when the writers need a cold-themed villain but can't use Mr. Freeze, Captain Cold, or Killer Frost

I'm known to be Ambivalent on the superhero output of one James Gunn, I really disliked the Guardians movie, found The Suicide Squad to be passable if flawed, and adored Peacemaker, but what I really am excited for in his DC tenure is that he personally looks like he should be menacing a B-list DC hero with a freeze ray

[pposyaa]

a piece for my beloved @/cldflsh on inst, the best meme maker and the greatest coldflash author on ao3

check out their recent work: magnetic force of a man by dearsnart

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40283934

[coldflasher]

you have no idea how much i wish len had stuck around with the legends long enough to make it to aruba just so we could have experienced the sheer joy of seeing him at the beach, sat on a sun lounger with the parka still on