Dammit Hedgi Day BEGINS

Prompts are now OPEN Until the 24th of September I’ll be taking prompts, and as you all voted, beginning on the 23rd (saturday) and continuing till the 25th the EIGHTH anniversary of my first Dammit Hedgi (courtesy of Mosylu on Can’t Live in Dreams, I'll be posting them for your suffering and enjoyment

What prompts am I accepting? Originally an ANGST fest, it can get a bit more broad especially in recent years, so: Many!  I reserve the right to ignore shipping requests and just write gen, DHD is a smut-free zone, and it’s my day so  I will write about characters with my viewpoints so prompt with caution if you like a character i do not :)  you may rig your prompt for fluff, but do not count on it. like I said, Angst. and it's Dammit Hedgi Day, not "awww Hedgi that's so sweeet" day.

Dammit Hedgi started with The Flash, but yeah I quit watching that at season 6 and i don't wanna think about anything past like... season 5 maybe. Send me Flash stuff anyways, but let's stick to the roots. same with young justice (i did NOT watch s4) and of course the LoT and early Supergirl characters live in my heart. Big clinging to Stargirl, though, and I'm currently loving My Adventures With Superman, getting more comfy writing Leverage characters...

Y’all know me, you know my fandoms, and what I’ve been watching so as always, go nuts! Can’t promise I’ll fill it all (last year I had 65! prompts! and did fill them all so...) prompts for my RPG characters, for my shows, for the wild crossover of ur heart (Old Guard/ Flash crossover? why not. Leverage and Shazam? Sure!  Stargirl and the Librarians, heck yeah.) Feel free to send shit in, and I’ll either do it or I won’t, that’s DHD babes. I’ll try, anyways!

New to Dammit Hedgi Day? All I need is a character or two/ fandom and a dialog or narrative prompt!

You can send me a couple characters and an angst prompt from a list like  this one or This one,  Or this ….or  if there’s a whump post out there that grabs at you, you can use that.

You can send me an episode and a character for me to do a reaction fic or introspection, like Jax at the end of White Knight (LOT) or Beth in Stargirl: Summerschool episode 11. 

If we've chatted about an Au? send it! if there was a prompt from past years you liked and want More Of? (roundups for 2020 , 2021, 2022) hell yeah!)

canon stuff? post canon? pre canon? for want of a nail because canon is fake? go for it.

Canon suffering!! aus make everything worse!! you can ask for missing moments, or whatifs. We’ve had 7 (good lord you guys) of these now, you know the drill.  go for it.  I may not get to all of them. but I’ll write a lot because  now it’s a challenge! Current aus and hiatus fics are hella open to be extra angsted upon.  Any angst potential posts you’ve seen from me, canon angst that the writers ignore! Prompt away!

 HELL YEAH SMORES PARTY IN HELL! WHOOOO!!!! (join the Discord!)

A Cat May

(no prompt, I just wanted to.) His Wizard bid him go. For so smart a boy, there are so many things he does not understand. A wizard may, for a time, command a Fey, with proper ritual and binding. But there is a reason that when this lost little spark of a human called, he called for a Cat, and a reason this Fey spirit answered. The fey licks a paw, his tail swishing through the grass grown over graves. He has always had a fondness for this form. A Fey may be bid, but a cat can not be told where he may not go.  Every realm is open, and the creature once called Frumpkin twists his whiskers in a cat’s smile and darts into the mist. His wizard is a fool, but a dear one.  He will go, and he will return, and if his boy thinks he is still bound, that will be a mistake he will pay for in pocket bacon. But first he has a border to cross. The dead may be bound to one plane, but a cat may go where he likes.  He has spent so much time with his boy looking through his eyes, their minds and hearts linked, that it is impossible not to recognize the two souls he searches for. He twines around their ankles, mewing. The dead, of course, do not speak cat, but they do not need to. They know, what he has done for their boy. What their boy has done for them. He will carry the messages.

Leverage ot3 with “Shit, are you bleeding?!” (also, could Eliot be the one who’s hurt?)

The van door slams closed with a bang like a gunshot. “Go!” thunders Eliot and Parker never needs to be told twice to Drive. She punches the gas, knowing Hardison will scold her for it later. There will be a later. She’ll steal her boys a later if she has to. “Hardison--” she calls over one shoulder without looking back, because this kind of get away quick driving needs either her eyes or her attention, and her attention is locked tight on the two men in the back of Lucille. “I’m okay, babe,” Hardison wheezes, his ribs screaming from the beating Eliot had interrupted and saved him from. He’d known he would. He shuts his eyes tight, and he can hear Eliot fishing around for something. His head hurts, the pain distracting him from something important, something he can’t quite grab hold of to remember. Parker pulls to a stop a mile and a half and several twisty roads away, certain none of the marks’ goons followed them, and vaults into the back. Hardison’s shirt is smeared on his right side with damp, dark red. “Shit, are you bleeding?” Parker reaches under the seat for where the first aid kit is supposed to be, but her hands hit stale gummy frogs and an extra climbing harness, not the plastic box. “ You said you were fine.” “‘S not mine,” Hardison says, staring. Eliot’s face is pale, and the gauze he’s holding against his torso is soaked through. Leaning against the driver’s seat for support, he’d been invisible as she drove. Parker’s heart seizes up only for the time it takes to beat once. “Dammit, Eliot,” she hisses, and for the first time in months, she wishes that Nate and Sophie hadn’t left them--she’s not ok, they’re not ok, they need to drive but Eliot’s bleeding out fast. She grabs all the gauze she can. “ Hardison, hold this.” she says, and if he notices the note of pleading in her voice, he doesn’t say, just takes the wad of fabric, his phone out with 911 dialing. He tries to ignore the feeling of his boyfriend’s blood on his skin. “You should have told us,” he says, without reproach. “Tell us how to fix it,” Parker says. “‘Ll be ‘k,” Eliot grunts, barely audible. “Told ‘em… ‘d keep you safe.” He’d sworn it, a sacred oath. Until my dying day. None of them had expected it to be so soon.

Team Leverage reacting to Nate's death! Or just talking to a dying Nate

Parker knows it’s a con. It has to be. Why wouldn’t it be? She’s seen Archie buried, seen Sophie’s corpse twice. Sometimes the faces of the fake Hardison and Eliot, all smashed up and covered in blood, haunt her dreams, though she’d never say as much. Those were all cons, and Nate is more Con and Whisky than he is Flesh and Blood. How could it be anything else? Sophie Deveraux is the greatest liar in the world. Can’t this be a lie? She wants it to be. Nate wasn’t her father. Maye things would have been different if he had been, shift along the timelines till it matches up nice and pretty, Nate, Maggie, instead of Archie. But Maybes don’t pick locks, or stir soup, or steal the world’s secrets. Maybes don’t stop bullets. Maybes don’t restart hearts. Nate wasn’t her father. But she still mourns as if he might have been. It’s Eliot who makes arrangements. Organizes flights and makes a pot of soup and sits on the couch beside Sophie as she eats it mechanically. It’s Eliot who calls the cemetery. The funeral home, and looks at plots and caskets. It’s Eliot who calls Maggie, emails Jack Hurley and Detective Bonanno. It’s Eliot who stays stoic as Hardison hunches over a laptop. He doesn’t cry, but the way his shoulders slump, the way they shake, is distinctive. It’s Eliot who thinks in those crack of dawn moments that this isn’t how it was meant to be. Nate was too clever and canny and behind the scenes a bastard to die. He saw everything else coming. But then, it’s Eliot who thinks and never says aloud, that it makes a sick kind of sense. No one else, much as some people out there would like, can claim credit. The only one who could kill Nathan Ford was Ford himself. Hardison throws the cheap violin at the wall and puts a thousand papers through a shredder. They’re in the cloud anyways. Sophie Deveraux doesn’t leap at the sound of sirens. One can’t, not if they want to be a livi--not if they want to be a successful grifter. The wail of police or an ambulance on the way can never startle or cause panic, unless that too is part of the act, but not for a moment can it go deeper than the shiny surface the mark sees. So Sophie never glances in the direction of sirens with her heart in her throat. Laura Ford, on the other hand, somewhere tucked away with Charlotte Prentice and Katerine Clive, still turns towards them before remembering they are not here at her call. The ambulances came too late, and there is no longer any need.

Do you know what. I give up. Don't know if it goes into dammit hedgi but

Eliot and Yolanda. That's the prompt.

“You need a heavier bag.”

Yolanda jumped, spinning around to face the doorway. Her heart raced, pulsing in her wrapped wrists. The man nodded to the punching bag that still swung behind her.

"That one's too light," he continued. "Might be good if you're working on trying to hit moving targets, but if you're after stance and form work, or endurance, you need something sturdier."

"Who are you?" Yolanda asked. She didn't recognize him, and people didn't just move to Blue Valley. Not often, anyways. He nodded, and tapped the Blue Valley High badge on his shirt.

"New gym teacher. I heard the last one... left."

"Yeah," Yolanda shrugged. Left was one way to put it. The old gym teachers had been the football coach who'd gone mysteriously missing and Tigress, currently in jail. They'd hired someone fast, it wasn't even Winter break yet. Usually things moved slow in Blue Valley, like getting new art supplies (until the American Dream had started funding that) but... "Am I not allowed to practice in here anymore?" It was technically for the various teams to use, not every student. She'd been discouraged from staying on any of them. She knew she could always go to the pitstop after class, but it wasn't the same there, with Rick or Courtney practicing at the same time.

The new teacher shook his head. "I'm not gonna stop you. Let me help you get a better bag, though. This one's too light for your strength, it's too wild." He froze midstep to the wall of supplies, shook his head sharply to himself, and pulled the closet door open.

"I don't need--" she swallowed. She didn't care about form or about her stance. she just cared about making the thoughts in her head quiet themselves for a few minutes. It was easier with something that gave under cloth wrapped hands. "I mean, you don't have to, Coach...."

"Stone," he supplied a little too easily. "It's no trouble." She tensed under his gaze. It wasn't like the way most of her teachers looked at her, with annoyance or discomfort, like they wished she wasn't there. It looked like... something. Maybe recognition, not not like he knew the gossip, but more like he knew she needed to hit something, something fake.

He clipped the bag to the chain. "See?" he jabbed at the bag a few times, and it felt almost like the way Pat showed them how things work. There was no condescension in his voice. "With your strength, this one won't swing back around and wallop you. so when you need to get it out, you can, safely."

"Get what out?" she asked, shifting positions again.

He looked her over. "Whatever it is you need to get control over," he said, simply. "So it doesn't suffocate you."

Pat never talked about the training that way. But Pat had his robot, Pat stayed above the fighting. He didn't stand on the ground and watch someone bleed at his feet. Fighting was defense, a delaying tactic, nothing more. Yolanda had thought Rick might have understood--the anger inside him must have felt something like the guilt that ate at her. But she hadn't dared ask, just in case. Something about how Coach Stone stood made her wonder if he might.

"Can I?" she asked, not bothering to clarify. If he knew what she was asking, he'd know. His level gaze went hard for a moment with a flinch.

"It's not easy," he said. "Some things get rooted deep. You gotta keep fighting that, not yourself."

"Even if they're the same?"

There's a look on his face that screams louder than the echo of Brainwave dying that he knows what she means, that he knows what she's done.

"They're not," he says. "You're not what you did, Wildcat."

Danger signals went off in her brain. Who of the ISA was left? Could Gambler have sent him? She needed backup; she didn't have her gear, her burner phone, anything.

"How did you know?" she said, trying to stall as she raised her fists. She'd fight him if she had to. She didn't want to.

"Your stance. It's... distinctive," he said, raising his own hands, palm out. "I's alright. I'm here as a...as an ally. My friend wanted to see what The ISA was doing with that big company, that's all."

"The ISA is dead," Yolanda spits, and the scream is back in her ears, the twist in her stomach.

"I figured," Coach Eliot Stone said. "And that's the problem, isn't it?"

Yolanda nodded.

"Then get it out," he nodded towards the punching bag, "And let me help."

0 missed calls

for @mosylufanfic and Ciscoramonlovebot (update:5:18, missing opening added in) Cisco didn’t call.  Caitlin checked her phone absently, over and over, until Frost told her she was acting like a middleschooler waiting for her crush to  text back. She felt herself flushing and flipped her phone over, putting a stack of papers over it for good measure.  A minute later she checked it again. “Caity.” “I just, he  moved,  that’s--you call to let everyone know you arrived safe,” Caitlin defended. “Did he call while he was on the road trip? Or in Antarctica?” Caitlin chewed her lip. “ Not much but--- but service was bad, and he was really busy…” Frost sighed. ~ Cisco didn’t call.  Caitlin checked her email, her spam folder, answered every single telemarketer and robo-call just in case. “Caitlin?” Iris asked. “Everything ok?” “Uh, no, yeah, I mean…” She trailed off. “Oh, I have the results. On that test, for your article. It looks like--” she  scrambled for the printouts. “ whoever’s doing this isn’t a metahuman. They must be using tech, to make it seem like--” “Thanks,” Iris took the papers, glancing at them. “But you know that’s not what I meant. Contrary to what some people think, our lives don’t have to be just work.” Caitlin gave an elegant shrug. “I just… it’s been a week since he left and that’s… it’s just weird.” “Did you call?” “Him?” Caitlin asked. “I… he didn’t answer. I didn’t want to keep leaving messages. It was … it was late…” “I meant, did you call all the times you left,” Iris said gently. Caitlin shrank inwardly. “No,” she admitted. “Just give him time.”

~ Cisco didn’t call. Caitlin stared at the article, frowning as she read the comments. It was the usual internet noise: an argument over a tiny detail blown out of proportion , a metaphobe stirring up trouble,  fans of Iris praising the writing,  and of the Flash cheering the effort. “This isn’t right,” she said softly, scanning usernames and icons. “Uh, what?” Barry asked, sprawled on the couch with the remains of a 3 foot sandwich. “Iris did her fact checking, and she was there for most of it. What do you think she got wrong?” “Not that,” Caitlin shook her head, turning the tablet so Barry could see. “Caitlin. You’ve gotta learn not to read the comments.” “No, this,” She gave an angry sigh, flicking a finger to scroll back to the headline. “Flash defeats E-vile in Tech Team-up.” Barry frowned.  “Uh. That… is what you were calling him, right?” Caitlin stood, pacing. “ something’s wrong, see for yourself.” Barry took the tablet and speed-read through the comments. “I… ok, I must still have that concussion. What is it?  No one’s being mean about the name….” “I know! That’s the problem! It’s a terrible name, and cisco hasn’t so much as left a comment about it! Something isn’t right.” Barry scuffed a shoe along the floor. “Caitlin, he made his choice.  He doesn’t have to be part of this mess--and I can’t blame him… I miss him too, but-” “No! No buts! He’d never let me live this down.  I want you to take me to his new  apartment, now.” “If he wanted to see us, he wouldn’t have left,” Barry said, stopping her before she could interrupt. “ he asked for space. Let’s just… give it to him. Ok?” “Ok,” Caitlin said, but her heart wasn’t in it. ~ Cisco didn’t call, and Caitlin was sick of it. On the one occasion Barry had visited ARGUS to see if Ramsey was in any state to have a trial, he hadn’t even seen Cisco. If the engineer was avoiding them, Caitlin decided, he’d have to tell that to her face. She’d left, but she’d always said she was leaving for good, she hadn’t made it seem like--like-- well. She made up her mind. Getting to ARGUS on her own was less than convenient, but not impossible. She told the team she was off duty for a weekend, entrusting Allegra with the massive first aid kit, and took off. They were surprised to see her. “Is Cisc-- is Agent Ramon available?” she asked the agent at the security desk, signing her in. It felt foreign, being so formal. “No.” The agent did not elaborate, exchanging a glance with the Agent who’d met her at the door.  “What’s the nature of this visit?” “Oh, I’m here to check on Ramsey. Er, Dr. Rosso.” “Oh, Bloodwork. We could have sent over the latest files, saved you a trip. Flash drop you off, Dr. Snow?” “Uh, No,” she said. “I’d like to see Dr. Rosso.” “There’s no change since the last check in, you know.” “I know.” She’d read the scant report. “I just need to double check a, a new theory.” “Hmm. I hope you’ll let us in on that,” the agent sighed. “Fine. Visitor pass.” He handed the laminated card over it, and the first man nodded. “Well, follow me, and do not wander.” Caitlin nodded, feeling like a chastised kindergartener. She sent a quick text: I’m here, when’s your lunch break? I need to see you. There wasn’t even a ‘read’ indication.  ~ Ramsey had not changed. There was no light in his eyes as he smiled at her, dripping darkness in his containment cell, and asked how her friends had fared. She’d  tried to ignore the parts of her old friend she could almost still see, going through her mental checklist. The files had been accurate. His condition was… stable, for now. Leaving containment would speed up the progression, until he was… well, until Ramsey wasn’t anymore.  The thought hurt. “I’ve seen enough,” she told her ARGUS escort, blinking back tears. How was this her life? So many people gone, her heart full of open graves.  She didn’t wait for the agent to lead the way back through the doors into the main hallway, trying to get the sight of Ramsey out of her mind. “Wait, Dr. Snow,” the agent called out, and she froze in the doorway. She’d pushed open one of two doors, forgetting the one that led to the exit. She stepped back, releasing the door and  letting it swing shut in her face again. “Sorry,” she said, her voice thick. “I… I wasn’t thinking. Just turned around.” It was a lie, of course.  She worried the agent would be able to tell, that he’d see in the way her eyes went blue in anger, what she’d seen. But he merely walked with her back to the front hall. Caitlin swallowed bile, clamping down on Frost screaming in her mind. There were too many agents, with too many weapons. They’d be on her in a second if she tried to do anything without a plan. But she couldn’t get the image out of her mind. The container, the tiny prison cell smaller than a Pipeline box, labeled Subject 2, and Cisco standing in it, one bloody, bandaged hand pressed flat against the glass.

Phonecall

No one asked but I am evil Leverage redemption  It’s the hardest kind of call to make. Parker’s never had to do it at all. Eliot’s never had to make it to someone he loves. Neither of them say anything as the phone on the counter between them rings. Neither of them can move. “Do you know what damn time it is?” Hardison answers on the third ring. “Why can’t you send emails like normal humans?” There’s affection in his voice, though. Warmth. It doesn’t spread to this side of the line. “Hello? If you butt dialed me at the ass-crack of dawn we are gonna have strong words,” Hardison says. Parker clears her clogged throat. Eliot shifts. The silence writhes.

“...Alec,” Eliot says, and his voice shatters. Hardison will never forgive him for this.  Somehow, that hurts more than knowing he will never forgive himself.  His throat won’t work, the words stick to his lungs. But not saying it won’t make what happened go away. He swallows, wishing it was anyone else he was speaking to.  “Something… something happened.” “You need to come back,” Parker says. Anyone who didn’t know her would misjudge the flatness in her voice. Her boys know it as grief. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” “I’ll get on a plane,” Hardison says fast. “What is it? What is it?” his voice tips higher and higher into panic, like he can guess what’s coming. “It was my fault,” Parker says. “I thought it was safe. I couldn’t get there fast enough.” It’s everything that’s been going through her head, her heart, for the last hour and a half. “You trusted me.” Eliot can still feel the mark’s blood, drying on his hands. Revenge, justice. The killer’s death wouldn’t make two graves into one. “Bre--” Hardison, and his voice, breaks as he understands. 

How about the Leverage Crew arriving in Central City in time for the that time Barry got accused of murdering DeVoe. Basically, Leverage Crew (Classic or Redeption is your choice) meddling in that plan. Because screw DeVoe. Can be in the same universe as The Central City job, or a brand new AU; your choice.

this one Long The courthouse was packed when a sleek black van pulled up to a loading zone. Nathan Ford turned from the passenger seat. “You all know the play?” “Mm, yup,” Parker said, clipping a badge to her blazer pocket. “The Boston skip.” “It’s not the Boston Skip,” Hardison snapped, fussing with his tie.. “You’re just grumpy because you have to play the lawyer again.” Eliot smirked. “Hey, you said only if it comes to a cross examine, I did my job, if you all do your jobs right and it doesn’t come to that,” Hardison’s voice pitched upwards. “If?” Sophie put on the emergency break. “If? Hardison, I’m hurt.” “Soph,” Nate sighed. “Let it go.” “For now. We’re having words later,” Sophie insisted. “Can we just get this over with?” Eliot asked, maneuvering to take the driver’s seat. “ you know I don’t like us splitting up like this.” “It’ll only be for a bit,” Parker said, squeezing his hand. “ We’ll be fine.” They left the van in twos, first Parker and hardison, briefcase and extraneous computer in hand, and a minute or two later Sophie and Nate followed-- and Nate with a plain folder tucked under his arm. Eliot drove in the direction of the police station, ready for the next phase of the plan. They hadn’t exactly called ahead, but that wasn’t going to be much of a problem. Cisco Ramon was the first to spot them. He goggled a bit. “What are you doing here?” he asked as Hardison approached the bench where Team Flash had congregated. Hardison smiled, knowing the prosecutor was watching. “I came to offer my services,” he said, sending a quick text with a thought. “ Where is Ms Horton?” “Here,” the short woman said, her eyes cutting between the two as Cisco checked his phone. “ Who are you? Cisco, who is--” Cisco looked up from the message--you didn’t see us coming?-- and relaxed slightly for the first time in weeks. “I’m part of Mr. Allen’s legal team,” Hardison smiled wide. “He’s ok, Cecile,” Cisco vouched. “ He and his, uh, coworkers have helped us in the past. With Z--wait, that was before you. Um.” “My firm helped get Henry Allen some money, after that unfortunate mess. And we’re here to see justice through again.” He hesitated. “ Or pick up where it leaves off,” he said under his breath. Cecile took in a sharp breath. “When did we hire you?” “Uh--” “Cecile, it’s really ok,” Caitlin joined the cluster. “They know about STAR. And apparently about the recent… developments.” “You think we don’t keep tabs on your crazy city? Now, Ms. Horton, as your co-lawyer, we need to discuss strategy. I’ve got some character witnesses I’d like to introduce, some crucial evidence that needs to be submitted, is there an office we might use?” He steered her away, nodding to Parker, deep in conversation with the prosecutor.

“You let that jerk stick around?” Iris jumped when she heard the voice in her ear. Turning she sighed with recognition. “ Lilli--Sophie?” “In the flesh.” She smiled. “I can’t stay long, but Eliot wanted me to ask.” Iris sighed. “If it’s Eliot asking, I guess you mean Harry. He’s been a lot better since Eliot kicked his ass, that’s for sure. And he has been helpful.” “I’m sure,” Sophie sounded anything but sure. “Listen, we’ve got this pretty well handled, but you and your friends may wish to be ready in case of reprisals. Have you upgraded security lately?” “Cisco’s worked on it,” Iris confirmed. “Good. Hardison would love to take a look, later. We’re probably going to be in the area, we’ve had word something’s fishy at that prison of yours.” When Iris opened her mouth Sophie shook her head. “Iron Heights. Point is, we’ll be around should you need anything.” “Thank you for the offer,” Iris said. She shook her head. “ These people are smart, Sophie. Dangerous.” “Not compared to my team,” Sophie smiled. “Save your worry. Look, see? Hardison’s in place, and Parker’s in the wings. I’ve got to go take care of my part. If you see your husband, let him know, will you?” “I-- sure,” Iris said, and she watched as Sophie stood and walked into a crowd. An entirely different person made her way past a bailiff and into the Juror’s box, leaning over to the man beside her and nodding in the direction of the door Barry Allen had just been escorted through. As Iris stood to take his hand across the gap between his seat and the benches, Sophie gave a little nod to the two of them. “It is strange,” the man said. “But I don’t think we’re meant to discuss the case until we’re in the back.” “Of course not,” Sophie said. “I was just thinking about it, is all. If it were a scene in a mystery novel, I’d call it too obvious.” “You do have a point,” the man agreed. “I’m actually a novelist myself.” “You don’t say,” Sophie smiled. “Classic red herring, am I right? And what a story. Two men in the same family accused of nearly identical murders…” She tapped her com, giving a quick signal. Nate was up. “Ah, a quick word?” Nate stepped away from the wall, flagging down Mrs. DeVoe and her companion. “No,” she snapped, putting on what Nate could see was a reasonably convincing mask of Grieving Widow. Convincing to a mark, maybe. But the Mako was right--you can’t con a conman. “Vultures, all of you.” “Oh, I’m not a reporter.” Nate said easily. He nodded to the tall man at Marlize’s Elbow. “Mr. DeVoe, I’m sure you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” He was pleased to see shock cross the face of Dominic Lanse. The man grabbed him by the arm, yanking him into an empty room. Mrs. DeVoe followed, locking it behind her. “Just so you are aware, there is video footage of you dragging me in here,” Nate said in his most helpful voice. “In case you decide to kill me here, probably not your smartest move.” he glanced around. “Private, though. Good.” He gave his signature infuriating grin. “Make this quick,” Clifford said in Dominic’s voice. “Court begins soon.” “Right, well, that’s going to be your problem.” Nate shrugged. “ Let’s skip the pleasantries. I know everything, about your plan at least. Your computer banks! Normal people couldn’t even find them, so you’ve got that going for you, though the security is lacking once you get past that, so B+. I am not Normal People. I have the best hacker in the multiverse, though, so,” he clicked his tongue in mock dismay, “like I said, my team and I --I’m sure you’re trying to think of who we are right now--know everything.” Marlize glanced at her silent watch, frowning. “Oh, no, no, I’m not a meta.” Nate shook his head. “But the thing is, I don’t have to be to destroy you.” “What--” “Again. I know everything, Thinker. Your basement prison, your hidden files, what you want with that satellite… you really shouldn’t have written everything down… twice even.” He fished a small book out of his pocket, and let them see the plain cover. Clifford’s eyes darkened. “That’s mine.” “Yeah, well, I also have the

multiverse’s greatest thief.” “Our home is under police protection and surveillance. There are officers--” “There right now, I’m aware.” Eliot Spencer, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand, flashed a badge at the pair of officers standing by a door. “Any trouble?” “Nope. She just left for the courthouse. Some work, huh? Just standing here.” “Hmm.“ Eliot agreed. “Though I guess if something did happen, the Flash would swoop in.” “Nine times out of ten,” the first officer agreed. “Or one of his buddies. “ “Maybe 8 times,” the second officer shrugged. “ You new?” “Just transferred from Keystone.” Eliot said. “Not so much nonsense there.” “I hear that. Good to have the backup though.” Eliot nodded. “ You do a walk through?” “Uh, no…. Like I said, no trouble, officer-- “Ted Crichton,” Eliot interrupted. “You haven’t walked through? What if someone’s in there, waiting to assault Mrs. DeVoe when she gets back?” “Well, uh, we don’t have a warrant--” “For crying out loud--” Eliot pulled a paper from his pocket. “See? Now let's go. You stay out here. Who has the back-- does no one have the back door? “ The officers hurried inside. “Don’t forget to check the closets,” Eliot called. -- “ Like I said. Best thief. Best hacker. Now, honestly--and you can run the numbers-- your best bet would be to cut your losses right here, right now. You’re already lying on the stand, so say you were coerced into implicating Mr. Allen--if you need someone to blame I do have a list of patsys that really need the jail time. You do that, put your little plan,” he waggled the book “ back in the box or write it up as the next dystopian best seller for High School English classes to dissect for decades to come, and you can walk away from this.” A laugh. “No one will believe anything you say. That book can’t be traced to me, and even if it could be, it doesn’t prove anything. So someone thinks I’m a supervillain. I’m dead. You have nothing that proves Mr. Allen innocent. You’re out of your mind, Mr. Ford.” “Oh good, you know who I am. Think a little harder.” “As threats go, it’s half baked,” Marlize challenged. “What are you going to do if we refuse? Break Allen out of jail so he can be a fugitive? He’d never go along with it. And the Flash can’t stop us.” “I’d run those numbers again, you’ve left out quite a few variables. But no.” “No?” “If you refuse, if you keep up your little game, lie on the stand, sell that sob story, maybe you're right and the Flash can’t stop you. But he doesn’t need to. I’ll destroy you.” “You.” It was not a question. “For someone claiming to be the smartest man in the world, I’m a bit worried about your memory. I said it already--I’m not here alone. But be my guest. Tell your lies. Right about now the Jury is thinking about what an embarrassment to the city Henry Allen’s trial was and how closely this resembles it… the similarities, the way the timelines don’t quite match up… “ “Really? You’re trying to convince the jury to ignore evidence and go with their hearts? A pathos appeal? That’s not going to work. There’s less than a 3% chance of that even ending in a mistrial, much less acquittal.” “I’m sure that’s what your numbers said,” Nate smiled yet again, this time sharklike. “Cute. I bet you think it’s difficult to get assigned jury duty. “ “It-- we checked all the names. We know--” “You know who they are, yes, yes. But you don’t know who we are. Another sloppy mistake. Now, the jury’s, you're right, not a total slam dunk. So, right now the prosecutor is getting word of some new evidence from a very well respected FBI agent about how helpful the Flash and Mr Allen have both been in assisting with a case against a known human trafficker--you know her, Ammunet Black. The one you bought your puppet from. FBI picked her up…mmm, ten minutes ago? And she had some very interesting things to say. You can guess what they were. Add to that the evidence--” “What evidence?” “The wire transfers between you and Ms. Black. In December and a few days ago. We didn’t even have to fake that first one, but even if the second

one looks a little fishy, the fact that--” “Nate, we got him,” crackled Eliot’s voice in his ear. “--the police just found a metahuman locked in your hall closet--Weeper, I think is what Ms. Black called him-- should make things clear. He wasn’t thrilled about having to stick around much longer but your basement is pretty hard for normal people to find so we had to nudge that a bit. But hey, you’re all for planting evidence. Anyways, court’s in ten minutes…. but the police will be arresting you in about three, if my math’s right-- care to check?-- so I can make this very quick. We have video of you threatening the Flash, holding him prisoner the same night as that wire transfer, proof of Dominic’s powers and sale--my hacker thanks you for all those cameras and bugs, by the way, made his job much easier-- and you add that all up and it sure looks like you got upset at the Flash and Allen for poking into your meta trafficking and decided a frame up was in order.” Nate hefted the folder, “and then there’s this.” “And what,” Marlize asked, shaking with rage, “ is that?” “A copy of files that will be delivered to the FBI, NSA and Dean of Husdson University if you don’t admit to the frame up.” Nate said, thumbing through them. “Proof that you, Mrs. DeVoe, fed information to certain entities across Africa and the Middle East where you were doing your research and aid work to assist in their terror attacks and human trafficking--ties in quite nicely to your work with Ammunet, if I do say so myself. And proof that the “late” Mr. DeVoe plagiarized his thesis, his dissertation, even the syllabi for his classes.” “Lies. No one will believe any of--” “Oh, it’s all very well forged. Except for the bit about the Syllabi. For shame.” Nate tutted. “And part of the dissertation. Can they take away a PH.d posthumously? Anyways, even if it wasn’t, do you really think that no one would believe a man who thinks that giving everyone on the planet late stage Alzheimer’s is going to solve famine and illness? What kind of legitimate history teacher doesn’t know about cholera or the effects of the agricultural revolution? Every lie has a kernel of truth to it.” Nate glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, that certainly was enlightening. And before you decide to simply kill me, run your little calculations with one more variable: Eliot Spencer.” DeVoe’s brow furrowed and what little color he had drained from his face. “ That’s what I thought. Three.. Two.. one.” Nate raised his voice. “ Help! I’m in here!” The door crashed from its hinges. “The Gloat is the best part,” Parker, FBI badge swinging, put an arm over Barry’s shoulders. He stood with Iris next to her and Eliot as the DeVoes were hauled away. “You know, I think I might have to agree,” Iris said, squeezing Barry’s hand. “Or second best, at least,” she added meaningfully. “So… what now?” Joe asked. “I mean, there’s still… the red tape, but… do we need to be worried? Don’t they still have--” “Oh, that sick chair and computer set up?” Hardison asked with a smirk. “I want it.” Harry announced. “When did you get here?” Hardison asked, affronted. -- Parker held up her badge as she pushed the crate up a ramp into Lucille. “Special Agent Hagen! Let me help you with that,” Agent McSweeten said, taking the dolley handle from her. Parker beamed, patting the side, careful not to dislodge the panel on the side. “Thanks!” -- “Anyways, you can’t just call dibs. You’re too late,” Hardison added, giving Parker a fistbump. “We stole it.”

happy dammit hedgi day :) im new to this but i just want some cisco whump 😭😭😭 that's all i ask of u keep up the good work

Cisco Ramon woke up, looked at his hands, and swore. It was not the first time. He had woken the day after Crisis, looked at his hands, and sworn then, too. Apparently the entire multiverse being reset and also helpfully reset him, at least to the him he’d been a year and a half before that. Before the cure that had only done half of what he wanted. It had turned out that being free of his visions and the ability to manipulate the vibrations of the world around him hadn’t freed him of his ability to have nightmares about That One Timeline Where He’d Been Murdered. Or The Other One Where He’d Been Killed. Or The Other Nine Where He’d Been Murdered AND Had a Shitty First Date... Or any of the other timelines he already remembered. Just like he now remembered a whole lot more than should have fit in his brain. It was, officially, way too much. He’d made every excuse he could think of to stay away from STAR and Central City. Maybe, just maybe if he distanced himself, he could avoid everything that always happened, every year right around May. And then this year, this one year he was actually ready for All That, the disasters just skipped May and happened the rest of the year instead. Of course. Every time he looked around the Cortext, he saw something that didn’t add up, something that didn’t match, and it hurt. His vision was tinted blue more than it wasn’t, and he woke screaming three nights out of four. He had to get out of Central City. He had to go somewhere where nothing was familiar, where he could breathe without feeling like everything had twisted 30 degrees left and five more directly upwards in a cyclone of Not Quite Right.

So he’d tried. The Roadtrip to a hundred towns he’d never set foot in. Atlantis. It felt like running away. Like he was abandoning everything. So he’d decided, lying awake trying to blink away images of Ronnie and Hartley Rathaway feeding sunflower seeds to the lab mice and a Harrison Wells with gentle eyes that suddenly burned red, that he’d have to take another direction. Leave Central City, but… not the Hero thing. He’d tried the other way before, and even before it hadn’t stuck, it hadn’t worked. ARGUS had been delighted when Cisco had asked if they were interested in some extra assistance. It had been good, solid work, too. Finding fugitives, closing off breaches between new earths and this one to keep things more or less secure -- no more Zooms breaking through, Thank You So Much. That had lasted a week. Then they’d drugged the water at an intel briefing, and he’d woken inside a tall cylinder that wouldn’t break no matter how he’d tried. It was for his own good, they’d said. For the world’s own good. He was simply too powerful to be allowed to roam freely. Cisco’d had the sinking feeling that they couldn’t even hear him telling them exactly how much bullshit that was. He had a worse feeling that they had listened when he’d screamed that they shouldn’t treat him like some kind of supervillain prisoner. They’d started treating him like an experiment, instead. Like Grodd. Like Firestorm. Like Bette. His ears had bled from the sound pumped into the tube, the vibrations trapped with nowhere for him to channel them. That hadn’t stopped him from trying to shield himself, trying to still them into silence. It hadn’t done much good. He’d seen, out of the corner of his eye, the agents in their black uniforms and the scientists in white coats, writing things down, and he’d gritted his teeth and tried to make the whole damn tube explode. He’d knocked himself out instead, and when he woke, it was hours later, in total darkness and blissful silence. And then the visions poured themselves through his mind, flickering just a little at a time, a thousand timelines clamoring to be heard. He couldn’t focus, and his head ached too fiercely. For the first time in what felt like years, he gave up, curling on the hard floor, and let the visions wash over him without trying to figure out what they meant. He could have told them that the booms he threw, the vibrational blasts that could slow a speedster or shatter glass, didn’t come from his hands, that it was just redirecting the sound and energy waves around him. But the scientists didn’t ask, and ignored him when he tried. They’d pinned his arm under their scanners and when that wasn’t enough, they’d brought out the scalpels. Whoever was in charge--it couldn’t have been Lyla, Cisco refused to believe Lyla would permit this--won the “not quite as sadistic as you could have been” award, though, because at least they hadn’t made him stay awake through the surgery. He’d woken with stitches up his palms and gauze wrapped snugly around his fingers. He looked at his hands again, and swore, swallowing nausea. Somewhere beyond his tube, a door opened, and closed again. His shoulders slumped as he let go of hope for a rescue.

There are certain things Khaji Da will do anything to prevent.

If you had asked earlier, a thousand years, a hundred years, ten years, the Blue Scarab would have said in the plainest terms available, with no hesitation that the earth could be forfeit, so long as the Reach kept their minds and hands away from him. After all, if the Reach reclaimed him, the Earth would be doomed in any case. Better to be free, if the humans would die enslaved either ways. Why share that fate? No matter the cost or sacrifice, Khaji Da would pay it easily to prevent recapture, to avoid the program that had trapped him within himself activating ever again. He would have done anything to keep that from happening. It had been simpler to believe that a thousand years ago. A hundred years ago. Six months. Ten minutes. Of course, there were other things Khaji Da would have done much to prevent. Things the Scarab had done much to prevent. He was not wholly self serving, not now.. He had risked discovery and personal injury to satisfy the growing kernel of morality certain humans had demonstrated. But some things, even many things, did not equal anything. If you had asked any earlier if there was anything he would not do to stay free, Khaji Da would have answered with an emphatic No. What could be worth imprisonment? But now he could feel fear that was not his, from the human Jaime Reyes. Fear and desperation, pain and worst of all the barest hidden glimmer of sacrifice. The Jaime Reyes was willing to do anything, even die, for his family. Death might have been a better fate than what the Reach certainly had planned. With a wrench, the Scarab realized that this was not acceptable. Priority protocols shifted. The world might be doomed either way, but with the Reach here, so might he. He would not let the Jaime Reyes suffer any fate the Reach held in store alone.

Leverage + kittens

Not quite your brand, but on the other hand, 150% your brand

It turns out that being free from “ Stuck in the Van” doesn’t mean much if it’s replaced with “ stay in the house” and Breanna mutters curses against “mean genies” for a solid half hour. She knows it’s just to keep out of sight, like back-up. Alec always impressed on her--she got the idea it was a learn-from-my-mistakes-- the importance of keeping the mark from seeing everyone too soon. If someone calls an audible, or new information turns up that changes the whole plan, it’s good to have a new face in reserve. It’s not because they don’t trust her, Eliot tells her seriously. It’s because she’s very important. Yeah, sure. She gets the idea that they’re trying to protect her from this job, something about old friends. The house is huge--she has waaaaay more room than she ever did at Nana’s-- but she still chafes, eager to do more than follow the money and read emails and texts and whatever else she can dig up. She can only read through so many clear facebook market place scam messages in one sitting. Who cares this much about paying 10 bucks for lamps??? Breanna decides to go exploring. The house is fully tricked out, and she knows that Alec took what was already there and had even more secret panels and cubbies and passages put in. She also knows that some of them have prizes in them, and that Alec said there are still a bunch no one’s found. She’s exploring the attic when she hears the noise and frowns. It’s not the scratching of rats--for all she lightly teases Eliot about his ability to identify anything off the tiniest clue, she knows the sound of rats too well. She runs her hands along the wall and finds a patch that’s warm. “Well,” she says out loud, though her com is off, “I’m either about to get savaged by a raccoon or not.”

She pushes on a section of wood, feeling for a place it might move, and it swings open a little, revealing a cubbyhole lined with lint and scraps of litter, a tiny passage stretching beyond that must lead into the roof itself, and--- Breanna taps her com on. “ Hey I know, I know you said only to com you if it was an emergency--” “Are you hurt? Did people try to break in? Do you have your taser?” Parker cuts in fast. “No, No, and Yes,” Breanna rattles back just as quickly. “Um, I found kittens.” “Kittens?” Parker chirps, and then adds an accented, “Oh, no, nothing, just the dust--” to whoever’s in the same room as her. “Where did you find kittens? You’re supposed to stay in the house,” Eliot says. “I am in the house!” Breanna says, affronted. “The kittens are in the house, they’re in the wall.” “There are not kittens in the house, I would have known,” Eliot grumbles. “Uh, tell that to them. There are three, can we keep them? “No.” “Please?” “Yeah, Eliot, please?” Parker puts in. “ If they could break into the house with all our security and even you didn’t notice, they’ve earned it. “ “We can’t have pets, what happens when we have to go out of town? Or you get bored of them?” “I’ll ask Tina to look after them! And I’m not going to get bored, I wouldn’t give them away because I don’t want them anymore, when, when they get bigger and they’re not little and cute, I--, that’s not going to happen.” Breanna says fiercely. She puts a hand into the cubby, and one of the kittens starts purring instantly, whiskers brushing her fingertips. “....I’m not feeding them or cleaning the catbox or driving them to the vet or...waving those little feathers on strings or anything,” Eliot insists. “I’ll do all of that!” Breanna swears. There’s a long pause, filled with the sound of a particularly brutal fight/ “Fine,” Eliot agrees. “Yessssss,” Breanna cheers. “Thank you! I’m gonna get them some snacks, and--” “Don’t give them my steak.” “Breanna, hate to interrupt but this is urgent,” Sophie joins the call for the first time. “Was there anything in the emails about a lamp shaped like a fish?” “Oh, uh, yeah. Sending you the deets now.” Breanna fishes out her phone, sends the message, and takes three pictures on the kittens to send to Alec. The biggest of them, a calico, yawns and shows off all her sharp little teeth, and the little tuxedo looking one with a white tip to his tail starts mewing for affection. “I’m going to regret this.” Eliot sighs. ~ “Regret this, huh?” Breanna asks, holding up her phone. Eliot is sitting on the couch, besieged. “Don’t you dare,” he says pulling the calico off his shoulder where she’s been chewing on his hair. “Molly, stop--” she starts chewing on his shirt sleeve instead. “Oh, this is video, streaming straight to Alec.” Breanna reaches out a finger towards the kitties. “Awww, hello! Hello Widmark!” she coos to the tux, who has yet to move from the curve of Eliot’s elbow, purring his lungs out. The tabby, Trevor, launches himself from Eliot’s knee to the top of the couch, stepping on Molly, and the chase is on. “Dammit, Casey,” Eliot sighs, and Breanna beams.

Brion's powers follow his emotions. So when he began to become suicidal, his powers started killing him

No one understood at first. Not Dr. Jace, not any of her colleagues, and after what had happened to Violet, Brion had made sure she actually consulted them. King Brion. The fire that had filled his core, his blood, that had blazed so brightly, felt sluggish. He woke from nightmares of his parent’s death, of his terrified sister, of Violet walking away into shadow, with unease sinking his heart into his belly. It wasn’t like he had never experienced depression before. When Tara was first taken, guilt had eaten at him. He hadn’t wanted to move. But this-- he had done the right thing. He was protecting his people when no one else would, he was trying to make things better. It was the right thing, wasn’t it? Gregor hadn’t been there. Someone had had to--to fight back. To make sure their uncle couldn’t hurt anyone else. The lava had felt right, warm and comforting, but now … it felt as though he had swallowed it himself, and inside his heart it had cooled into smooth, blank stone, cold and heavy. He let it. He had failed his sister thrice over, failed his parents… failed the people he had once counted as friends. He’d done.. It had been… Whatever it was, he had done it, and he could not change it, any more than he could fight the way his skin turned to stone.

"Oh please. No hero, nor savior, nor enemy nor traitor can save prince charming from my spell." Brion Markov, bespelled.

The scene is like an illustration from one of the storybooks their nurse would read to them at bedtime. Tara had memorized the book, had play-acted them with her brothers and other castle children when she was young enough to pretend nothing in the world could not be fixed with a valiant knight’s sword, or a princess’s courage. But the games in the castle halls and nursery had been cobbled together and well lit, a pulled down curtain draped over an overturned dresser, a wall of pillows, a treasure chest of toys instead of jewels. What lay before her now was dark, like the soot-darkened oil paintings that hung in the royal museum, and detailed. Tara swallowed. It wasn’t just like the drawings in her childhood books, it was an exact replica. Brion sat in a tall, ebony throne that gleamed in the lamplight like obsidian, and his eyes were blank. The fur around his shoulders melted into rich velvet, and on his brow gleamed a crown, pale gold and set with black amber. Her brother stared forward and did not see her. Tara took one set back, her foot catching on the plush carpet she had pictured so well as a child. Now she could see that the abstract patterns had formed themselves into jagged lines, harsh images of blades and blood. The Enchantress smiled as Tara stumbled, and touched Brion’s cheek with a finger. He did not flinch.

“You should leave here, child.” “No,” Tara whispered. Those were not the words of the story, but they were all she could manage. She searched the room. “There is nothing for you here, little jewel.” The enchantress shook her head. “ I went to great lengths to ensure that. Not an inch of stone for my palace. You are powerless here. Just the scared little girl you’ve always been.” “You can’t have him,” Tara said, ripping her eyes from her brother’s empty face to the witch who fancied herself a queen. The crown on her head matches the one given to Brion. “I can have what I like. This is my kingdom, and you are not welcome here.” Tara took a shaky breath and reached into her pocket. She pulled out the walnut shell,the fine-woven linen, the flagon of oil, and the enchantress laughed. “My curse is a little different than that, little one. I have learned better than that. No more little trinkets to break a curse. No hero, nor savior, nor enemy nor traitor can save Prince Charming from this spell." Tara dropped the bottle of oil. It shattered, staining the wooden floor. “I’m not leaving without him.” “And you’re not leaving with my prize. Go while I still allow it, unless you want to end up like the rest.” She waved a hand, and Tara did not look. She already knew what she would have seen: frozen statues of the few who had made it this far, who hadn’t been able to leave with Brion and hadn’t been able to break what bound him here. Heroes. They were heroes, and they had failed. What was she? Hadn’t she known, since the day she’d been taken from her bed, that fairytales weren’t true? But Brion hadn’t left her. He’d destroyed himself to save her and she had been too blinded to see until everything was too much of a mess to ever escape it. He was her brother. “No hero,” she repeated softly, and the would-be-queen smiled. “That’s right. No little heroes, no saviors.” “No enemies, no traitors,” Tara finished. And then she found the hole in the net. She stepped forwards, over the puddle of oil, and dropped the walnut shell wrapped in cloth. One hand reached out, shaking slightly. “Made your choice then? You’d rather be trapped in your own body, again? Perhaps I’ll make you a little puppet instead of a statue. Would you like that?” Tara did not hesitate. This had to work. She touched her brother’s hand, and felt the warmth in her fingers spread. The pallor in Brion’s face eased. “Your spell did not say anything about sisters.”

Dammit Hedgi Day: "Help will be here soon, I promise."

Team Avatar? (Sokka? 👀)

They’re together, at least. Sokka’s glad for that, though he knows that the second Katara opens her mouth about the water magic she thinks she can do… he’ll be alone. It’s not a thought he wants to have, and he hates his brain for pointing it out. He’s already told her to keep quiet, and for once, his sister seems like she might actually listen. Spirits, he hopes they will. She’s all he’s got, with their dad gone almost a year with no word. At least they’d been hunting, away from the main village, when the fire nation ship had spotted the little kayak and their blue-dyed parkas and thrown heavy nets over them. The village may survive this. Sokka doesn’t want to think about what the next Fire Nation ship will find, a bunch of little kids and elders with bones as brittle as thin ice. There’s no one to hunt for them now. And there’s no one to save them. “Help will be here soon,” Katara whispers into his shoulder, blue eyes flicking to the door of the cell, the guard that must be beyond it. “It will.”

Sokka swallows down a retort-- that the Avatar died a hundred years ago, that their dad’s probably a prisoner just like they’ll be, that there’s no one left to save them. It would just make her cry, and Sokka has the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’ll see her cry enough in whatever future they have. He hugs her tight. They aren’t tied. Of course not. The ship has dozens of warriors, with real armor and finely crafted weapons, and they have a couple of fishhooks in his pocket, his mother’s necklace, and hand-me-down furs. There’s no way they could even get through the door to the cabin they’ve been put inside, much less take over the ship. He’d dreamed of fighting the Fire Nation. Now it’s a nightmare. The whole ship jolts and stalls, dead in the water. Sokka lowers his head, praying fervently that it’s not stopping to burn a few tents and take the rest of his people. He can hear Katara whispering, too, and catches the words “ moon”, “ avatar,” “rescue”, and “Dad.” His heart hurts. There’s talking out in the hall, and Sokka strains to hear it. The door creaks open, and Sokka tenses. If they’ve come to take his sister, he’ll fight them. He can feel Katara beside him draw a hopeful breath and deflate when the visitor enters, dressed in the reds and golds and blacks of a fire and ashes. It is not the Avatar, come to save them. It is not their father. The old man smiles at them, and Sokka pushes himself in front of Katara, wary. “You look hungry,” the man says, his weird sideburns and beard sticking out in three points. On anyone it would be terrifying, Sokka knows it should be terrifying on his captor, but it looks… almost comical. He swallows. They're both starving and he knows it. Whatever the price for the food, he’ll have to pay it. “We seem to be stuck in the ice. While we wait, would you care to join me and my nephew for some tea?”

What IF …. Cisco was the one to die instead of Dante after/during/because of flashpoint

Barry stumbled into STAR Labs, his legs aching from the run. He needed some stability, something familiar, after all the blurring memories. After the grief. Caitlin and Cisco and the computers and lights of the cortex, anything. Caitlin sat at one of the desks, frowning at her monitor. A mug of coffee cooled beside her. With the rush of air, she looked up. “I’m--”, Barry cut himself off. Back didn’t really fit, did it? He wasn’t sure where in this timeline he had broken through, and too much was muddled in his mind to figure it out yet. Caitlin turned in her seat to look at him, slow. “Barry,” she said. Time seemed to freeze as Barry took in everything around him, his brain speeding up to process all the things that didn’t add up, that didn’t fit, that weren’t right. There were police files on Caitlin’s desktop, a mess of them alongside uncapped hi-liters, and rings from myriad coffee mugs. It was a far cry from her usual tidiness. The glass board was wheeled back against one wall, photos of criminals stuck to it, some faces more familiar than others, some he could not place at all. Beneath the papers that still rustled with the breeze of arrival, he could see the places where an eraser had not gotten all of the marker off. The markings were long straight lines and filled in circles, not the complex calculations or Lord of the Rings family trees that usually cluttered every available writing surface. The satellite feed that usually lit up a screen near the slot in the wall for his suit was blank. And Cisco’s desk… Cisco’s desk was like a lit beacon of Things That Were Wrong. The Star Trek mug had been replaced by a plain green one, and an unfamiliar leather portfolio case was aligned neatly with the side of the desk. A few thin coils of wire were arranged around a few small tools, but there were no blueprints, no pens going dry, no pencils loose. There were no bolts or washers scattered across the surface, and the computer was off, with a thin layer of dust. A suit jacket was arranged over the back of a straight backed chair. “What are you doing here?” Caitlin finished. Barry blinked. “I-- came to see… you?” he asked, then corrected. “How you were doing.” He had not missed that Caitlin’s eyes, while dry, were red-rimmed. “How do you think we’re doing?” she asked, her voice suddenly the harsh snap of cracking ice. She held the silence for a moment and then sighed, softening. “I--know it’s been a hard summer. Did you find anything?” “Anything?” Barry echoed, looking back to the desk that should have been Cisco’s. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, to lose his memory of previous timelines, for a little more clarity here. “What, uh, am I looking...for?” “What do you mean, what are you looking for?” a voice that was far more angry than it was familiar rang out, beating its owner through the doorway. “ How could you possibly not remember?” Barry stared at the man facing him. A pair of dark-paned goggles had been pushed up above his eyes, mussing short, styled hair. Barry recognized him, but seeing him here, in Cisco’s goggles, was startling. “Dante? Dante … Ramon? What are you doing here?” he asked, his words too fast to pull back. All he could think of was the teacup in Jay’s hand, precarious. “What am I doing here?” Dante repeated. “Some friend you are. But then, you’ve already shown that. I’m here trying to do your job for you, since you won’t.” “Dante,” Caitlin said, face pinched. “What?” he snapped. “Someone has to actually keep this city safe. He let them kill my baby brother, and I’m not going to let them get away with it.” Barry stumbled, feeling as though another bolt of lightning had just struck him, his whole body numb. He could see the teacup, shattering. “Cisco’s…” Barry managed to say, the pit in his heart that had torn open when Zoom killed his father bursting. Dante advanced, and Barry noticed for the first time that his palms were wrapped in layers of bandages, his fingertips creased and callused and burned like he’d been working with hot wire. He saw it coming, clearly telegraphed, but

could not move as Dante gripped the air in one hand, twisting, and gripped Barry’s shoulder with the other, holding back the hiss of pain. His eyes blazed golden, and he released Barry with a shove so hard Barry hit the doorframe behind him. “Dante!” Caitlin leaped to her feet, but Dante ignored her, taking a step towards Barry. “What,” he asked, his voice dangerously soft, “ did you do?”

Prompt: Prosper, post-canon, "no one is coming to save you" they are, though

The sun sets and the band of travelers stop, circling the carts, setting the watch fire, trailing a silver thread around the whole thing. The soup pot boils, and the warriors crack a few jokes as they pass around a bottle. Their hands never stray too far from their swords and axes. There are gaps in the songs of crickets and nightbirds. One of the captives, a young gnome in chains that weigh more than he does, cries for his mother. “Hush,” the leader of the slavers snaps. “There’s no one coming to save you, so you best stay on my good side.” His hand closes around the hilt of his greatsword in clear warning. One of the other prisoners, a tiefling teenager with a collar that keeps her in silence to prevent any magic that might slip from her tongue, scoots as far as she can in the circle they’ve all been penned up in, trying to offer what little comfort she can give. It isn’t much. She’s not even sure what she would say, if she could. But the little boy stops crying, and the crackle of the fire warms them enough that they will not die of cold. Not yet, anyways.

The fire doesn’t die away in the night, though the slave-sellers don’t waste the spells or the wood. A few mutter about fey magic, but they're grateful for the warmth, too. The full moon breaks through the low clouds in a few places, but not enough to illuminate the open plain any better than the fire. Long shadows twist behind the slavers on guard and the wagons as the cloud cover scuttles across the sky and the fire dances. An owl calls out, in the distance. A bell rings faintly. And the fire explodes. Two of the kidnappers die, turned to ash and charred leather and molten metal, in the time it takes to breathe in. Any alarm they might have sounded dies with them, though it’s not needed. The burst of light is enough to wake their companions, and the captives shrink as close to one another as their bonds and iron pickets will permit, trying to stay out of range of whatever attack has reached this far south. The gnome wails again, and the teifling wants to cry with him, trapped with no hope of defense. The leader of their captors unsheathes his sword, and the moonlight and firelight meet on the blade, glowing bright with magic. The arrow, straight from the shadow, catches in his armor. As he charges at the hidden attacker, bellowing, the fire turns from scarlet to silver. The sword slices through air, and he drops, the black hilt of a dagger visible between the pieces of his armor. “I told you there would be no second warning,” comes a voice from the fire and the shadow, where no one stands. The shadows grow darker and the fire blazes brighter with a roar. Three of the remaining warriors run, and make it a dozen yards before a giant, gleaming stone falls through the clouds and crushes them. The rest of them die with daggers of shining black glass in their eyes or throats. The prisoners hold their breath against the stink of smoke and the fear, waiting for whatever creature has declared this place off limits to turn on them. Instead, the crystal boulder moves, and melts away into the form of an elf. The fire softens into emberglow, and a tiny figure steps across the ashes. A little white stoat runs before her, twisting against the hands of the crying child like a playful cat. The obsidian thief, one of them whispers. It must be, who else travels by flame and kills with glass and steals away slaves? She’s smaller than expected, a halfling with a jeweled quiver and a belt of knives. Her stoat is nearly half as big as she is. “Please,” one of the older captives says, quietly, a word that’s done none of them any good in weeks, when they see her reach for that belt. “Safe now,” she says, and the moonlight shows a scar circling one wrist, revealing the metal in her hand to be not a blade, but a lockpick. “Free, now. I came for you.”