Intro Post

[shitstorm_eve]

Welcome to Carlyle... Waking Up It's happening again. All around town. Maybe it's in the cereal aisle of the general store while no mothers with squalling children are traversing it. Maybe it's in the middle of the town's lonely graveyard, full of hundred-year-old graves in the middle of the night. Maybe in the local city hall restroom, eyes opening to a gaze-full of toilet paper, or in the town's settler museum full of wagon wheels and old farming paraphernalia. There are still a few government workers milling around since the first influx. People in bland suits of various shades of grays and browns, nothing particularly impressive, but if they approach someone who doesn't seem to belong they'll bring them through the intake process. Though there's a chance that, instead, they'll meet a kindly marshall. Average middle-class white guy, a tall Midwesterner with some scruff and a formal uniform and a stocky build. He will discretely move them through if it's needed, make sure they have an ID and paperwork and phone and some concealing clothes if they have the body type that works for it. If they look special or like someone the government might want, he'll try to keep things on the down-low for them. Better than to lose people again. Getting Familiarized When investigating the town, they'll find it with trace damage from the night before. Someone is replacing a door that has ax-marks in it. Another is rebuilding a fence, a crashed car ready to be towed away. And yet another person is filing an insurance claim with his agent, his shed completely burned down and the air closeby filled with the scent of settled smoke. Most of the residents of Carlyle are friendly. If you stop and ask for directions, they'll give them. It's also a time of year in which there are lots of outsiders, on top of current events. Unfortunately, if anyone's dressed in an entirely unfamiliar way, someone might over-react. They may excitedly run to get one of the agents, or they might scream about it happening again, or they might be absolutely delighted and want pictures so they can go viral on FaceBook. There's a cafe in town where there's are a slew of reporters, talking about post-Vesanalia clean-up and the lost arrivals. At first, someone who wanders in might be mistaken for another reporter, there to order coffee or jam microphones at the management outside. But someone might be smart. A towns-person might notice something off, a familiarity in their gaze, or might hear them say something suspicious. The next thing they know, those reporters are turning their microphones towards the newcomer. Settling In Someone might need somewhere to sleep. Well, there's a nice little hotel where it's free. There's probably government surveillance if you care about that sort of thing. Otherwise, your rest will go undisturbed and have the average conveniences of a mediocre bed, a Febreeze smelling duvet, a somewhat new TV, and bathroom with a tile pattern installed in the 80s. One could try a barn, but there's a chance they'll be run out by an angry man in honest to god overalls and an unironic cowboy hat with a pitchfork. They could also try to sleep in a vehicle. Let's just hope the owner doesn't come checking before morning.

Comments

[perfectlychill]

Snart leans on the counter by the register and turns up the charm half a notch. "Sorry for the disruption, ma'am. My pal's just in a hurry to get home. It was a rough night. We'll be outta your hair in a second."

[slowburn]

She's caught off guard, caught in a grin at the handsome man shooting her a look at that, punctuated by the awkward midwestern small town women not used to visits from men that are that handsome.

"Oh, well... I guess it can't be any worse than the boys down at the tavern."

As she's saying this, Mick walks out of the store, dumping the tags from the clothing on the counter as he goes. His chest literally hurts. It's hard to look at Snart after everything. To think that he's real and there, and what the fuck, only a little while ago he'd self-sacrificed to save the damn timeline. Feels like Mick's been-

Wait. He has been alive for a lifetime since then. Even if he was asleep for most of it.

He needs sugar.

[perfectlychill]

Snart makes a mental note to himself to check out the tavern later. But right now he and Mick need to find someplace quiet to lay low and talk. Then tonight they can hit up an ATM, get some cash to tide them over for a while, and figure out what they're going to do next.

[slowburn]

Mick waits outside for him, looking up and down the street with a hard-won grimace on his face. Where does one even begin with this kind of conversation?

Well, with a lot of booze. And then maybe it shouldn't begin at all.

"Something is real damn off, here," he greets Snart with when he comes out.

[perfectlychill]

"You mean aside from the fact that I'm dead and you're from a year in the future and we were both dropped into this sickeningly quaint little town?" Snart walks close to Mick, almost brushing shoulders, keeping alert for a place they could hide out for a few nights.

[slowburn]

They pass a wall with what looks like human fingernail scratches. A man is outside with sandpaper, an irritable look, and a can of paint casually trying to rub them out of the wood.

"Quaint. Right." The words meander, drawn out and thoughtful.

"We just need somewhere to hide long enough for them to come get us." Like they did with Haircut and Chicken Legs. "The Brit's not in charge anymore. He bailed like a coward. Sara took over. Things go a hell of a lot smoother already." Even with complications of that jerk's making. Sure, Mick's so glad to see a brand new Time Bureau. His Blackjack and Hookers version. Surely it'll be a step above mind control.

[perfectlychill]

"Come get you, you mean. They don't know I'm here. If you're right and I'm dead, then I'm probably a time anomaly. And we know what happens to those." He punctuates his words with a flick of his index finger.

Snart ain't going quietly into that good night. And he's not gonna put down roots here either. Which means he's gotta figure something out between now and when the Legends arrive looking for Mick.

[slowburn]

"Hate to fill you in on the bad news, but you might have to go through your own 'Come to Jesus'. Locked up in the Waverider brig. Turns out you met us before, back when we were on the outs. The Legion of Doom recruited you. In some of their time crap, you were at your worst.

"You killed my friend. Our friend. You killed me, too. We had to break things to fix that. Then erase your memory to put you back.

"They'll rescue us but some of the new guys might side eye you a little." Sara, he guesses, would be glad to see him.

It's unpleasant news, though. "We should get somewhere more quiet." And less weirdly eavesdroppy.

[perfectlychill]

Snart frowns at the brief summary of what his past self did. Even at his worst, the only way he can figure that he'd kill Mick is if Mick...left. Chose the Legends over him. Fucking ironic if so, since Mick nearly killed Len for that same thing not long ago. Funny, in a terrible way. "So I'm gonna have to prove to them that I'm not gonna get all murder-y on any of them. Fine." Snart scans the street and sees a strip mall up the road. There's hardly any cars in the parking lot and half the stores look boarded up. Casualties of the Great Recession. Bad for the local economy, great for short term hideouts. "Up ahead. Old Blockbuster. Let's check it out."

[slowburn]

And yet it still hurts, despite the cruel irony. Maybe because he chose Snart first, willing to unmake all of reality for him. But also maybe that, out of all the Legends to kill, he'd chosen the only one to see more of Mick than some idiot muscle that carried people around.

But he can't worry about that now.

"Good. We can see what they've not cleaned out." He straightens out his gloves, but keeps glancing over at Snart. It's not even out of a desire to talk. Just to see that he is real.

[perfectlychill]

Snart misinterprets Mick's quick glances. His shoulders tense slightly. "I'm not gonna kill you, you know. I just died trying to keep you alive. Killing you after I did that would be stupid." And the thought of Mick dead, especially by his own hand, makes him feel sick. He's changed. The Flash, the Legends, they've changed him. It may look to the outside that he has somewhat more feelings now, but in truth he feels calmer, the constant undercurrent of cold anger is gone.

[slowburn]

"That's not it!" Mick insists. But he looks around them to make sure there aren't any eavesdropping old ladies to hear him raise his voice or anything. Anyone? That old man over there? No he's probably one of those 'what did you say?' ten times guys.

Then he keeps walking with him.

"I wouldn't have cared if it had just been me, anyway." He mutters, grimly admitting a hard truth. But yeah, shit better covered in private or not covered at all. God he misses that martini he fell the fuck asleep by. Note to self. Get beer. Through any means possible.

"Hopefully somewhere in this place has cheap internet or something." Mick realizes, then, that he does still have his phone. It's in the swim shorts underneath his newly acquired pants, and he pulls it out.

[perfectlychill]

"Place like this, we're probably going to get stuck with dial-up. Or Hughes Net. Ugh, it's like going back in time." Why couldn't he have been resurrected in Gotham? Or Metropolis? Carlyle doesn't even have a proper slums.

[slowburn]

"Someone's gotta be self-important enough for fancy wifi. It's too much trouble to sign up for insurance without it."

He nods to one of the adjuster's cars, and honestly that's probably the most valid and intelligent thought Mick has had today.

"Otherwise I'm pretty sure it'd take three hours to load Archive of our Own or some shit." He says it offhandedly, not even realizing how fucking weird that is.