Entry tags:

Intro Post

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The last thing Mick remembers is having been on the beach. That's it. Stretches of clean surf and warm sand and good drinks and then out like a light. Just faded to sleep in the noon-day sun.

The place where he's laying is far more uncomfortable. It's cold as fuck concrete ground and of all the damn things he's still wearing his ridiculous beach clothes, modest for a man who doesn't want to show off his scars but obviously something not meant for late February weather. And he's fully unconscious, cheek smushed into the hard ground, laying limp in an alley between two small-town stores.

The first person that sees him is a little girl, a tomboy in a baseball jersey who runs to get another couple of her friends. Their first adventure in finding a newbie, and by god, they're going to safely rouse him by poking him with sticks.

Snart hears a commotion in an alley as he walks by. In Central City, in his old neighborhoods, a bunch of kids getting rowdy in an alleyway means that someone's probably getting the shit beaten out of them, but this doesn't seem like that kind of town.

Whatever town this is.

He steps into the alley thinking maybe he can get that question answered, but freezes when he sees what the fuss is about. It's only a moment, then he steps into action.

"Don't you have homes to get to? Dark alleys aren't safe for brats, even in the daytime," he says in his chilliest voice, looming over them.

Edited (missing word, plus a few tweaks ) 2019-03-01 02:54 (UTC)

Mick stirs at the sound of a familiar voice. One that he more recently, in person, cutting into him with jaggedly sharp edges rather than with the cool friendliness they'd managed to achieve towards their end of their tenure. Then Snart, replaying in his mind, a vision and a symptom of grief. Dead forever. Not real, but intense enough that he could have been.

Hard to tell if this is real or not. Might be dreaming. But he's fucking cold and the last thing he remembers he was on a beach, and his damned bones ache.

Mick props himself up, sees a gaggle of school age hoodlums staring up a cunning criminal like they got caught by the pigs. What the hell.

"Snart?" The tone is question. Real? Not real? Here to kill him? Revenge of the staff? Alive? Who the fuck knows.

"Yeah?"

Snart replies, expecting a follow up question. As far as he's concerned, his existence shouldn't itself be a question, so there must be a follow up.

Well, first thing is first.

Mick hops up and oh so gracefully garble-roars at those dumb kids, sending them running with their sticks. These are words he wants to have alone, goddammit.

Then, the other important matter, now that the fleeing munchkins have given them some privacy.

"What about the Legion of Doom." First test question. See how that goes. But goddammit, his legs are fucking cold. Why the hell is he in... what is this, fucking Maryland? Wisconsin? It's a cold alley and the air is too clean for Central City. It's pretty piss free back here.

"Dumb name. I like the Rogues better. Why?" It's a weird time to be talking about changing gang names.

And why the hell is Mick dressed for a Caribbean cruise?

Mick's soul crumples, right there. It's on his face. And he sits on a stack of palettes with his hands in his lap. Fucking hell.

"Legends probably doesn't mean anything either, does it?" He asks, grimly, staring at the pavement. "Goddammit. I was in Aruba. I'd like to take a vacation where I wasn't kidnapped or some super-asshole didn't come sweeping in or some historical dickhead didn't come dancing through. What did those idiots do now."

There are many many stories Mick is angrily telling himself and unfortunately he's so put out and internalizing all that heated hate that Snart's just getting the crumbs falling out of Mick's mouth as he stuffs his face with regrets.

Snart is surprised by Mick's reaction. He didn't think Mick cared about the name that much. If it means that much to him...

...nah...not even to make Mick happy. Legion of Doom is a dumb name and they're not calling themselves that.

"I know the Legends. Did the do-gooders survive the Oculus? They must have if you're here, 'cause I don't remember you ever going to Aruba before."

So this can't be the past. Damn, time travel is headache-inducing.

"You remember the Oculus?" And that jolts Mick right back upright, stepping forward to grab at Snart's arms and pull him within good staring distance. Which, for Mick, is somewhere between point blank and too close for comfort.

"You remember what you did? Right?"

His hands, rarely bare so they're all scars instead of leather, come up to rest at the sides of Len's neck. "When we reached the Oculus? Knocked me out. Did something you shouldn't have done."

Len's face creases in confusion, his face close enough to Mick's to feel his breath.

"Yeah, I remember it. It happened about an hour ago. And I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't jumped in to save the boy scout."

If Ray Palmer wanted to sacrifice himself for the greater good, fine. But like hell was Len going to let Mick do it.

Should someone stumble across them, the whites of Mick's eyes could likely be seen a street and a half away. "You remember," he breathes, expression not changing out of the general shaken look of 'intense'. But then he repeats a "You remember!"

And Snart is hugged. Tight. Lifted up off the ground.

"It's you!"

And he's real enough for Mick to touch and to pick up and squeeze and smell Oh god he puts him down and jams his nose into his collar and huffs. Then back to look at him again. "You're real and you remember.... My legs are cold." Yeah, just... guess it's time to account for that discomfort, thanks.

"Mick...what are you doing?"

He saw Mick a mere hour ago, and this seems like a lot more touchy-feely than one hour apart justifies. There's something freaky going on here and it's probably the Legends' fault.

"And why are you in shorts?"

"You were gone, Snart. You've been dead for months." But people don't remember actually being dead. "So I spent that time with people that never really thought I was good enough for them." No one except Amaya, anyway. "And then Eobard Thawne and his two boyfriends used you to recruit me. Old you, that is.

Though he absolutely agrees this is partially his fault. He looks down at his skirt of a thing over his shorts, the best he could manage to cover up some of those scars.

"Finally got away from it, got to take a break in Aruba. And what happens? Now I'm fuckin' in sandals in freezing weather. I need some pants. But I'm not going anywhere-" he points at him "-without you."

"I don't remember ever being recruited by Eobard Thawne. Don't remember him working with a team, either."

He heard all about Reverse Flash before setting out with the Legends. Seemed to Snart like he was working alone back then, masquerading as Dr. Wells.

Len glances down at Mick's bare legs.

"Come on, let's get some clothes." He takes out the wallet he stole to see what he got out of it. A bit of cash, two credit cards, bank card, good enough to get Mick some pants.

There's something sadly fond in the way Mick huffs a laugh at the wallet. Just something he missed that no one else does. That casual slyness and expression of easy accomplishment. It's one of the deep holes gauged out in his life after Snart's loss.

"I tried to... I don't know. Get a new partner. Move on. You know that fuckin' Jesus painting? The one that some old lady tried to fix? That's how they all felt."

What? Mick's not classy but he remembers that happening. Hell, he remembers the original fresco.

He follows after Snart. Figures that they'll deal with any questions as they reach them.

Snart pauses, puts the wallet away and looks at Mick, properly looks at him. It's been only an hour since he saw Mick last, but it's been longer for Mick. A lot longer. He'd knocked Mick out and told Sara to drag him away from the Oculus because he couldn't let Mick die. He couldn't let the universe spin on for him without Mick in it. In the moment, he didn't care much about how Mick would feel living in a universe without Len. He's always been selfish, even his altruism was selfish.

He rubs his fingers over his pinky where the silver ring had been.

"Well, you've got your real partner back now. And I ain't going anywhere."

Unfortunately Mick's most recent, searing memories are of telling Snart that he becomes a better man. After seeing Snart kill him, at that.

He fishes that ring out of his shirt pocket, the one left on him, and holds it out towards Snart as they walk.

"Here."

Something to quietly keep and never show anyone ever, like a raw, over-exposed emotion. People are starting to stare at the very inappropriately dressed man. He knows he stands out. Normally Mick wouldn't care, but there's a mix of disdain and excitement he can see stirring in their faces and that's a little concerning.

Snart takes the ring and slips it back on his finger.

"Thanks."

He should probably say something more, something about how he's sorry, but he's never been good at that, at admitting to feeling things.

Besides, they're acquiring too much of an audience.

"What are you guys looking at? Never seen a man's legs before?"

"You're one of them." A woman in some nigh on Presbyterian church goer gear says. Long dress with thick tights under it. Plain style of make-up. Thick coat pulled around her. "You were sent here from somewhere else."

Like she's fucking talking to angels.

"Christ," Mick mutters, rubbing the back of his head. This one's new. Sort of. Blaming it on the Lord has happened a few times but this is a new flavor to it. So what the hell, might as well make his intentions clear. "I need pants!" He declares once again, loudly, at the lady. Because by god if he's a blessing from heaven he needs trousers to go with it. "It's like Russia all over again.

Snart's seen this kind of thing in movies before. They're gonna end up hanged as witches or burned in a cage in some kind of freaky spring harvest ritual or something. He's gotta freeze this line of speculation before the townsfolk get any funny ideas.

"Look, lady, it's not what you're thinking. My buddy and I just had a wild night last night, that's all." A wild night in which Mick became pantless.

He immediately jumps on the same mental track as Snart, nodding firmly.

"I need pants and an aspirin. And a burger." Hangover materials. But also good food. So there's that.

But then he leans in close to Snart, and whispers in his ear. "Let's get these clothes fast. And figure out what 'them' means." Big feelings later. Safety and not being nutty religious sacrifices now.

Snart nods once and wishes he had a cell phone. Navigation to the nearest clothes store would be helpful. It's a shame that everyone locks their phones these days or else he'd just steal one from the looky-loos. If they even have cell phones. They look like rotary dial kind of people.

"Told ya that last drink was a bad idea." And he picks up the pace to get away from the bystanders and, hopefully, closer to pants and answers.

"Yeah, but what's the fun in playing it safe?" Mick is saying, though a moment later he's walking away, muttering under his breath. "Except I think it's what we should do." His time with the Legends has at least taught him to restrain those feral, burning urges. This town doesn't require immediate immolation to get answers.

"We need someone that can tell us what's going on."

He still fucking needs pants too, so first concern is first. He strides into a general store and grabs some off the shelf. The woman at the counter is blinking as he's putting them on right there, casting his other covering aside. Blinking as he's grabbing a jacket off the shelf and a pair of leather winter gloves. Good enough.

Some things never change, he doesn't give a damned if he's being watched while he dresses.

"Hey, you have to pay for that-" She starts.

"I'm gonna! Don't make assumptions, lady. Sometimes a man with a hangover just needs to cover his ass." An invisible hangover, he'll just stick with the story.

Snart takes out his stolen wallet and tosses a credit card on the counter.

"Here. All the clothes on him are on me. Financially." He adds, in case the cashier doesn't get the joke.

Mick moves his floral man-sarong to the side as he slides on the pants over his beach shorts and then wads it up and throws it in the nearest trash can. After that the coat is pulled on (over the Aloha shirt and scar-concealing undershirt) and the gloves and boots last.

Good. Everything covered.

"Are you sure you're not-" the woman at the register is saying. Were she being more attentive, she'd probably notice the name on the card. Small towns bring out the regular customers. Luckily, Mick is an amazing distraction by just existing.

"Getting some of these, too." He grabs a bag of donut holes. He's going to need them to work out a head full of big fucking feelings.

Welcome to Carlyle...

Waking Up

Getting Familiarized

Settling In

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject