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Post by Wally West on Aug 2, 2019 21:56:58 GMT -5
https://i~imgur~com/yL8Ei1K~jpg My name is Wally West, and I am the fastest man in Gotham.Maybe that doesn't sound all that impressive to you, but me? I like it just fine. There are more metahumans in the world every single day, and come on, have you seen how many of them are speedsters? You've got your Flashes, your Reverse-Flashes, your Zooms, those Russian guys in their matching outfits, and don't get me started on people who have superspeed because they're aliens, or magical beings, or whatever the hell else. At the rate things are going, there'll be a speedster in every city before too long, and it'll be all too easy for a Kid like me to get lost in the crowd.But not this Kid. No, sir. Because y'see, I'm the fastest man in Gotham City. This is my city. Or at least, it's the city I'm borrowing. So for now, until some broody speedster called Bat-Fash shows up to steal my thunder, this handsome bolt of charm and lightning is the only speedster the people of Gotham have, and the only speedster they need.No getting lost in the crowd for me.Buildings streaked by as Kid Flash tore his way along the Gotham streets, dodging his way through traffic and dancing across intersections with the laser focus of a man on a mission. Well, laser-ish focus, anyway. There was only so much that Wally West's mind could actually process when the world was blurring by this fast, so that did a pretty good job of keeping his attention focused on-task, but there were always little bits and pieces that managed to bleed through. That neon sign down that dubious looking alley, for example? That was the Golden Booty, Gotham's pirate-themed strip club, because of course Gotham had a pirate-themed strip club, why wouldn't it? And then that guy over there, in the pretentious looking charcoal grey sedan with the tinted windows and the black rims? He probably didn't realise it, but his licence plate was FRTBGR, which totally spells Fartburger, and that probably told you everything you needed to know about the guy inside. And then there were the noises, too, the slow motion, twisted, distorted sounds that barely even seemed like voices, as if you were listening to Dory try to talk to a whale with your head shoved in a bathtub. This was Flashtime: or at least, that was what Uncle Barry called it, because apparently you couldn't be a superhero without adopting the Batman school of naming conventions. It was a sweet spot, a point at which you began to move so fast that the Speed Force decided to do you a solid, and slow down everything around you. It was like bullet time in The Matrix, only without the dynamic camera angles, and with maybe 7% less leather and a disappointing lack of trenchcoats and sunglasses. Not that trenchcoats and sunglasses were all that great for a speedster, truth be told: anything that was loose enough to fall outside your Speed Force aura had a habit of either flying off or being air frictioned into flames as you ran, and while sure, you could concentrate and extend your aura to encompass things like that, the same way you would while you were carrying a damsel to safety without all her hair burning off or whatever, what was even the point of wearing a trenchcoat and sunglasses if you were going to have to be all hyper-aware of it and stuff? That was the opposite of cool. That was pretentious douchebaggery. Might as well throw on some piercings and eyeliner and start acting like a vampire, because at that stage you were all about that Goth life, and that was one of many things that Wally West most definitely was not. But yes. Flashtime. Cars. Obstacles. A bike messenger - I mean, come on dude, a bike messenger? In Gotham? Sort your life out, dude - clipped by some asshole in a Mustang, snagged by a streak of crimson before he hit the ground and deposited safely on the pavement; a tangle of lightning whirring around the Mustang like a swarm of angry bees, transforming the vehicle into a beautifully arrayed collection of dismantled parts laid out on the street around where the driver sat, stunned and confused in the driver's seat, still clutching the steering wheel in his hands. This was what it was like, being a speedster. Being a Flash. This was the life. The 22nd Street Bridge loomed in the distance, about two seconds away: a welcome reassurance that Wally was headed in the right direction. Gotham was a confusing city, with its weird tangle of roads, juxtaposed neighbourhoods, and fragmented islands stitched together with more bridges than the Hollywood Walk of Fame. There were parts that didn't make sense, parts that looked like they belonged to entirely different cities, and yet somehow worked. It was all weird, all confusing. Like, take this street, right here. That bridge up ahead was the 22nd Street Bridge, so of course, you'd be forgiven for thinking this was 22nd Street. But not it wasn't. Not yet, at least. For now, and until the bridge itself, this was Bowery, both the street and the neighbourhood. Why wasn't it 22nd Street the whole way along? Sure, the street did a whole swerve from eastish to northish, so if you followed the whole streets across and avenues up system of things, stuff might get pretty confusing for you when 22nd Street managed to cross 13th Street at almost right angles. But Gotham didn't do that. In Gotham, north-south streets had names, and east-west ones had numbers. Except for when they didn't, because apparently Gotham's architects hadn't known how to count, or whatever. It was almost enough to make you miss the pleasant orderly surroundings of Central City. Almost. A few seconds later, and the 22nd Street Bridge was behind him, and 22nd Street proper was beneath his feet, the looming brownstone walls of the Upper East Side forming a cliff to his left, the somewhat more lackadaisical smattering of mismatched buildings that made up the neighbourhood of Coventry off to his right. Coventry in Gotham, not to be confused with Coventry in England, Wally had learned, thanks to the internet. Because just like Bristol, Burnley, Burton, Somerset, and even Gotham itself, the historic founders of this city had apparently been unimaginative English name-thieves. Not that there was anywhere in America that wasn't guilty of at least a little bit of that, but here in Gotham - a city that had originally been called New Rotterdam by the Dutch settlers who first founded it - it definitely felt a little weird. It didn't matter now though, because one more turn, and he was on Park Avenue, quite possibly the only sensibly-named thing in all of Gotham City, right next to Gotham's largest, centrally located park. Wally hunkered down into his running stride, and all of Midtown blurred by in a flash, one last bridge bringing him finally, finally to the cool part of Gotham. Well, the proper part of Gotham, anyway. This was the bit that everyone recognised, when the footage showed up on the news. The sleek towers of Downtown, the modern glass structures of the Financial District, the looming art deco of Old Gotham, and the abject poverty lurking in the shadows beneath, ignored or unnoticed by those too distracted by their money and their shiny things to care. Wally cut off the main streets, plunging into the dismal depths of the Diamond District, his pace slowing for just the briefest of moments to throw a smug wink and salute at a hooded motorcyclist in figure-hugging red leathers as he passed, before speeding off again. If there was anywhere that truly summed up the Gotham City experience, it was here. The name of it implied something so majestic. The Diamond District, seat of the diamond trade, home of the wealthy, the money lenders, the Gotham elite of old. The architecture followed through on that, that distinctive Cyrus Pinkney style that Wally had read about in Brentwood's library, the kind of structure that must have cost a fortune back in its day. But Gotham had changed it, like nature reclaiming abandoned ruins, except instead of verdant overgrowth there were fires and graffiti, homeless huddling in broken corners, a damp ichor of grime and destitution covering each and every surface. It looked like something out of a video game, the aftermath of some ill-defined apocalypse that had left decay and ruination in its wake. And then there, at the heart of it, twenty-seven seconds after Wally West had snuck out of the window of one of Brentwood Academy's many bathrooms - suck it, GCPD response times - was the Solomon Wayne Courthouse, the throne upon which Gotham's grandfather and financial benefactor had once sat. There, standing on the cracked and broken steps with a smug grin on his fur-wreathed face, was the all-too-familiar visage of one Leonard Snart: the dastardly Rogue known, at his insistance, as Captain Cold. And there, arrayed between them, was a cowering mass of innocent civilians, a herd of helpless bystanders swept into whatever scheme or machination Captain Cold had in store. As Kid Flash slid to an elegant, practice-perfected halt, his mouth drew into a thin line. So much for not getting lost in the crowd.
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Post by Captain Cold on Aug 2, 2019 22:36:35 GMT -5
In this life, there were bad days, and good days. There were bad days, like when the contest of wits between you and your Scarlet Speedster nemesis came to an abrupt end thanks to the right place, right time fortune of some lucky rookie cop who couldn't and shouldn't possibly have been where they'd been; days where, after years of enthralling Central City with your dastardly deeds, the only charges the DA was confident they could make stick only added up to a measly eighteen months in Iron Heights. There were good days, when that year and a half came to an unexpected end, thanks to the mysterious arrival of a stiff-lipped and well-spoken defense attorney with a fondness for penguin suits, who wanted you to move to Gotham City and get paid extra to do the sort of thing you would have otherwise done for free. Sometimes there were excellent days, like when you discovered said Penguin had a flair for the thematic, and that you were to play the starring role on an off-Broadway production of Gotham: On Ice. Today was one of those days, though it remained to be seen which. Snart's instructions had been simple. Make a scene. Create noise. Draw attention. It was part of a larger plan, he could feel it, but the broader particulars were something he hadn't been told. Something he didn't even need to know, either. Compartmentalisation. Countermeasures. He could respect that; The Penguin had done right by him this far, and had earned at least that much. Snart knew his part, and it was a part he could play well. Make enough noise to draw the attention of Gotham's capes? Absolutely.
In Central City, attention had become something of a thrill. When your opposite number was someone with the style and flair of The Flash himself, it was all too easy to be theatrical, all too easy to embrace the character you created for yourself. It wasn't just crime anymore, not for someone like Leonard Snart. They weren't just crooks, they were celebrity criminals. Influencers, and a less objectionable kind than the teens and youngsters crying into their webcams and playing video games in cat ears on social media. There were fandoms, message boards, even merchandising: kudos to Iron Heights for that, getting your inmates to put their own faces on what they made in the prison workshop, a few dollars of extra markup to help keep the lights on.
Of course, Snart had been hoping for The Batman. He felt like an appropriate adversary. There was a certain class of vigilante hero that got to be The something, and after having been part of an ensemble cast of nemeses for The Flash, Snart was all too ready for a little time alone in the spotlight with the Dark Knight. He hadn't expected it, of course. Prepared for it, yes, but hadn't relied upon that fact. That was why the blurred arrival of scarlet speed and golden lightning represented only a mild and underwhelming disappointment, but not the complete devastation of his plan.
"Kid. Flash."
It was only two words, but Snart savoured every moment of them like a connoisseur with a fine brandy. His mouth split into a smile, equal parts familiarity and condescension. It could have been the Emerald Archer, or one of the Dark Knight's back up dancers, or one of the other vigilantes lurking around Gotham's streets these days. Snart wasn't even sure that anyone had the full list; if they did, they hadn't been kind enough to share. Make the plan. Carry out the plan. Wait for the plan to go wrong. Throw away the plan. That was how this entire business worked. But no, bless you, Gotham City, for confronting Snart with a familiar classic from his existing repertoir.
"Fancy running into you here."
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Post by Wally West on Aug 2, 2019 22:57:04 GMT -5
https://i~imgur~com/yL8Ei1K~jpg The pun was like a bullet to Wally's heart. It was bad enough when Uncle Barry insisted on it, all the time, and worse whenever the two of them had a showdown. There were times when it almost felt like they were dating, Cold and Flash, meeting up from time to time just to make wordplay at each other before getting all swoony and heart-eyes. But at least then, they'd all been aimed firmly at the Flash himself, aside from the few offhand remarks that were disparagingly thrown Wally's way. Now, they were aimed at Kid Flash directly, like a deer in the headlights that was somehow also in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle. But you know what? Bring it.The crowd obediently parted as Wally swaggered his way towards the steps of the courthouse, drawing on as much misplaced bravado. It was odd for him to move so slow, uncomfortable almost, but it gave him time, gave him the opportunity to really drink in the details of his surroundings. He let his eyes meet with every face in the crowd, a nod of recognition, the tiny faint flicker of a smile when it was needed. Confidence. Reassurance. I got this. I know this guy. I know what I'm doing.Snart wasn't alone. That was important. Not one of his usual associates, either. Not one of the Rogues from back in Central City, and not someone Wally recognised from the police reports and mug shots he'd speed-perused that one time the guy at the 13th Street Precinct had been a little slow shutting the fire door behind him when he'd stepped out for a smoke. Their colours matched though, that was cute. A new look for Snart's sister, maybe? But no, to pretty for that, in a sort of objective, I guess you could see why someone would like that, much much older woman sort of way. Definite ice vibes, what with the colour scheme, and the white hair, and the lipstick and the nails. It definitely worked for her. Definitely a cool look. Damn it. Now I'm doing it.His attention having lingered on her for long enough that it might have seemed a little creepy if he didn't say anything, Wally made a point of giving Snart's companion his full attention, his mind racing through the sorts of things that Uncle Barry would have said in a situation like this. Not that Wally was out to be Uncle Barry, that seemed like a fate worse than death; but the kinds of things that Uncle Barry would say were also the kinds of things that The Flash would say, and if people were going to be comfortable with him here, if people were going to take him seriously, if all these people in this crowd were going to feel like this situation was being handled by someone who knew what they were doing, living up to those Flash expectations didn't seem like a bad place to start. "Whose this, Snart?" he asked, voice aimed at Captain Cold, but eyes still focused on his mystery companion. "Are you finally old enough news that you had to hire a nurse and go the assisted living route?" Reaching the bottom of the courthouse stairs, Wally allowed himself to come to a natural halt. "Let me guess. You're Cold Girl, right? The Snow Queen? Icemaiden?" |
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Post by Caitlin Snow on Aug 3, 2019 9:59:41 GMT -5
https://i~imgur~com/pfkSkpW~jpg This wasn't a bad gig, as far as in comparison with other jobs that she had held throughout her life. It wasn't as prestigious as a biomedical researcher on a secret military base; it wasn't as glory seeking as a trauma physician the Midwest who had accidentally lost a few patients to sudden and inexplicable hypothermia; but here on the East coast she had found a new calling. Oh sure, being a glorified minion for a man in a suit with questionable plans and motives wasn't the greatest job she'd ever had, but couldn't all employment opportunities basically be described that way? And besides, this job let a girl have all sorts of fun. Shame about the only restriction she'd been given for tonight's little endeavor though: No deaths. She'd pouted a little at that. Just how was a girl supposed to live up to her name, then? Oh well, there were other ways of getting a point across. "Oh Kiddo," She spoke up, voice carrying all the hints of malice and mocking she wanted. Perfect. "Those are cute and all, but not really my style. Don't worry though, you'll get familiar with the name sooner or later." Tendrils of condensation wrapped around her fingertips, little wisps slowly trailing as she raised a hand and wiggled digits as if working the kinks out of an sore muscle. With a smirk she shifted her gaze from the speedster to one of the hapless citizens. "It's Killer Frost, sweetie. Want a demonstration? Promise it'll only be a little bitey." Her wrist flicked, hand rotating so her palm faced the intended poor soul, ready to send a blast of ice and cold towards the unfortunate innocent. Freezing a man's leg as if it'd been dipped into liquid nitrogen wouldn't kill if they got the proper medical treatment. And really, this was Gotham. A little maiming must have been expected for anyone who chose to live here. And of course, there was always the possibility that the speedster would save the day. Oh, but at what cost? |
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Post by Captain Cold on Aug 3, 2019 11:07:03 GMT -5
Snart restrained the long, slow breath that begged to heave its way out of his lungs, as he watched his frozen compatriot skate her way across the thin ice at the edge of his explicit instructions. No Killing. It was the one rule that Captain Cold had, no matter the operation. Not an outright ban on killing, of course: sometimes things happened, and a dead guard was better than a dead thief; a dead cop better than a dead Captain. But in Snart's experience, you couldn't always trust the people working with you to understand those sorts of subtleties. If you didn't expressly forbid it, then people went on killing sprees, stopped paying attention to where they were pointing their flamethrowers, left guards half-way in mirrors or bleeding out through boomerang-shaped holes in their torsos.
This time, Snart had allowed himself to hope, just a little. This Killer Frost seemed like a smart woman; came highly recommended, well regarded, all that good stuff. Apparently, though, she was more a letter of than spirit of kinda gal. No Killing didn't rule out actual, grievous, and other forms of bodily harm. Things that went without saying apparently didn't. Exit strategies based on the police response for one set of crimes were at risk of being derailed by provoking a more extreme reaction, with SWAT teams, and helicopters, and maybe even a blimp or two if the GCPD still had any of those kicking around.
"Easy there, Killer," he warned, with just enough edge in his voice to cut through whatever gung ho murder bravado was clouding up Frost's head, but not so much that it encroached on the usual playfulness of his tone. "Baby Flash here and I, we go way back. We've got an understanding, right, Kid?"
A smile tugged at Snart's lips. The weight of his cold gun shifted in his hands, hoisted up and over a shoulder, held in a cavalier one-handed grip, the weighty technological marvel comfortably cushioned against the fur and padding of his hood. Through the tinted lenses of the goggles that shielded his eyes from the glare of his weapon in action, he peered at the speedster teen, trying to get a measure of him. The costume was new, that felt relevant, somehow: speedster scarlet rather than the mustard stain yellow that Snart remembered from Central City. Gone too was the plume of hair that had always made him look like a convertible with a broken roof. It was all a little disappointing, frankly, a cowardly retreat from the bold choices of his old costume into something with far less originality and pizzazz, but he supposed it all meant something: stepping out of his mentor's shadow; sidekick to stand-alone; no longer Kid Flash, but Gotham's Flash; his own man. Snart was almost proud. Almost empathised. Two immigrants from Central City, here to try out for the big leagues.
It'd almost be a shame to have to embarrass him. Almost.
"So how about we cool things down a notch? Chill out, before someone -" He shot a slow, deliberate, sidelong glare in Frost's direction. "- else get's hurt?"
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Post by Wally West on Aug 3, 2019 11:38:05 GMT -5
https://i~imgur~com/yL8Ei1K~jpg Snart was stalling. Well, maybe not, but it felt that way. Sure, banter was always his thing, but this was slow. Ponderous. Snart was always doing, always thinking, always in the middle of setting up whatever his next move was going to be, and probably the next three after that. They weren't always complicated plans, they weren't always things you didn't see coming, but they were always ready, always happening the instant they needed to. Snart didn't wait for anything, and people knew better than to make him wait for anyone. So, what? What was the deal here? Was Snart getting tripped up by the sub-par quality of Gothamite henchmen, forced to wait on the incompetence of new associates and employees? And why wasn't Snart trying to freeze Wally's feet to the floor, or brandishing his cold gun at the civilians like Mist Fingers over there? What was with all these people, anyway? How did they fit into the machinations of the infamous Central City jewel thief and master heister? Something to do with hostages? Some kind of domino ripple effect? Was his lady ice friend more than a mere coincidence, more than Snart's signature fondness for his own gimmick? Were there more ice villains lurking in the wings, or up to things elsewhere in the city? Gotham had Mr Freeze, right? Was he somehow involved? Or was Snart just out here scaring and abducting people for the hell of it, because when in Rome and all that? Or was this part of the plan, some stall tactic that wouldn't make sense until hindsight came into play? Thoughts raced through Wally's mind at a million miles per hour, a relentless onslaught of options, possibilities, and noise. This was all too much. All this responsibility, all this choice, all this mandatory decisiveness. He could stop a mugging if he needed to, no problem there. Robbery in progress? Easy. Dodge the bullets, dismantle the guns, handcuff the perpetrators to a lamp post in their underpants. He could take care of things like that in a flash, pun most definitely intended. But this? Villains? This was a job for Uncle Barry. This was a job for Batman, for Green Arrow, for Superman, all of those better heroes, those older, smarter, more experienced heroes, the people who'd earned their nemeses. Not people like Wally. Not people whose version of striking out on their own was to play copycat and try to be someone they weren't, with knockoff clothes and a knockoff mindset. Even the villains were second-hand. This probably wasn't even the first time Killer Frost'd had a showdown with someone in a costume. She was probably from Central City, or Opal City, or Metropolis, or somewhere, the kind of foe you didn't hear much about elsewhere in the world, because some superhero who knew what they were doing kept sweeping her off the board before any harm was done. That was who Gotham needed. That was who the people in this crowd needed. Someone better. Someone experienced. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone - He felt it: the surge of adrenaline first, as anxiety ushered his heartbeat into a frantic pace; and then the calm, the intoxicating thrill, as the Speed Force began to flow through him once again. Everything slowed. Each ticking nanosecond of silence between when Snart had last spoken and Wally's yet to be determined reply stretched out. Each breath became slow and deep by default. Flashtime. The eye in the storm of his raging thoughts. The gentle fist bump of the Speed Force, telling him that he had this; that he could do this; that he was a goddamn speedster, and he'd get the job done. And then he heard it, slow and twisted, but still recognisable: the rumble of an engine, not the V8 roar of a police cruiser, or the diesel rattle of an armoured truck full of prisoners, or cash; it was the low growl of a motorcycle, of a revved engine echoing down the canyon of Gotham's streets. He heard it shift, just subtly, the revolutions growing deeper as the vehicle began to slow. He couldn't see it, but he didn't need to; the maths took him all of a millisecond to calculate. The world snapped back into focus, time continuing on the way it was supposed to. "I should probably take you up on that," Wally admitted, arms folding across his chest, shrugging upwards in an exaggerated gesture of noncommittal hesitation. "Or better yet, I should just wait around for a proper vigilante to show up. Let the grown-ups talk, right? That's how it always used to be." Wally took a slow, deliberate step forward, letting his arms fall to his sides. The first step towards the courthouse was conquered, then the second. His pace was glacial - Snart would probably appreciate that - but purposeful. He watched, and felt, the way that Killer Frost tensed, ready to act. He saw the subtle shift in Snart's muscles beneath the oversized coat that was meant to obscure them, as the Captain did the same. Not acting, but ready to. Poised. Coiled. A third step, and then he stopped, his eyes focused intently on Snart's. He let a little crackle of lightning dance across them, a subtle reminder that no matter how fast Snart thought he was, Kid Flash was faster. "I have a counterproposal for you though, Captain." The subtlest of smiles tugged at the corner of Wally's mouth. "Catch." |
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Post by Mia Dearden-Queen on Aug 3, 2019 13:18:06 GMT -5
https://i~imgur~com/2CPXJga~jpg When you were the protege of Green Arrow you had a lot of options when it came to projectile "trick" weaponry. There were definite favorites: Acid, bolas, grappling hook, stunners, nanite being a newer one; pretty much everything you could think of - except that damn boxing glove one, Green could keep that insanity to himself, thank you very much. Moments like this though, well, they called for the classic. Oh sure, she could have shot a trick arrow that would have unleashed a cloud of smoke that would have obscured the ice villains' vision long enough for Kid Flash to effortlessly get all the hostages to safety, but that just seemed easy. And besides, maybe other hero types liked the whole witty banter thing, but she'd always been more of a Take Action type. And nothing said Hello there, can you stop being such a douchebag and ruining the night of these nice people quite like an arrow to the leg. Well, Gastrocnemius muscle if you wanted to be specific about it, but Stanley wasn't exactly here to question her on her anatomy homework. Arrow fired and target found, Red Arrow strolled casually to stand alongside Kid Flash, a shrug of her shoulder offered as the beginnings of a cruel apology to Captain Cold. "Sorry, realize that was a little low for you to actually make a grab for," She followed up with a wink of all damn things. "I'll aim higher next time." |
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Post by Captain Cold on Aug 5, 2019 17:36:46 GMT -5
There was a moment, sandwiched between the involuntary grunt of pain that tumbled from Snart's lips, and any sort of deliberated response; a brief instant in which he and Kid Flash shared a look. For Snart, the look was an exasperated Really?; from Kid Flash, a long-suffering Sorry. This would never have happened in Central City, that much was certain. The Flash had rules, and they were rules that even the Rogues followed: kidnap a bus of nuns, fine, but start killing people? Stabbing people? Shooting people in the thighs with sharp pointy objects? That was over the line. The Flash didn't do it, and the Rogues didn't do it; and if they did, well, those Rogues received no mercy from anyone, and usually weren't seen or heard from again. Folks like Eobard Thawne. Folks without flair, or style, just murderous intent. The Flash had no patience for those types. Captain Cold didn't, either.
Of course, this was Gotham now, and in Gotham, people played by Gotham rules. His rules. The Batman. Violence in the name of justice. Just another thug, like the rest of them. People were terrified, and rightfully so; but Snart felt like he had a handle on things. Don't do anything that makes Batman want to punch you in the face: that was the limitation he'd set for himself, his personal line in the snow.
But now there was Little Red Riding Hood, swooping in with a whole different set of rules. Shoot first, questions later, it seemed. Apparently, that was the Star City way of doing things. Disappointing. Snart had heard there would be gadgets on sticks. He'd heard that Green Arrow was the kind of vigilante that a villain could really spar against. A good quip. A respect for theme, and theatre. A gratuitous pun here and there. A man after his own heart. Not a set of characteristics that had rubbed off on his apprentice, at seemed. She must have been one of those edgy types, those teens who turned their baggage into knuckle dusters. Snart knew the type. Knew the story. Sympathised, even.
Or at least, he would have, were it not for the arrow embedded in his calf.
"You shot me."
It came out as a statement of fact, uttered with a terseness that seemed more annoyed than enraged. His lips tugged into a slightly pained smile.
"You could at least have gone for my knee. That way I could have given up this life of crime and adventure, and settled down as part of the constabulary of some sleepy, dragon-infested town."
The weight of his cold gun shifted, dislodging from its cushioned position across his shoulder and hood, falling downwards into firing position with a slap of composite meta-polymers against fleshy palm. His head shifted, eyes glancing sideways towards Killer Frost.
"You know what I said about no fatalities? How about you treat these two as exceptions, and live up to that name of yours?"
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Post by Caitlin Snow on Aug 25, 2019 19:49:09 GMT -5
https://i~imgur~com/pfkSkpW~jpg "Oh, I'm so glad I have your approval," Frost replied, each word forming deadly sharp icicles; not unlike the ones that slowly took shape in her hands.
It wasn't that she didn't get along with Snart. Far from it, the Captain was an agreeable fellow most of the time. She even had an appreciation for his word play. It was just that he saw her way as the easy route, even cowardly if she read his insinuations right. But there was an art to death, grace and grandeur to be made in every kill, if only in how you could use each individual murder as a reflection of yourself. Some artists hid themselves behind layers of paint or plaster, Frost had learned to do it through shards of frozen crystal. It had been a necessary transformation at first. Now though, she'd be lying if she said some part of her didn't enjoy it.
"Sorry kids, but you heard the man. Play time is over."
So, little red riding hood liked projectiles, did she? And as for Kid Flash? Well, the cold had a way of slowing things down. Apparently it was going to be a two for one special. Well that was fine, she had two hands and the humid night air could provide all the ammunition she needed.
"Shall we, then?"
Probably wasn't a great idea to give the goodie goodies a heads up, but those were worries for someone who actually was concerned about their odds against the two side kicks. Not that it was much of one, no sooner than did the question leave her than her hands shot out towards both the youths, daggers of ice solidifying and flying in rapid succession towards their marks. Kid Flash was no doubt fast enough to avoid the attacks, no matter how quickly they left her fingers. The girl though? Welp, she deserved to become a pretty little pincushion after her crude little arrow strike on Captain Cold.
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Post by Wally West on Sept 7, 2019 10:19:49 GMT -5
https://i~imgur~com/yL8Ei1K~jpg Wally felt time slow, and he felt the lightning, crackling its way through every cell in his body. He watched like a disconnected pilot as instinct drove his limbs into motion, reaching out through air that in Flashtime felt as viscous as water, his scarlet leather-clad hands snatching Killer Frost's ice daggers from the air, wrenching them from their intended course and sending them off on a new one with even greater speed, off to shatter against some of Gotham's ever-abundant concrete. " Sorrysorrysorry!" Wally offered as he blurred his way in front of Red Arrow's vision, and dealt with Killer Frost's attack before the archer's own reflexes even had the opportunity to kick in. Most people would be glad or at least grateful when they got saved from things, but given that he was him, and she was her, Wally wouldn't have been surprised if Red Arrow somehow managed to find a way to be annoyed by it. The streak of crimson and gold remained in motion, snatches of remembered advice and wisdom racing around in his mind. It was advice from Red Arrow's mentor rather than his own that his thoughts chose to dwell upon: a throw-away criticism that the Green Arrow had given years ago, words that the Emerald Archer likely didn't remember uttering, but that Wally could never forget. A vigilante punishes the guilty. Wally's hands reached out, gently taking hold of a young mother, willing his Speed Force aura to extend around her and the child clutched in her arms, protecting them both from the literally breakneck speed as Wally rushed them both to safety. A hero protects the innocent. An elderly woman was next, then a young teen, two toddlers and their overwhelmed father, a few businessmen, a few old homeless folks; Wally working his way systematically through Captain Cold's hostages, women and children first, then old to young, the entire crowd relocated in the amount of time it took for a human heart to beat two or three times. Wally slid to a halt beside Red Arrow once again, her mentor's words still ringing in his ears. Before you rush into action next time, make sure you've decided which one you want to be.Kid Flash's eyes narrowed underneath his cowl, his head turning ever so slightly towards the archer, but his attention not deviating from the ice villains for a second. "You handle the Eskimo. I'll deal with Elsa." |
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