Fic -- The Unending Cycle
Title: The Unending Cycle
Rating: R
Word Count: 1867
Characters: Roscoe Dillon, Len Snart, Axel Walker, Hartley Rathaway. Cameos by a few other Rogues.
Summary: Cruelty begets cruelty.
Warnings: Bullying, slurs, ableism, classism, domestic abuse, homophobia, violence, and profanity. These aren't happy stories.
Notes: A few ficlets about bullying inspired by the months of harassment I've experienced within the fandom, and a need to work out a lot of pain, anxiety, and anger. These were written in mid/late August during a particularly rough period; they're not happy stories and it's fine if you want to skip them. There was a mocking comment made about my non-neurotypical behaviour which really made me feel like shit, and that's where the name-calling and bigotry comes from in these fics.
These jump around continuity a bit, with the Axel story based on the Rebirth era and the others based on pre-Flashpoint continuity (Roscoe's story is set right after his first appearance in the Silver Age). It's also loosely a sequel to this story.
He’s in prison after his first serious crime, one that has left most of his fellow inmates incredulous and extremely hostile to him. He’s fresh off his first psych evaluation too, with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder and being on the autism spectrum. He should be in a psychiatric facility like Arkham, where the goal is at least ostensibly to treat mental health conditions and to help patients recover. But that’s not where he is.
“Fucking autistic spaz,” one inmate spits at him, quite literally. Roscoe wipes the man’s saliva off his cheek and purposely says nothing.
“You were gonna blow us all up!” another accuses him as he’s surrounded by a group during mealtime. He’s outnumbered, and there’s not much he can do; he doesn’t have any friends in here, and he has no powers. He’s just a skinny kid who decided to be a supervillain and came up with a bizarre scheme to destroy the Earth during a manic episode. He’s glad his plan didn’t succeed, as he rather likes the planet he lives on, but sees no point in gnashing his teeth over the situation or begging for forgiveness. That’s considered weakness in prison, and weakness gets you killed.
“Crazy loon,” an inmate taunts as he shoves the young man’s face into his food. Roscoe silently sits up again and cleans mashed potato from his face with a sleeve.
“Yes, probably,” he says evenly, but wills himself to start eating again and not throw a punch. There are six of them and only one of him, and they’re in a room full of guys who enjoy watching beatings.
“Oh, you think that’s funny, huh?” one demands. “Your smart mouth will be quieter when it’s wired shut.”
Roscoe lets out a deep breath. “I wasn’t trying to be funny, I was agreeing with you. The shrink says I’m crazy and should be getting treatment, but I’m still stuck in here anyway. So would you guys just move on and do something else?”
“You think you can tell us what to do, autistic fuck?” the man who pushed him into his food snarls, and throws the first punch. Roscoe hits the ground hard, but springs to his feet again with surprising agility and clobbers the side of the man’s head with a food tray.
By the time the guards break up the melee, all six inmates had been whaling on him as the crowd around them jeered and laughed. The other prisoners don’t care who’s right or wrong; they just enjoy a good fight, and are relieved that they aren’t on the receiving end of the brutality.
“Cowards!” Roscoe hisses at his tormentors and those who have been watching it happen as the guards drag him away to the infirmary. He’ll ultimately spend three days there, but at least he didn’t go down pleading for mercy. And now he knows he can’t trust any inmates to help him in the future. He’s on his own.
****
“Trailer trash! Dirty little Snarts!” the girl taunted in a sing-song voice as Len tried to do his homework, and he glowered darkly at her. He was in the fifth grade now, and had heard variations of this many times before.
“Look. You can talk shit to me all day long if you like, but leave my sister out of this.”
“Why? She’s just as dirty as you are...I can smell your socks from here,” the girl replied mockingly, with such a smug expression that Len really wanted to hit her. But no, his dad hit girls. So Len wouldn’t.
He tried to ignore her, but she kept at it with increasingly personal comments.
“So what’s it like being so gross all the time? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I bet you look in the mirror and feel ashamed.”
Len bit his lip. In fact, he did feel shame, but it was because he constantly struggled to fulfill a parental role and it never seemed to be enough. He tried to keep Lisa and himself clean, but there were no laundry machines in their trailer and he could rarely get sufficient change to use the laundromat. Their dad used any money he could find for booze, even if it meant stealing from his kids, and their mother was often absent or totally preoccupied with her own problems. Sometimes Len washed their clothes in the sink, but his dad threw a fit whenever he saw “the mess” of clothes in the kitchen or hanging to dry, and a fit always meant a punch or two.
He felt ashamed because of the stares and smirks the young Snarts received from those around them, including from many adults. It was because of the endless ridicule. It was because this derisive cruelty made him feel inferior for being poor and from a broken home, something he hoped to prevent Lisa from experiencing as she grew older. He just wanted someone to understand or appreciate his struggle, and maybe give him a helping hand every now and then.
But he couldn’t bring himself to say that, to make himself vulnerable and be mocked for it, as that would be too painful. “I do what I can,” is all he said, and looked away.
****
“Dumb kid.”
“Pipsqueak.”
“Get me a beer, will ya?”
“Hey Axel, you’re gonna take the fall for that murder.”
He’s heard it all, experienced it all. He was always the one to be pushed around, to take the heat for the others’ business. How could he say no? Being a Rogue was all he ever wanted, and if he had to be mistreated for a while to realize that dream, then so be it. He was sure the hazing period would be over soon and he’d be considered a full-fledged Rogue, but months passed and it didn’t happen, and eventually it had been a couple of years.
What was he going to do about it? He’d seen Mick get Len to back off with some well-placed bursts of metahuman fire, but Axel had no powers. He was small, young, an outsider, and had only tech in his arsenal, which made it easy to push him around.
One of the Rogues’ main strengths was that they formed a united front when times were tough, such as when facing an enemy or some of the group was in prison. But Axel curiously seemed to be forgotten in those situations, and frequently found himself on his own. Worse, he was occasionally thrown to the wolves when the moment called for it, in a way he knew Lisa or Sam would never be, and that was when the other predators crept out. The warden abused him, the other prisoners kicked him around, and the worst part was that the other Rogues didn’t seem to care.
The happy laughing Trickster would never admit it, but there were a few nights inside prison in which he near-silently cried himself to sleep over his predicament. This wasn’t how his dreams of being a Rogue were supposed to play out; he should have been one of the guys, watching the others’ backs during a heist while they watched his. Brothers. Family. Instead, he found himself taking the blame for another Rogue’s crimes, and the worst part was how casual and uncaring the others seemed about it. He would have gladly done it had they treated him like an equal -- what else is family for? -- but there was no friendly request for it, just an order. Like that was his entire purpose within the Rogues.
And so he found himself in solitary at Iron Heights, nursing a black eye, some cracked ribs, and one hell of an aching kidney. And although Len and the other Rogues were roaming free in the prison, nobody dropped by to even offer some encouragement. That’s when Axel realized just how alone he truly was.
****
Hartley’s keen hearing has always been a mixed blessing; it's allowed him to listen to music and enjoy all its subtleties, but he's also overheard many comments and whispers that he was never meant to. The gossip from his extended family about how he didn’t fit in was bad enough, but there was something particularly difficult about the uncaring comments from his chosen family, the Rogues.
The Rogues were supposed to be different. They were all outcasts who were weird in their own ways, and they didn’t get along with the families they’d been born into. Guys like that were supposed to understand. So it really stung when he overheard less-than-friendly words said about him, which began as the occasional derisive comment about the wealthy guy or that he was “annoying”, and eventually turned into venomous talk or ‘jokes’ about him being gay.
“Hey, can the personal chatter, kid, we’re here to play cards, not swap life stories,” Len told him brusquely when he tried to open up about his troubles with his parents. The others remained silent and seemed to agree, and nobody ever suggested later that he should talk about it.
“I don’t think we should be bringing the rich guy along on the mansion job,” Sam objected during a meeting. “Those people all stick together, and he might tip off the owners.”
“I think Piper’s some kinda queer. I saw what’s on his phone,” Mark had whispered in a private conversation with a few other Rogues, and Hartley stopped in his tracks two rooms away. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe, and had to get out of the group’s safehouse until he’d calmed down.
“What are you, a fuckin’ poof?” Digger demanded during a later meeting, and Hartley sighed heavily in response.
“Yes, I already told you that I’m gay.”
“You sure as fuck didn’t!” came the furious retort, although of course he’d been told twice when he was drunk and just didn’t remember. Some of the others rolled their eyes at Digger’s ridiculous blustering and ensuing offensive rant, but nobody came to Hartley’s defence.
“I am not sleeping in the same room with him; he’s into men,” Roscoe said primly during the planning of an upcoming stakeout. Hartley had pinched his nose and grimaced, as he knew very well that Roscoe also received vicious personal comments from the other Rogues because of his socially odd behaviour, quite often to his face. So much for the solidarity of pariahs-amongst-outcasts.
Nobody ever threatened to harm Hartley, but he rarely felt comfortable with them, and it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to the Rogues when he left to reform. In later years, Hartley reflected that much of the callousness he’d experienced and seen directed at others was the result of damaged people lashing out because it was all they knew, and it made them feel better to put others down. But he never wanted to go back and subject himself to more of it, noting “it may be the dog's nature to bite, but that doesn't mean I have to stick my hand in its mouth again.”
And James, who wasn't perfect but was the only member of the group he’d remained friends with, had to agree that analogy fit the Rogues very well.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1867
Characters: Roscoe Dillon, Len Snart, Axel Walker, Hartley Rathaway. Cameos by a few other Rogues.
Summary: Cruelty begets cruelty.
Warnings: Bullying, slurs, ableism, classism, domestic abuse, homophobia, violence, and profanity. These aren't happy stories.
Notes: A few ficlets about bullying inspired by the months of harassment I've experienced within the fandom, and a need to work out a lot of pain, anxiety, and anger. These were written in mid/late August during a particularly rough period; they're not happy stories and it's fine if you want to skip them. There was a mocking comment made about my non-neurotypical behaviour which really made me feel like shit, and that's where the name-calling and bigotry comes from in these fics.
These jump around continuity a bit, with the Axel story based on the Rebirth era and the others based on pre-Flashpoint continuity (Roscoe's story is set right after his first appearance in the Silver Age). It's also loosely a sequel to this story.
He’s in prison after his first serious crime, one that has left most of his fellow inmates incredulous and extremely hostile to him. He’s fresh off his first psych evaluation too, with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder and being on the autism spectrum. He should be in a psychiatric facility like Arkham, where the goal is at least ostensibly to treat mental health conditions and to help patients recover. But that’s not where he is.
“Fucking autistic spaz,” one inmate spits at him, quite literally. Roscoe wipes the man’s saliva off his cheek and purposely says nothing.
“You were gonna blow us all up!” another accuses him as he’s surrounded by a group during mealtime. He’s outnumbered, and there’s not much he can do; he doesn’t have any friends in here, and he has no powers. He’s just a skinny kid who decided to be a supervillain and came up with a bizarre scheme to destroy the Earth during a manic episode. He’s glad his plan didn’t succeed, as he rather likes the planet he lives on, but sees no point in gnashing his teeth over the situation or begging for forgiveness. That’s considered weakness in prison, and weakness gets you killed.
“Crazy loon,” an inmate taunts as he shoves the young man’s face into his food. Roscoe silently sits up again and cleans mashed potato from his face with a sleeve.
“Yes, probably,” he says evenly, but wills himself to start eating again and not throw a punch. There are six of them and only one of him, and they’re in a room full of guys who enjoy watching beatings.
“Oh, you think that’s funny, huh?” one demands. “Your smart mouth will be quieter when it’s wired shut.”
Roscoe lets out a deep breath. “I wasn’t trying to be funny, I was agreeing with you. The shrink says I’m crazy and should be getting treatment, but I’m still stuck in here anyway. So would you guys just move on and do something else?”
“You think you can tell us what to do, autistic fuck?” the man who pushed him into his food snarls, and throws the first punch. Roscoe hits the ground hard, but springs to his feet again with surprising agility and clobbers the side of the man’s head with a food tray.
By the time the guards break up the melee, all six inmates had been whaling on him as the crowd around them jeered and laughed. The other prisoners don’t care who’s right or wrong; they just enjoy a good fight, and are relieved that they aren’t on the receiving end of the brutality.
“Cowards!” Roscoe hisses at his tormentors and those who have been watching it happen as the guards drag him away to the infirmary. He’ll ultimately spend three days there, but at least he didn’t go down pleading for mercy. And now he knows he can’t trust any inmates to help him in the future. He’s on his own.
****
“Trailer trash! Dirty little Snarts!” the girl taunted in a sing-song voice as Len tried to do his homework, and he glowered darkly at her. He was in the fifth grade now, and had heard variations of this many times before.
“Look. You can talk shit to me all day long if you like, but leave my sister out of this.”
“Why? She’s just as dirty as you are...I can smell your socks from here,” the girl replied mockingly, with such a smug expression that Len really wanted to hit her. But no, his dad hit girls. So Len wouldn’t.
He tried to ignore her, but she kept at it with increasingly personal comments.
“So what’s it like being so gross all the time? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I bet you look in the mirror and feel ashamed.”
Len bit his lip. In fact, he did feel shame, but it was because he constantly struggled to fulfill a parental role and it never seemed to be enough. He tried to keep Lisa and himself clean, but there were no laundry machines in their trailer and he could rarely get sufficient change to use the laundromat. Their dad used any money he could find for booze, even if it meant stealing from his kids, and their mother was often absent or totally preoccupied with her own problems. Sometimes Len washed their clothes in the sink, but his dad threw a fit whenever he saw “the mess” of clothes in the kitchen or hanging to dry, and a fit always meant a punch or two.
He felt ashamed because of the stares and smirks the young Snarts received from those around them, including from many adults. It was because of the endless ridicule. It was because this derisive cruelty made him feel inferior for being poor and from a broken home, something he hoped to prevent Lisa from experiencing as she grew older. He just wanted someone to understand or appreciate his struggle, and maybe give him a helping hand every now and then.
But he couldn’t bring himself to say that, to make himself vulnerable and be mocked for it, as that would be too painful. “I do what I can,” is all he said, and looked away.
****
“Dumb kid.”
“Pipsqueak.”
“Get me a beer, will ya?”
“Hey Axel, you’re gonna take the fall for that murder.”
He’s heard it all, experienced it all. He was always the one to be pushed around, to take the heat for the others’ business. How could he say no? Being a Rogue was all he ever wanted, and if he had to be mistreated for a while to realize that dream, then so be it. He was sure the hazing period would be over soon and he’d be considered a full-fledged Rogue, but months passed and it didn’t happen, and eventually it had been a couple of years.
What was he going to do about it? He’d seen Mick get Len to back off with some well-placed bursts of metahuman fire, but Axel had no powers. He was small, young, an outsider, and had only tech in his arsenal, which made it easy to push him around.
One of the Rogues’ main strengths was that they formed a united front when times were tough, such as when facing an enemy or some of the group was in prison. But Axel curiously seemed to be forgotten in those situations, and frequently found himself on his own. Worse, he was occasionally thrown to the wolves when the moment called for it, in a way he knew Lisa or Sam would never be, and that was when the other predators crept out. The warden abused him, the other prisoners kicked him around, and the worst part was that the other Rogues didn’t seem to care.
The happy laughing Trickster would never admit it, but there were a few nights inside prison in which he near-silently cried himself to sleep over his predicament. This wasn’t how his dreams of being a Rogue were supposed to play out; he should have been one of the guys, watching the others’ backs during a heist while they watched his. Brothers. Family. Instead, he found himself taking the blame for another Rogue’s crimes, and the worst part was how casual and uncaring the others seemed about it. He would have gladly done it had they treated him like an equal -- what else is family for? -- but there was no friendly request for it, just an order. Like that was his entire purpose within the Rogues.
And so he found himself in solitary at Iron Heights, nursing a black eye, some cracked ribs, and one hell of an aching kidney. And although Len and the other Rogues were roaming free in the prison, nobody dropped by to even offer some encouragement. That’s when Axel realized just how alone he truly was.
****
Hartley’s keen hearing has always been a mixed blessing; it's allowed him to listen to music and enjoy all its subtleties, but he's also overheard many comments and whispers that he was never meant to. The gossip from his extended family about how he didn’t fit in was bad enough, but there was something particularly difficult about the uncaring comments from his chosen family, the Rogues.
The Rogues were supposed to be different. They were all outcasts who were weird in their own ways, and they didn’t get along with the families they’d been born into. Guys like that were supposed to understand. So it really stung when he overheard less-than-friendly words said about him, which began as the occasional derisive comment about the wealthy guy or that he was “annoying”, and eventually turned into venomous talk or ‘jokes’ about him being gay.
“Hey, can the personal chatter, kid, we’re here to play cards, not swap life stories,” Len told him brusquely when he tried to open up about his troubles with his parents. The others remained silent and seemed to agree, and nobody ever suggested later that he should talk about it.
“I don’t think we should be bringing the rich guy along on the mansion job,” Sam objected during a meeting. “Those people all stick together, and he might tip off the owners.”
“I think Piper’s some kinda queer. I saw what’s on his phone,” Mark had whispered in a private conversation with a few other Rogues, and Hartley stopped in his tracks two rooms away. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe, and had to get out of the group’s safehouse until he’d calmed down.
“What are you, a fuckin’ poof?” Digger demanded during a later meeting, and Hartley sighed heavily in response.
“Yes, I already told you that I’m gay.”
“You sure as fuck didn’t!” came the furious retort, although of course he’d been told twice when he was drunk and just didn’t remember. Some of the others rolled their eyes at Digger’s ridiculous blustering and ensuing offensive rant, but nobody came to Hartley’s defence.
“I am not sleeping in the same room with him; he’s into men,” Roscoe said primly during the planning of an upcoming stakeout. Hartley had pinched his nose and grimaced, as he knew very well that Roscoe also received vicious personal comments from the other Rogues because of his socially odd behaviour, quite often to his face. So much for the solidarity of pariahs-amongst-outcasts.
Nobody ever threatened to harm Hartley, but he rarely felt comfortable with them, and it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to the Rogues when he left to reform. In later years, Hartley reflected that much of the callousness he’d experienced and seen directed at others was the result of damaged people lashing out because it was all they knew, and it made them feel better to put others down. But he never wanted to go back and subject himself to more of it, noting “it may be the dog's nature to bite, but that doesn't mean I have to stick my hand in its mouth again.”
And James, who wasn't perfect but was the only member of the group he’d remained friends with, had to agree that analogy fit the Rogues very well.