Reverse-Flash Task Force - Part 1
Title: Reverse-Flash Task Force
Characters: The Renegades (Simon Slaytor/Mirror Monarch, Lance Allen/Commander Cold, Jim Jefferys/Trixster, Marten Moore/Weather Warlock, Michael Rayner/Heatstroke, Randall Dennison/Top)
Words: 16103
Summary: Reverse-Flash Task Forces have to come from somewhere.
Warnings: Canonical character death
AN: So, I'm not sure how many people actually know who the Renegades are. They're from Professor Zoom's (Eobard Thawne's) time, created to stop him, though they're pretty new at all this when we see them (just before the reboot). I would've liked to see more with them in, but I doubt we're going to get that any time soon, given who the new Reverse-Flash is.
Anyway, I decided to try and explore their characters a little. What kind of people does it take to make a Reverse-Flash Task Force? Are we talking Justice League or Suicide Squad? What are they like out of uniform? I've done my best to avoid other people's views of the Renegades, so as to keep mine as solid and consistent as possible.
Well, anyway, here's my interpretation of one possibility.
Extra AN: We don't get given the names of the Renegades in the Dastardly Death of the Rogues arc, so obviously I've had to make up my own for them. I'm afraid that they're not very 25th century (I couldn't come up with names like Eobard or Simogyn), but as an aid to remember which Rogue they're representing I've tried to keep to similar names.
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Part1, Part2, Part3
Artist: melinie17 (All pictures together: http://melinie17.livejournal.com/714.html)
The sirens were echoing behind Simon as he sprinted forward. They were too slow. He was going to get away!
Simon hoped it wasn't just his wishful thinking that the gap between him and the suspect was getting smaller. His feet pounded the cracked tarmac and his hand dropped to where his gun hung on his belt...
Where his gun should have been hanging on his belt.
Not for the first time since becoming a police officer did Simon wonder how he'd gotten through the exams without being disqualified for absentmindedness.
“Slaytor! Get back here!” Lance snarled over the communicator.
“Closing in,” Simon panted, not wasting any more breath on words.
“Wait for backup!” Lance snapped back. There was a whir over the communicator as Lance's car took a sharp corner too quickly, “How're you going to detain them when you've left your gun here?”
Simon didn't bother replying, Lance knew what he was like and would catch up in time to help take in the suspect, but not if Simon let him get away now.
Continuing the chase down another alley, over several fences, and past a rather startled cat, Simon kept an eye out for something - anything - that could be used to capture the fleeing man.
He damn near tripped over the blasted thing, but Simon found what he was looking for.
The man went down and Simon decided, as he waited for Lance and the sirens to catch up, that sometimes the simplest things were often the best.
--------------------
Simon did what he could to keep a blank expression as Commissioner Frambul went through the same rant he always did when Simon was in his office.
“... Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Frambul finished, as he usually did.
“I apprehended the suspect,” Simon said, as he usually did.
“You had backup not five minutes away,” Frambul snapped, “The suspect wasn't going to escape. You had no right or need to use unauthorised equipment to bring him down, Slaytor.”
“It wasn't -” Simon started.
“No,” Frambul interrupted, “No excuses. You're on suspension. Again. You know the drill.”
“Yes, sir,” Simon sighed.
Frambul waved him out and Simon left the office. Lance was waiting for him in the hall. Simon didn't say anything, just walking back toward their desks. Lance trailed behind him.
“Let me guess,” Lance said, “Suspension.”
“For a net. For a stupid net,” Simon sighed, “Well at least I'm giving the guys in R&D a laugh.”
“Fantastic,” Lance said dryly.
Simon reached his desk and collapsed into his chair. He'd have an hour to gather his personal belongings and get out of the station or he'd be in more trouble.
“Look,” Lance said, standing on the other side of Simon's desk. Simon could see the speech coming. “You know there's only so many times they're going to suspend you before they kick you off the force entirely. Good record with catching suspects or not.”
“Then what do you suggest I do?” Simon said, “Let them get away?”
“Don't use external equipment until it's been properly tested and regulated,” Lance said.
“That takes bloody ages,” Simon said.
“Better a long wait than the criminals you do catch getting off on a technicality because you used unregistered equipment,” Lance pointed out.
Simon just sighed again and started going through his drawers for anything that might be his. Lance walked around the desk and placed a hand on Simon's shoulder.
“Dammit, Simon, I don't want to see you kicked off the force,” Lance said, “Take this week as a vacation and unwind.”
“I'll try,” Simon promised.
Lance moved back over to his own desk. “I swear, if they partner me up Distalf again they won't be finding his body,” he said, with a pointed look at Simon, “This is why you can't get fired. Who else am I going to stand as a partner?”
“Drinks as usual on Friday?” Simon asked as he shoved the last of his belongings into his bag.
“Of course,” Lance said, “Don't get into too much trouble while I'm stuck in here doing paperwork.”
--------------------
“I've got qualifications from -”
“That's still no good if we don't have an opening,” the wizened old professor said, peering over the top of a holographic display at Randall.
“I've also got a letter of recommendation from Professor Zamarano,” Randall said quickly, juggling the papers in his arms to produce the specific sheet.
“Again, we're not interested in someone of your particular talents,” the professor said, shaking his head.
“Please,” Randall said, “I've been studying the Flash for years, this would be my dream job. Even if it's not being the resident expert on the Flash, please let me have a job here. I don't care if it's mopping toilets or -”
“Mr Dennison,” the professor interrupted sternly, “While I appreciate your enthusiasm in the study of speedsters, we simply cannot employ someone without the correct opening. Thank you for your application, we will keep your record on file. Good day.”
With that, the old professor focussed on the screen in front of him and completely tuned out Randall's last attempts at talking. Randall's shoulders slumped. He made sure he had all his papers and left the office.
Wandering through the Flash museum, Randall couldn't help glaring at the statues of the various scarlet speedsters they'd had over the centuries since Jay Garrick had first put on a shiny hat.
“Easy for you,” Randall muttered, “Put on a mask and save people. Do really well at your regular jobs too. Some of us don't have that many hours in a day.”
It was probably a good idea to get out of the museum before his bitterness got too much, so Randall went out into the sunshine and tried to forget the sting of being rejected. He'd go the library, that being one of his favourite places to just sit and be.
Randall just hoped something would come up soon; he was getting low on funds.
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Marten looked up when Jim started laughing. Jim was holding up a torn net and grinning at Marten from the other side.
“A net?” Marten asked, “That's a bit... primitive, isn't it?”
“Priority one. Special orders from Commissioner Frambul,” Jim said, dangling the report that came with it in Marten's face.
Marten sighed and left his much more interesting analysis of meteorological phenomenon to run through the standard procedure with Jim.
--------------------
“Mr Simon Evan Slaytor?”
Simon tensed. No good had ever come of his full name being used like that. He turned to find a hologram standing next to him, the small buzzing drone that projected it hovering close by. The next thing Simon noticed was the insignia sewn into the hologram's robes and painted on the drone.
Precinct One.
Despite having done no wrong, Simon still had to clamp down on the urge to run for it. He balled his fists before it became obvious that his hands were shaking from the burst of adrenalin that his flight instinct had just triggered.
“Yes?”
“Follow,” the hologram ordered. The drone buzzed off, taking the projection with it. Simon trudged along after, hating the way that the people he passed purposefully avoided looking anywhere near the hologram or Simon himself.
The main building Precinct One occupied - at least the main one that the public knew about - was uptown in Central City. Simon was lead elsewhere to another building in the middle of the Missouri river which separated the twin cities of Keystone and Central. A narrow bridge joined the island to the mainland on either side.
Simon wondered if it would be quicker and less painful to throw himself in the river now. However he was on the other side of the bridge before he knew it, keeping up with the drone’s steady clip.
The only imposing thing that Simon found with this building was its location. Otherwise it was made of whitewashed smooth stone with tinted windows places at regular intervals. Simon felt rather disillusioned.
Even the inside was clinically sterile chrome and glass. Simon was left in an uncomfortable chair to stare at the only poster in the windowless room. It was telling employees how to wash their hands correctly and Simon started to wonder if he was dreaming.
“We will see you now,” said a voice that Simon couldn’t find the location of.
One of the doors opened and Simon went through. He appeared in a room full of flickering images. Yellow blurs, red blurs, bright colours, and dark shadows took up every available piece of wall.
“We have been watching you, Mr Simon Evan Slaytor,” said the same disembodied voice, “And we have a task for you.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Simon asked, “I usually get to see my boss’ face.”
“We are Precinct One,” said the voice, “And I am before you.”
As Simon turned again, taking in more of the images, he realised there was a hooded and robed figure standing in the room with him. Simon had a feeling that asking to see its face would be a bad move.
“What kind of task?” Simon asked.
The robed figure waved its hand. An image of a man in yellow appeared, he had a cruel look on his face and Simon’s police-trained instincts put him as a criminal, even before he recognised the insignia on his chest.
“You want me to arrest the Reverse-Flash?” Simon asked, incredulous.
“What knowledge do you have of this individual?” the robed figure asked.
“What I learnt in school,” Simon said, “We had a trip to the Flash museum for history once. That’s about it.”
“Eobard Thawne, known as Professor Zoom and the Reverse-Flash, is alive again. We have proof that he was resurrected in the 21st Century and will likely return to our current time and wreak the havoc he unleashed before.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?” Simon asked, “I’m on suspension at the moment.”
“We do not believe that the regular police force will be able to combat a meta-threat like Eobard Thawne,” Precinct One said, “I have been watching you and I have... you might like to call it a job offer.”
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“Are you crazy?” Lance asked, staring at Simon with a very familiar exasperated look, “Precinct One? Do you know how dangerous they are?”
“It's an opportunity,” Simon argued, “One I'm not going to get here.”
“But Precinct One?” Lance said, pressing the heel of his hand into his brow.
Simon just leant against the wall and waited for Lance to calm down. Eventually Lance lifted his head up and gave Simon a serious look.
“So what's it all about?” Lance asked, sounding tired despite the early hour.
“A Reverse-Flash Task Force,” Simon replied, “One that can deal with Professor Zoom now we know he's alive again in the past.”
“... time-travel was never my area of expertise,” Lance said, “I'm never going to be able to understand what you've been up to. If you can tell me, that is. Is it classified? Are you supposed to be even telling me about this?”
“Well, I was thinking...” Simon began.
“This is going to end badly for me, isn't it?” Lance sighed.
Simon rolled his eyes and continued. “They've put me in charge of the team. However, there isn't a team yet. My first job is to make one.”
Lance's eyebrows rose. “You want... me on this team?”
“Who else am I going to give all the paperwork to?” Simon said.
“Wait a minute, they put you in charge of the team?” Lance said, “You can barely take care of yourself.”
“I'll learn,” Simon said with an easy shrug.
Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. “How big's this team going to be?” he asked.
“I was thinking six, including us,” Simon said, “Think you can handle getting two of the remaining four?”
“I know a few places that I could ask around in,” Lance said slowly, frowning at Simon's pleading look, “Fine, I'm in. When's the first day?”
“This coming Monday,” Simon replied, “Room 2.35 in Precinct One's main building uptown. See you then.”
“And Slaytor,” Lance called as Simon headed out, “You can do your own damn paperwork.”
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They never told you how dull it could be, Mike reflected, trying not fidget as prospective employers looked over the line-up. He focused on staying as still as possible, for some reason that made people believe you'd be a good security guard. Snippets of discussion reached Mike's ears.
“...the Tellalia 3005...”
“...auto-recognition...outperforms...”
And that was always the problem with being a fully human security guard, Mike thought dismally, you always had to compete with robots that were getting better and better.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” called Mike's boss, a dark woman in a severe red dress known only as Thengold, “Do I hear some murmurs about my elite being worse than a bunch of dustbins? Here at TSE, we strive to produce the best in security.”
“And how can you ignore the consistent improvement in brands like Tellalia or Faststream Industries?” a man in the group pointed out. He had an ugly thin moustache and Mike had a feeling that he worked for one of the companies he'd just mentioned. “How can you ignore the benchmark tests that show that robotic reflexes and AI threat-awareness will always out-perform your basic humanoid, no matter how well-trained?”
“Because my agents have something that no machine will ever be able to duplicate,” Thengold replied, “Humanity. They will make the human decision in any given circumstance. Do you want your children entrusted to a mechanical thing that once was part of a military weapon? Part of a nuclear reactor? There is a reason our police-force is still ninety-percent human, with the other ten-percent belonging to their vehicles and weapons.”
“So you would choose sentimentality over accuracy?” the man sniffed imperiously.
“I would choose what made me feel safe,” Thengold shot back, “And machines as watchdogs keep me awake at night.”
The man looked like he might persist, but Thengold stared him down and he appeared to remember that he was currently standing on her turf.
That was the most exciting thing that happened during that group of employers. And the next. Some of Mike's co-workers got given contracts, but only a few. As much as Thengold might like to protest it, they were losing out against AI driven security drones since a breakthrough in human-recognition by Faststream five years ago. There were less and less prospective employers and the number of employees was dwindling by the month now.
Mike had only obtained one contract this year so far, if he didn't get another soon he was likely to be made redundant.
The last group shuffled off and Mike was finally able to relax properly, only having had short breaks that could be cut even shorter at a second's notice. He rolled his shoulders back and let out a sigh as he ambled toward the lockers where their valuables were kept during the presentations.
There was a vaguely familiar man standing at the entrance to the display hall when Mike came back through. Thengold had noticed him and some of Mike's colleagues had already edged closer in order to see what would happen. It beat an empty flat, so Mike decided to hang around. Thengold was always entertaining.
“We don't have any openings,” she said sharply, “And I'd prefer potential clients to use our business hours when selecting our employees.”
The man was taken aback for a moment, but recovered admirably and held up a badge to Thengold. As he did so Mike suddenly recognised him.
“Lance Allen, Precinct One,” said Captain Allen - though Mike supposed that wasn't the case if he wasn't still with the force, “I'm here to see if anyone within the company's employ would like the chance to work for Precinct One.”
Mike hissed in sympathy as Thengold's expression hardened.
“Mr Allen,” Thengold said icily, “I don't know where you got the idea that my employees were for something other than security, but it's not welcome here. You may engage their services through TSE, we offer extremely reasonably rates for large businesses such as Precinct One.”
Allen's eyes narrowed. “Ms...”
“Thengold.”
“Ms Thengold, this isn't about rates,” Allen said sharply, “I've worked with several similar companies before and I know that it's becoming a rare thing to have human guards nowadays.”
“And you're offering to take unnecessary employees off my hands?” Thengold snorted.
“I know you've already made redundancies.”
“And did they take you up on your offer?” Thengold asked pointedly.
Allen's jaw tensed. “No, they haven't,” he gritted out.
“Then it must be an excellent job offer,” Thengold said, with a vicious smile like a shark, “You may make your offer to my employees, who are free to accept if they don't already have a contract.”
Stiffly and with one final glare at Thengold, Allen faced the room at large. Mike already knew that he wouldn't get anywhere, Thengold held all the power here.
“I'm looking for a few individuals to become part of a Task Force for Precinct One,” Allen said, “You will be working with the law to put away meta-threats and criminals beyond the regular force's capabilities.”
Mike wasn't the only one who was surprised at the abrupt description. Despite himself, Mike was interested though, especially since he wasn't likely to last long in TSE.
Nobody moved to answer. Allen gave a sharp nod, quietly thanked Thengold for her time and left.
Mike started to leave himself, but suddenly a grip like an iron vice clamped onto his arm and Thengold pulled him to one side.
“You should go after him and take that offer, Mr Rayner,” she said.
Mike wondered when his boss would stop surprising him.
“It's sensible,” Thengold continued, “You haven't had a contract here for four months and we hardly want somewhere like Faststream gaining a foothold in Precinct One when TSE has an opportunity such as this.”
“I didn't think you wanted us to take it,” Mike said cautiously.
“Precinct One's an excellent chance to move up in the world for anyone, I did what I did so I would still have employees left and they didn't all fight to become one of those 'few individuals',” Thengold said, “And you want to take that job, I saw it.”
“I...” Mike didn't know what to say, “I've enjoyed working for TSE.”
“I know you have,” Thengold said, “Now go enjoy working for Precinct One.”
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Simon walked into the research and development lab and, in a well-practised move, grabbed the fire extinguisher by the door. The fire wasn't a big one, but it was flickering in all the colours of the rainbow. Simon pointed the extinguisher at it then was suddenly tackled out of the way, making his blast of foam go wild.
“It's meant to be on fire,” the man who had tackled Simon said, getting up and brushing off his lab coat.
“It's not usually,” Simon said, “You should put up a sign or something, Jim.”
Jim gave a cocky grin and helped Simon to his feet. The fire burned its merry colours on the work-space, but Simon noticed that it wasn't spreading further.
Jim Jefferys was one of Research and Development's worst nightmares as well as its best technician. He was a smidge taller than Simon and had dirty-blond hair that sat far more attractively than Simon's ever did on the rare occasions it wasn't soot-streaked or electrocuted to insanity. He was also regularly missing his eyebrows.
“So what brings you down to our lair?” Jim asked, ignoring the fact that R&D got one of the highest floors in the building to play on, “Another net?”
Simon wasn't entirely surprised that Jim had correctly linked last week's fiasco to him; it wasn't the first time he'd looked in on Research and Development to try and wangle his 'illegal' equipment back.
“Job offer,” Simon replied, “Something you might be interested in.”
“When I've got everything I want here?” Jim said, gesturing at the lab and fire, “It's going to have to be pretty good for me to consider it, you know.”
“Precinct One,” Simon said.
Jim paused, then picked up the fire extinguisher and put out the multi-coloured flames. When he turned back to Simon his intrigue was clear.
“Go on,” Jim said.
“They're putting together a Reverse-Flash Task Force,” Simon said.
“You do know how to tempt a guy,” Jim said, tapping his fingers on the work-surface.
“Two guys, hopefully,” Simon said, “I'd like you and someone else from here to be part of the team.”
“If I say 'yes' can I pick the other member?” Jim asked.
Simon shrugged. “Fine by me.”
“Great,” Jim said, with a wide grin. He turned his head and called, “Hey! Marten!”
One of the other lab technicians peeled away from the main group at Jim's shout and made his way over. Unlike Jim, this guy was wearing his lab coat like a lab coat and had his brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail. He gave Simon a nod, though his whole posture was wary. Simon supposed that working with Jim would do that to you.
“Pack your desk, Marten,” Jim said, “We've got a new job.”
“What?” Marten took a step back, as though Jim's craziness was contagious, “I like my job here, thank you very much.”
“Well this is even better,” Jim said, “Precinct One.”
Marten took his protective goggles off purely to pinch the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “You know you're not supposed to drink on the job, Jim.”
“He's telling the truth,” Simon said. He held his hand out toward Marten, “Simon Slaytor, CCPD. Well, I was, now I'm working for Precinct One in a Reverse-Flash Task Force.”
“He's hiring,” Jim said, “And I've accepted for us.”
“Jim,” Marten said with a well-practised sigh, “As much as you like to try and take control of my life, it's my decision.” He looked at Simon, a sliver of interest visible, “Have you got any more information?”
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“Why couldn't someone else have agreed?” Lance sighed, “Simon'll never let me live it down if he recruits more people than me.”
“You've not got anywhere else in mind?” Michael asked.
“No,” Lance said, “That's most of the major security firms down. Any worse and I doubt they'll pass the criminal ancestors background check.”
“You can't expect everyone to be as up for working for Precinct One as you are,” Michael pointed out.
“As Simon is,” Lance corrected, “But think of the difference they could make. How much better a Reverse-Flash Task Force could make the city.”
“Excuse me. Did I hear you correctly?” a shortish blond man interrupted, “There's such a thing as a Reverse-Flash Task Force?”
“Maybe,” Lance said, automatically on his guard around someone he didn't know, “Why?”
“Randall Dennison,” the man said, holding out his hand, “I'm an expert in History, Time-travel, and the Flash. I'm looking for a job that could utilise these skills, is there an opening?”
“You know what the words 'Task Force' mean, right?” Lance asked, “You're not just going to be sitting down with some screens and books, you're going to be out in the field against the Reverse-Flash and any other threats Precinct One wants us to face.”
“I'd be willing to train,” Randall said quickly.
Randall had the pallor of a man who didn't see sunlight very often, but he didn't look completely out of shape. Not much - if any - combat training from what Lance could tell from his hands and stance. Still, a historian to keep their records straight would be useful.
“Precinct One, room 2.35, Monday at nine,” Lance said after a few seconds thought, “Be on time.”
“Thank you,” Randall's face lit up and he shook Lance's hand, then Michael's too, “Really, thank you for this opportunity. I won't let you down.”
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Simon looked over the recruits with a friendly smile. First thing Monday morning was never pleasant, but these four were surprisingly wide-awake. Especially when compared to Lance, who was currently inhaling his coffee while waiting for Simon to start.
“So, this is all of us,” Simon said, “The operation might grow in time, but I think it's best we start small. I'm Simon Slaytor and I was a cop before this. If everyone else could go around and introduce themselves and their previous jobs, that'd be helpful. Lance?”
“Lance Allen. CCPD,” Lance said abruptly, “Next?”
There was a pause, which Jim broke.
“I'm James Jefferys, R&D,” he said, “You can call me Jim.”
“Marten Moore,” Marten said when Jim elbowed him, “I'm in research and development too.”
“And he'll kill everyone who calls him Marty,” Jim offered, all smiles.
Marten elbowed Jim right back and turned his head to look at the man next in line.
“Michael Rayner, I was a security guard,” he said, “I guess you could call me Mike if that's too much of a mouthful.”
“Randall Dennison, historian specialising in the Flash,” the last man said without needing prompting.
Simon nodded. “Alright, I can't promise to remember them, but it's a start. So,” Simon ran through a mental checklist of what he was supposed to ask, “Does everyone know why they're here and what we plan to do?”
“Aren't you supposed to be telling us what we're going to do?” Jim asked, giving voice to the confusion on the others' faces.
“Right, right,” Simon said, he heard Lance sigh, “We're going to create a Reverse-Flash Task Force. Simply put, we can't wait around for a Flash to finally decide to time-travel while the Reverse-Flash is wreaking our city. We're going to be what stands between the regular police force and meta-threats like the Reverse-Flash.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Mike asked, but it was curious, not scornful.
“There have been a lot of people trying to stop speedsters in the last five centuries,” Randall said, “Very few have ever succeeded.”
“We're going to start with the technology that's most easily accessible,” Simon said, “And the ones that work best as a team.”
“You're going to use the Rogues,” Randall said, comprehension dawning on his face.
“Yup,” Simon said, “I've got...” he looked around, but the nearby tables were empty, “I had some information on them, but I can't remember where it's gone.”
Lance rolled his eyes and pulled a pile of folders out of a drawer and handed them to Simon. “You did read over this, right?” Lance asked in an undertone.
“Um...” Simon gave a bright smile in hopes of keeping Lance from shouting at him.
“You,” Lance said, shoving a folder into Simon's hands, “Are an idiot. Looks like I'm explaining things then.”
“If you didn't mind,” Simon said.
“These folders,” Lance said, addressing the rest of the group and handing out the rest of the folders as he did, “Contain information on the Rogues, their weapons, and which ones we have available to us now and which will only be released on a provisional basis when we prove our proficiency at the job. They also contain your contract, which must be signed by the end of today. It's a little old-fashioned, but we're keeping paper records only for the moment.”
“Less chance of being hacked?” Mike clarified.
“Correct,” Lance said, “Until further notice, we're not to give anyone else information about the Task Force. We'd prefer to keep the element of surprise until it is no longer available.”
“So, now that’s the boring stuff out of the way,” Simon said, before Lance could starting running over even more tedious legal information, “Who wants to try out some weapons?”
There was a cheer from Jim and a glare from Lance, but he didn’t raise any objections while Simon led the lot of them to the weapons vault.
--------------------
As much as Marten was trying to hold a grudge against Jim for pushing him into this job, he could barely hold back a moan of joy as Simon ushered them into the weapons storage room. Blueprints were laid over solid workbenches and stacked in corners in rolled up bundles. Zero-gravity containers held a number of weapons in varying stages of design and repair.
Jim laughed and was off, running between the tables with the giddy glee of a child on their birthday morning. Marten only managed to hold himself in check long enough for Simon’s friend to wave the rest of them forward.
There was so much to look at. Everything was brightly coloured and full of impossible notes - absolute zero, really? - having only been a glorified forensic scientist with only occasional bouts of new development, Marten realised that he was both completely out of his depth and exhilarated at the prospect of so many new things.
“Still doubting my decision now?” Jim asked smugly.
“There’s a still a chance it could all blow up,” Marten said, “Literally, given the substance this tank purportedly held.”
“You’re still smiling,” Jim said, with his own grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much.”
Jim bounced off to look at another bit of equipment before Marten could reply. Marten’s head was spinning - flames hot enough to harm a speedster? - and he took a moment to look over his new team.
Jim was talking with Simon animatedly. Simon was pointing at a set of blueprints and one of the contained pistols. The historian was making good use of the information packs they’d been given and was looking at each weapon in turn, muttering to himself as he cross-referenced the weapons and the criminals who wielded them.
The other two men were talking too, Simon’s cop friend and the security guard. Marten would learn their names eventually. They appeared to be discussing the merits of straightforward firearms versus specialised weapons.
Marten realised that this was his life now. The job that had always been promised, but had never appeared. The career he would work himself to the bone for because he loved it that much.
“Have you found what weapon you want yet?”
Marten jumped and found Simon’s friend had wandered over while he’d been lost in his head. The man was tall, with short blond hair and intense blue eyes. Marten’s stomach gave a lurch, but he ignored it.
“Not yet. There’s so much to choose from,” he replied, then felt it would only get more awkward if he had to avoid using the man’s name, “I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names. You’re...”
“It’s Lance. Lance Allen,” Lance said, with a hint of a smile, “And you’re Marten Moore. If I’m rightly remembering, Simon said you’re the one who wasn’t sure about all this.”
“That was before I saw this room,” Marten replied truthfully.
“As you’re going to be one of the two who does all the work on these things, speak up if you don’t think you’ll be able to keep any of them working,” Lance said, “There’s no point in us getting to grips with one weapon only to have it break and not be able to us it again.”
“Thank you,” Marten said. He felt he shouldn’t just leave it there, so added, “Have you decided which weapon you’re going to use yet?”
“I’m hoping to get one of the straightforward point and shoot ones,” Lance said, “I’ve been firing a gun for years, I know how to do that.”
It made sense to Marten, Simon had also chosen a pistol and had come from the same line of work. There were several pistols amongst the weapons, so it wouldn’t be like Lance would have trouble finding one.
A thin piece of detailed metal caught Marten’s eye and he went over to have a closer look. Even before he read the notice attached to the container or looked up the weapon in his folder of Rogues, Marten knew what it was.
“‘The weather wand’,” Lance read aloud.
“It's an incredibly sophisticated piece of technology. For the time period anyway,” Marten said, examining the weather wand as close as he dared without better equipment, “Even now I'd be hard pressed to find some capable of creating something like this. Meteorology is rarely studied by humans these days.”
“Can you get it working?” Lance asked.
“I don't know,” Marten replied frankly, “I don't have the Jackham genes. None of us do. I'm going to have to take a better look.”
“Don't spend too long with it,” Lance said, “If it doesn't work it doesn't work.”
The wand hummed, glowed, and shot off a stray spark. When Marten didn't move it further it quieted down again.
“Well, something's still working in there,” Marten said, wishing he was back in his lab with the right equipment.
It took the rest of the day, but eventually they all found something they would be happy using. Marten got the weather wand after all, though only with a promise that if he couldn’t get any of it working in a week he’d pick something else. Jim couldn’t decide on just one gimmick and went for a bit of everything, explaining that he was basing himself off the Trickster.
Lance got his pistol, one of the ones that could produce absolute zero. So did Simon, though his had power over reflections instead of ice. Michael decided on the flamethrower and Randall went for a prototype suit that was attempting to replicate the Top’s meta-powers.
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Simon headed into work a couple of Thursdays later. He was beginning to get the hang of the mirror gimmicks and had completed several test-runs into the mirror-dimension only yesterday. Today he was hoping to have a successful run with someone else in tow.
His mail slot was oddly full when he checked it. Since working here, the only items Simon had gotten so far were the initial briefing from Precinct One and a couple of gag cards from Jim (bearing lines like 'congratulations on getting fired').
By the insignia on the thick envelope, it looked like another missive from Precinct One. Maybe it had information about their equipment and what Precinct One was going to expect of them - expect of them more that just Lance's training drills, which were something Simon had been hoping to get away from now they weren't working with the police force, but no such luck.
It wasn't about their training or equipment. Simon nearly broke his neck tripping up the stairs in his hurry to get to room 2.35.
Lance was already there, talking to Jim and Randall. There wasn't any sign of Marten or Mike yet, but Simon was on time, for once, and there was never a full Task Force before nine o'clock.
Lance recognised Simon's excitement for what it was and looking annoyingly frowny about it. Simon had expected that and thus turned to give Jim and Randall the news first. It would be easier to persuade Lance if Simon had other people behind him.
“We've got a mission,” Simon said enthusiastically.
Jim's face lit up and Randall looked intrigued. Lance rolled his eyes at Simon, but didn't interrupt; likely only because the others were there, which is what Simon had been banking on.
“Thawne?” Randall asked, “The Reverse-Flash?”
“No,” Simon replied, “There's a disturbance down the Links. Meta-human disturbance.”
Randall lost a bit of his eagerness, but still looked interested. Thank goodness. Jim was already moving toward his workbench for supplies.
“They sent it on paper?” Lance asked, which wasn't what Simon had been expecting. “Innocent people possibly getting hurt, structural damage, and they didn't notify us more quickly?”
“They said they were keeping records quiet,” Randall said, but he didn't sound too enthused by the idea, “We are meant to not exist at the moment.”
“Take it up with Precinct One later,” Simon said, holding up the missive, “We've got a job to do.”
Lance held out his hand. “I'll read it over. Go and get ready,” he ordered.
“Come on, Randall,” Simon said, dragging him over to Jim and leaving Lance to read the mission briefing.
“Doesn't it bother you that he doesn't treat you like you're his superior?” Randall asked when they were out of Lance's earshot.
“Nope,” Simon said cheerfully, “If you hadn't noticed, it's all pretty informal here. Lance's always been better at understanding the formal talk they use on those things. Besides he's saved my arse enough times to treat me however he wants.”
Randall smiled at that. Jim emerged from under his workbench and placed an armful of material on the surface. Green and orange and yellow and blue. Simon picked up his outfit and grabbed the mirror-pistol from Marten's bench. Their first job.
This would be fun.
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