Flash Photography #4: The Misfits walked into a Bar

==Arkham Asylum==

 

"Is it done?" Crane pried, leaning forward to examine the collection of monitors on the wall.

 

"Juuuust finishing rendering, I'm setting it to run on auto. If you think you can handle that," Billings teased Cobb, as he inputted a final command into his keyboard.

 

"I can handle it," Cobb crackled back irritably, clearly insulted by Billings' insinuation.

 

Billings shrugged dispassionately, and took a glug from his flask, beer dripping down his chin. Since Thawne returned, he was drinking even more than usual. "Hey, I never asked!" he burped out suddenly. "What's the one thing you guys want most?"

 

The response was a resounding groan from the rest of the room.

 

"C'mon, it's topical. You, Zoom?"

 

Zolomon, looked off into the distance; he would keep his fantasy to himself, yet even so, Crane could discern a slight change in his demeanour.

 

"Forget it," a less perceptive Billings groaned. "Hayden?"

 

"Ooh!” Hayden clapped his hands together with delight. “A world to conquer! Billions of playthings to control!" he jumped up and down giddily. "Just like the Monitor promised. He promised, you know! Oh, so long ago... But he's gone. He's gone and I'm still waiting."

 

"Well, I don't know about any monitor, but it's a strong start," Billings smiled. "Crane?"

 

Scarecrow paused. "What do I want most?" he repeated, a thin, nostalgic smile breaking across his scarred face. "Leek and potato soup."

 

"What?" Billings frowned, his excitement dissipating like the steam from one of Crane’s broths.

 

"A warm bowl of leek and potato soup," Crane whispered longingly, practically salivating. "Funny where the mind wanders, no? I am not a sentimental person by any measure, and yet... I find myself fantasising not of a world torn apart by terror, nor of a working body... But of my mother's humble, homemade broth, a slight comfort from the wretched hell that was my childhood. And what of yourself?"

 

Billings chuckled. "Easy. I want my leg back. I want to walk without limping. I... I want Best Picture. Sims: you and I could partner up, do some real arthouse shit, A24, the works; tits, gore, close ups of flowers... And when those accolades come flooding in, I want someone to share it with. I want... I want a mouth around my cock. One of those pretty broads, from Hollywood. But the classy kind, not those new-age sl-ts. Now, Walker's wife, she was a knockout."

 

"Oh, yes, we liked Mrs Moth..." the King giggled, his tail wriggling between his legs. "But what of Selina Kyle?" the creature pried.

 

"Wayne's girl? I guess. Nice ass, but the short hair's a turn-off. I like my women to look like women, you know?"

 

The King didn't like that; a quiet hiss escaped his saliva-drenched lips, but went unnoticed by Billings.

 

"How about you, Sims?" Billings pressed on.

 

Sims laced his hands together as he contemplated his response. "Do you remember the day Superman died?" he asked at last.

 

"Well, of course, everyone fucking does."

 

Sims’ glass-like eyes narrowed. "Exactly. When that Doomsday monster murdered Superman one of the photographers from the Planet, Olsen, snuck in quick, got the money shot. And what a shot it was; a tattered cape hanging from a piece of twisted metal like a flag; Lane, tear stricken, clutching his battered body. I don't think there's a single person on the planet who hasn't seen that photo.

 

And it was taken by a child.

 

It was everywhere. On every paper, on every website. That is what I want. I want to be there when Batman dies. Someone else can shoot him. Stab him. Choke him. But I want to be the one to take that picture."

 

"Cobb?"

 

The hologram flickered. "Aside from the obvious? I want you to stop downloading porn on my servers. Tall ask."

 

==Butchinsky's==

 

While the rest of The Misfits drowned their sorrows in unrefrigerated spirits, Chuck, Ten, Bridget, Kuttler and Needham had set up shop in Len’s office. While Ten finished unfurrowing blueprints of Arkham Island, Needham wandered off, distracted by a framed class photo hanging above a metal safe. He wiped the dust-covered glass with his thumb and frowned. "Huh. Didn't know Fiasco went to middle school with Bruce Wayne," he spoke, noticing a skinny blond boy shooting daggers at a dark-haired student two rows in front of him.

 

"Are you kidding? He never shut up about it," Chuck smiled nostalgically.

 

"Really?" Ten frowned. "He always struck me as pretty reserved. Closed off, even."

 

"Then you never saw him with a shotgun," Needham turned his head back.

 

"Len's a good man, honest. He just... holds a few grudges. Anyway, it was just for a year or two, before Wayne left for soul searching or whatever he did abroad."

 

"A man like that, I can hazard a guess," Bridget shivered.

 

“Wayne isn't so bad," Ten vouched for him. "He gave me a job at Wayne Enterprises once I got out of Blackgate, gave me these prosthetics… He even donated money to Joey and I's start-up."

 

Kuttler shot Needham a glance. "They don't know?" he whispered.

 

"No, and he'd rather we kept it that way."

 

Kuttler rolled his eyes, slumping back in his chair in annoyed resignation.

 

"Eric, you were on Arkham Island, did you learn anything when you were down there?" Chuck asked, unaware of the duo’s hushed exchange.

 

"Nothing of value," Needham replied discouragingly, gesturing to the forest on the maps. "They have King of Cats on patrol, cameras everywhere… Bats figured Spellbinder has cast an illusion across the entire island. We'd be going in blind. Can't say I like our odds,” he spoke candidly.

 

"Yes, I recognise the energy signature… Hmm, he’s not been capable of something on this scale before; that must be Cobb’s doing. It’s going to be tricky to disable, I know of only one other who could…” Kuttler presumed. “I should be able to access the bunker, that uses Lexcorp security, it was always cheaper than Luthor let on… Do you have any idea how to access the Asylum?”

 

"Well, full-frontal would-be suicide," Bridget stated. "What about the beach?"

 

“S’possible, if we had someone drawing their fire,” Needham answered.

 

"Well, I could maybe get onto the rooftop, access Intensive Treatment from there. Assuming that's where they're keeping them. Otis can take a team into the sewers… Just need them focused on the courtyards. Draw them out. Knock them out," Chuck smirked.

 

“Hah,” Ten laughed dryly, twirling a lock of greying hair. “You make it sound easy.”

 

~-~

 

"What're you doing back there?" Blake inquired, sipping from a warm bottle of beer, and peering over the counter.

 

Joey turned off the blow torch and lowered his goggles. "Back at Gotham General, Carson took down Suit with some kind of Fire-Sword-"

 

"It was a lightsaber, Rig. Let's call it as it is," Gar interrupted, taking time away from watching the door as he waited for Jenna.

 

"Lightsaber, fine," Joey smiled slightly. "Carson might not be going anywhere, but with what we know about the other Outcasts, we need every advantage we can get. I'm just trying to see if I can reverse engineer a fire- uh, lightsaber of my own," he explained to the pair, as he continued to weld together his weapon.

 

"Keep working at it," Gar nodded curtly, as he patted him on the back, then turned his attention back to the bar floor; The front door opened with a creak and Jenna entered the bar. And, to Gar's surprise (and his chagrin), she was not alone:

 

"What’s she doing here?" Gar frowned, watching as Volcana entered, a child-filled papoose around her chest.

 

"She insisted," Jenna rolled her eyes, as the two embraced in a hug that was all too short.

 

Clair raised baby Josie above her head and planted her in Gar's arms, a delighted "Dada" escaping the child's lips, as she wriggled around and cooed.

 

"Dude... is that baby fucking flammable?" Sharpe asked, as a fiery snot bubble escaped Josie's chubby nose.

 

"Most are," Flannegan responded dryly; he was standing by a dusty pool table; breaking up the neat triangle of pool balls with the chalked-up base of his staff for dramatic effect.

 

"Jenna, dear, listen. I make a margarita that is to die for," Clair declared to a bewildered Duffy, as she parted the saloon doors and disappeared behind the bar, unearthing two cocktail glasses and a metal shaker. Blake's eyes followed her as she bent over, a sudden flash in his brown eyes.

 

"Really?" Gar growled disapprovingly at him.

 

"Hey, it's been a hot minute. Don't be greedy, Lynns," he lectured him on dubious moral grounds.

 

Gar rolled his eyes, swallowing his retort. "Clair, this is serious-" he called out over the distracting sound of bottles clinking against one another as his ex searched the cupboards for garnishes, but it was no use.

 

"So am I," she replied airily. "Now where does that Pencil keep the salt?" she scowled.

 

Gar let out an exasperated sigh, his eyes meeting Jenna's as he sought understanding. “Beside the rat poison," he relented tiredly.

 

"Fuckin’ savage," Flannegan muttered disdainfully, moving his staff away from the pool table so that Mayo could have a turn. The Condiment King eagerly jabbed the cue forwards; the white ball shot off the table and, gaining momentum, crashed through the window.

 

“WHO FUCKING THREW THAT?”

 

The front door swung open for the second time in five minutes, as Doctor Gaige stormed forward, a white pool ball in his hand; he was joined by a dour looking Axel, a tearful Kitten, and Simon, who was holding Cammy on his shoulders; the youngest of the Gaige-Walkers playfully tugging on the antennae on his purple helmet.

 

"Heyo, Doc, you sure you can bring them in here? Aren't they a little young?" Sharpe teased.

 

Gaige and Axel stuck their middle fingers out in unison.

 

“Funny,” Axel scowled.

 

“Your balls drop yet?” Gaige queried.

 

"Josie!" Cammy pointed excitedly from atop Simon's shoulders. Simon smiled, and lowered his younger brother to the ground, letting him toddle along the wooden floor towards Gar’s child.

 

"Cam-Cam!" Josie squealed back as she tried to wrestle herself from her father’s grip, clapping her chubby fists together.

 

"Well? Where is he? Where is that self-righteous, self-serious Furry-Fetish Fuckwit?" Gaige demanded.

 

"He's gone."

 

Gaige tilted his head towards Needham; the meeting in Len’s office now adjourned. "What?"

 

"He took a hit in the precinct, and he's out of action."

 

"That inconsiderate bastard!" Gaige roared, throwing the pool ball out the other window.

 

“Wait, we’re not doing this without the Bat, are we?” Blake gasped, flecks of beer foam in his orange beard.

 

“We’ve done plenty without the Bat,” Gar responded.

 

“Yeah, heists. And guess what, he managed to kick our asses every time!” Blake panicked. "Look, it doesn't matter if we beat the clown, if we even can. If we lose Killer, it's a phallic victory at best," he declared despondently.

 

"You're doing that intentionally," Kuttler spoke, massaging his temples.

 

"Doing what?"

 

Sharpe chugged his fifth pint and beamed. The Misfits, the Gaige-Walkers, Jenna, and Needham all groaned, fearing the worst. "I'm with Lynns. Listen, y'all know I'm no big fan of Moth's. He hung me out to dry while you all went scouting for college chicks-"

 

"That's not what happened-" Ten protested.

 

"That's exactly what happened," Blake testified.

 

"Doesn't matter! Look, we all have our talents; Ten, you provide sagely wisdom, Gar sets things on fire and is sad about it; Rigger sets things on fire with impressive enthusiasm. Blake is a stellar one-on-one combatant, (and a less than stellar ladies' man, let's be honest, Tom) while I literally have plot on my side. Now, Moth, Moth is a born leader, that’s why we need him! And Chuck was born to lead whenever he falls into a depressive state. You, Calculator, you do something with computers, right? Bridget gave us a lovely marketable redemption arc. And Needham? Oh, Needham knows where to get all the best drugs; downside is, he's also killed most of the suppliers. Jenna is a woman, and that's great! We need more of those! Speaking of more of those, Volcana-"

 

"Leave me out of this, Texas Toast,” Clair warned, her margarita glass burning in her grip.

 

"Kay! Otis has a bunch of skills that I don't really wanna look into, but they exist! Doc, you make animal cruelty a loveable quirk! We are all valuable, and there isn't anything that can stop us if we can put our minds to it."

 

"Oh, and Mayo. Forgot about him," Sharpe added apologetically.

 

"So did I!" Mitch replied, toasting Sharpe's speech with a can of Cream Soda.

 

“Still, it’s not going to be easy. We’ll need nothing short of an army to storm Arkham,” Chuck declared.

 

“Hhn. Is that all? I can get you an army,” Gaige growled assertively.

 

"Ooh, and I could ask Fang!" Kitten squealed delightedly.

 

The Misfits stared back blankly. Chuck looked at their resident database, Kuttler, who shrugged.

 

"Uh... My boyfriend? Fang?" Kitten twirled a lock of long blonde hair.

 

"I, uh, appreciate the enthusiasm, Kitten. But we can't ask a boy to fight for us... We need powerhouses,” Chuck replied.

 

"But he-"

 

"-Deserves to spend the rest of his life with you, I'm sure,” he smiled, placing a supportive, if not a little dismissive, hand on her shoulder.

 

"Which for him is one to two years," Axel muttered.

 

"Are we really doing this?" Joey asked. "Fighting a speedster, the Psycho Pirate, Joker?"

 

Chuck looked around the room, at the faces waiting expectantly. "Hell yeah."

 

~-~

 

Simon entered the bathroom; he flicked water into his dry eyes, he rubbed his eyelids, he looked up at the mirror, and then-?

 

And then he jumped back.

 

In his reflection, was a man dressed in yellow, red eyes boring through Simon’s petrified figure. Simon spun around, praying it was the sleep deprivation.

 

It wasn’t.

 

"If you try to tell anyone I'm here, I'll slaughter all of them before you can finish the first syllable. Do you understand?"

 

"How- How are you-?" the boy choked.

 

"Don't speak. Just nod."

 

It took everything in Simon’s power not to run. To scream. To hide. But he was restrained by the thought of what Eobard Thawne might do to his family if he refused him. So, he swallowed his fear and met his request with a rigid nod.

 

"Good,” Thawne smiled with that sadistic, condescending smile that had haunted Simon for over five years. “You have questions, naturally, that's understandable. Let me catch you up to speed: The last time you saw me, you were going back in time, to undo Chronos and the Pike girl's little 'mess.' Well done, by the way, I see things are mostly back to normal... Now, the last time I saw you, you were choking to death on your own blood.”

 

Simon stared back with unblinking eyes and Thawne yawned.

 

“Time Travel; it's a difficult concept to wrap your head around, if you're a novice... Oh, what's the matter, Simon? Life flashing before your eyes?"

 

"You're- You're with the Outcasts?” he spoke at last, each word a challenge as they fought their way past the lump in his throat. “This- this was all you?"

 

Thawne let out a cold, mirthless chuckle as he approached. His hand lingered on Simon’s chest, mere inches from where he’d once plunged his hand, his smile growing broader as he felt the boy tremble. "Oh, please, I'm not responsible for every bad day in your life. You're not The Flash. The clown has his agenda, I have mine. Consider this a... ‘notice’ on the eve of war."

 

His hand retreated from Simon’s person, as his body coursed with red lightning.

 

"Wait!" Simon pleaded. He couldn’t let him go, not without asking him.

 

Thawne tried to hide his annoyance. Poorly. "Yes?" he asked.

 

"Where you come from, whatever that original timeline was... Was this always supposed to happen?"

 

Thawne exhaled. "Why should it matter?"

 

"Because... I need to know if..."

 

"If your stepmother was always fated to die?"

 

Thawne zoomed behind him, and Simon's stomach lurched. "No, more than that..." he smiled, piecing together Simon's motives. "You want to know if it's your fault."

 

Simon nodded, avoiding eye contact.

 

He chuckled coldly. "Well, I'm sorry to say you severely overestimate my knowledge of your family, and my interest… But I shall tell you this, in my timeline? Before Chronos shattered it, and you tried to patch it up with sticky tape and chewing gum?

 

The Arkham Project never got off the ground."

 

A flash of lightning and Thawne was gone, but not without leaving a lingering, grinning afterimage in his wake. A final taunt to the boy he’d killed.

 

==Gotham Warehouse District==

 

The site of Drury’s first Mothcave

 

Joey christened his new firesword by using its blade to melt through the lock to the warehouse, leading the group into an abandoned loading bay. Jenna took point, kneeling beside a metal hatch and opening her toolbox. She retrieved her favourite power drill and unscrewed the set of four bolts. Next, Gar leaned in, helping her lift the heavy hatch aside. Taking the lead, Chuck grasped the end of his torch and walked down the steps, uncovering a sparse basement below. He ripped a sheet down and revealed a large mirror. He looked to Axel for confirmation, then chapped rhythmically on the glass. At first, nothing happened, then a dishevelled looking man with scruffy orange hair stuck his head out of the mirror. "Aye?" he slurred, evidently hungover.

 

"Drury's been taken."

 

"Well dinnae just stand there!" the Scottish man commanded, pulling Chuck through the portal, and re-emerging in a bar in Keystone City. As the Misfits took turns stepping through the mirror, Chuck caught the bar’s costumed inhabitants up to speed.

 

“Yeah, Zoom’s a tough bastard,” Mick Rory nodded, downing a shot of whiskey. “So, unless you lot are carrying secret speedster powers, you’ve no chance.”

 

"Not alone no, but that’s why we're assembling a crack team," Joey proclaimed, his cheeks red.

 

"Och, did somebody say crack?" McCulloch asked, rubbing his running nose.

 

The Misfits stared back uncomfortably.

 

"Ach, ahm just joshing ya,” McCulloch chortled. “But seriously, if ya do ha' any crack, best ye keep it ta yerselves. Ahm tryna get clean."

 

Before the Misfits could offer their support of his sobriety, a blonde woman entered the room, pausing as her amber eyes met Chuck’s. Rory growled protectively.

 

McCulloch grinned. "Och, aye. Lis', this is Chuckie Broon. He's one a' Axel’s dad's pals. Fae tha Misfits"

 

The blonde woman, Lisa, waved back politely, then left the way she came. Rory rose from his stool and followed her out.

 

"You'll have ta forgive Rory,” McCulloch apologised. “He thinks yer aw fookin’ mental. No' me? I ken yer aw fookin' mental. Wit do yous have in mind?"

 

Jenna smirked. "We know a couple guys."

 

~-~

 

"Fame, and fortune?" Paul Booker asked, lowering his pint, wiping away the thick layer of beer foam with the back of his hand. "Sure! Why not!"

 

"But Big Sir has lots of fame and fortune, Mr Major,” the enormous man beside him cooed.

 

"And some of us have a triple mortgage and a boat to pay off!” Booker snapped back.

 

"Big Sir told you that was a bad investment,” Ratchett replied sternly.

 

"Like I'm gonna take financial advice from a gopher that can't count to ten! This- This pays, don't it?" Booker’s eyes squinted at Jenna.

 

==The Broken Arrow. Star City==

 

“-And that’s why we’ll beat Green Arrow once and for all!” the Pinball Wizard proclaimed, making his speech from atop an overturned wine crate.

 

William Tockman sighed as his back pocket began vibrating; he removed his clock-like helmet and picked up his phone. "Clocko, it's Maj. Got another job for you," a familiar voice called out.

 

Clock King looked over at Scimitar, now picking his nose, and Rainbow Archer, in a perpetual state of swallowing saliva and, putting the phone away from his mouth, muttered quietly "Thank God."

Done