#4: Cold

The Flash
#4: First Steps Part 4
"Cold”

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!

Barry grumbled as he reached for his phone to turn off the alarm. After doing so, he sat up, blinked twice at the morning sunlight that crept underneath his window shade, and then lay back down again.

“Just a few more minutes…”

…

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!

A veiny hand smacked at the bedside table until it found its target: a cellphone. Breathing deeply, a shirtless man sat up, turned off the alarm, stood, and dropped his phone onto the bed. His lean muscles rippled as he stretched and yawned.

In nothing but dark blue pajama bottoms, he walked across the room to a bench press machine, rotated his arms twice, and then began to use it. After bench press came squats, and it was during his third and final set that sweat began to bead down his brow.

“Just a few more…”

…

“You sleep one more minute, Allen, and you’re gonna be late.”

Barry’s eyes fluttered open. That voice… “Max?”

“Don’t be in a rush to thank me,” the other man said, before leaving the room.

Barry checked the time on his phone. 7:29. He immediately shot up, mentally berating himself as he looked for his crutches. They were nowhere to be found. He began to panic before remembering what had happened.

“I can run,” he whispered, still amazed.

Barry sprinted into the bathroom. After undressing, he forced himself to calm down so as to deactivate his super speed, and turned on the shower. It was only after getting in that he realized he’d forgotten a towel. Muttering obscenities, he turned off the water and used his speed to rush into his bedroom, but he slipped on the floor.

SLAM!

“Allen!” Max called from the living room, getting up to go check on his roommate.

“I’m naked!” Barry shouted back.

“Ha ha, you’re hilari—oh God. Sorry,” Max quickly averted his gaze when he caught sight of Barry, who had since covered his genitals with his hands.

The blond took only half a second to look at Max in terror before he thought to use his speed to grab a towel and run back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. In the process, he ripped it off its hinges.

“ALLEN!!” Max roared.

“Sorry! I’ll fix it,” Barry said, making sure the door was steady. “Just let me shower first.”

“All that speed and what does he do with it? Fix a door,” Max muttered to himself, munching on his breakfast.

…

“One more minute,” the man said to himself, his voice husky and deep.

He was currently in the middle of a burnout set of sit ups. Sweat puddled beneath him. He refused to quit until at last he physically could not sit up.

“Two less than last week,” he muttered. “Dammit!”

The man slammed his fists against the floor. After taking a few moments to breathe, he rolled over and forced himself up onto his feet. He then tossed a small washcloth onto the puddle of sweat, before he snagged a larger towel off its rack and headed to the bathroom.

Inside, he turned on the shower, put up the towel, and undressed. As steam clouded around him, the man glared into the mirror. Cold, ice blue eyes stared back at him. His close cropped brown hair was freckled with gray, and his lightly wrinkled face was far too matured for his age, 29. He grimaced, and looked away.

This was Leonard Snart.

…

“You gonna eat anything?” Max yelled from the kitchen.

Barry, in his room, had hastily thrown on a button up, slacks, shoes, and his clip-on bowtie. As he stuffed medical reports and his friction-proof boots into his satchel, he called back, “No! I don’t have the time!”

“Fine, but if you die it’s not on me,” Max said.

Barry smirked, throwing the last of his necessary belongings into the bag before he took off toward the front door.

“I’m not gonna slip into a coma because I skipped breakfast; relax,” Barry teased Max as he jogged at regular speed out of the apartment, his roommate flipping him off as he went by.

…

Snart, dressed in faded jeans and a blue hoodie, knelt down onto his knees. He produced from beneath his bed a small safe, and after unlocking it, he took out one of a few dozen hundred dollar bills. He then stuffed it into his wallet, and pushed the safe back into its hiding space so he could reach for something else: a pistol.

Snart checked to make sure its safety was on before he stuck the firearm in the waist of his jeans. To hide it, he covered it with his hoodie and then hurried into the kitchen. After grabbing a protein bar, he slipped out of his apartment, making sure to lock it.

…

Barry began to pick up speed as he raced down the hallway. Electricity coursing through his veins, he took his first step at super speed just as he crossed intersecting hallways, nearly running into Snart in the process. Barry practically tripped over his own feet in his attempt to slow down, and had to lean against the elevator doors to catch himself.

He tried to play it off with a simple, “Good morning.”

Snart merely nodded in return.

Barry and Snart reached for the down button at the same time. Both hesitated because of the other. Taking charge, Snart pressed the button, and Barry slipped his hands into his pockets, stepping back.

“Sorry,” Barry muttered.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m Len Snart, 4C,” the man said, extending his hand.

“Barry Allen, 4F. Nice to meet you.” The blond shook his hand.

“Likewise.”

Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity, particularly for Barry. Awkwardness was made all the worse by super speed.

“How long have you lived here?” Barry blurted.

Snart looked at him, not so much incredulous as amused. “A couple years. Originally moved in with some friends, but they left a while back.” A beat and then, “You must be the new guy.”

“Guilty as charged,” Barry admitted, glancing away.

“You enjoying it?” Snart asked.

Barry shrugged right as the elevator pinged and the doors slid open. Following Snart inside, he answered, “Yeah, for all the time I’ve spent here. I had an accident a few months ago. It…set me back.”

“Yeah?” Snart wondered, pressing the button for the first floor.

“Long story short, I was away for a while. Now I’m back and better than ever,” Barry replied.

“Good for you, kid,” Snart said.

Despite his graying hair and wrinkles, Barry picked up from the twinkle in his eye and his build that Snart and he were in fact close to the same age. He had to resist correcting him, and instead went with, “What about you?”

“Oh…I’ve been laying low, you know what I mean?” Barry nodded. Snart smirked to a joke only he understood, then continued, “But my life’s about to get a whole lot better. I’m gonna meet up with those friends I was telling you about, and cut loose. Might take some convincing—a couple of ‘em don’t know how to chill out, right?—but it’ll be a good time.”

The elevator pinged again and the doors slid open. They’d arrived at the first floor.

Smiling at the other man, Barry began to run to the front door. “Well, it was nice meeting you. I hope everything works out with your friends!”

And just like that, Barry was off.

Meanwhile, Snart took it easy as he approached the front door. Chuckling, he whispered, “Me too, kid. Me too.”

Exiting the building, Snart searched through his phone for a particular contact. He stopped scrolling when he found ‘Mick Rory.’ Dialing the number, he lifted the phone up to his ear. It rang once. Twice. Multiple times until he got Rory’s automatic voicemail.

“Dammit, Mick,” Snart grumbled, hanging up.

He clicked into the Find My iPhone app. Snart quickly typed ‘michael.rory@hotmail.com’ and the password into the application before logging in. A map of Central City popped up. On it lay a digital pin. He memorized the address, and then opened up the Uber app.

’I hate to do this, Mick, but we gotta talk.’

…

Barry’s attempt to sneak into work failed spectacularly. For starters, he hoped to avoid his second round of congratulations, because, of course, his second day of work happened to be his first day back after the accident. No such luck. His father’s colleagues hounded him, clapping him on the back so hard he was reminded of high school.

And then came Part Two. The ruckus drew the attention of the entire crime lab, who were none too pleased at the sight of him. He would have been just a couple minutes late, but his fan club had slowed him down even further.

As he entered, a female scientist passed him by, whispering in a melodic tone, “Singh’s gonna kill you, miracle child.”

“Wha—”

“ALLEN!”

Barry swiveled around only to get caught in a stare down with David Singh, the head of the crime lab, across the room.

“Yes, sir!” Barry yelled, further angering his colleagues who were hard at work. He shrunk back and lowered his voice as he muttered to the closest scientist he could find, “So sorry.”

“MY OFFICE! NOW!!” Singh roared.

Barry gulped and hurried over to the man, who motioned for him to enter a glass-walled room only slightly bigger than a broom closet. Forcibly sitting Barry down, Singh stalked around to his chair and sat down. The blond glanced between random objects—a picture of Singh with another man, one with his family, his college diploma.

“You’re late,” Singh sternly said, drawing Barry’s gaze.

“I know. I’m so sorry. I…I don’t have an excuse. I’m sorry,” Barry stammered.

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry!”

“Allen!”

Barry looked down at his feet. Singh frowned, and leaned forward in his seat.

“You need to understand something about me, Allen,” he began.

“You hate me, like everyone else. I get it,” Barry said matter-of-factly, ready to defend himself.

“No. No, I don’t.”

Barry looked up, confused, and Singh continued.

“I’m indifferent to you. You’ve done nothing to impress me. You’ve been late, but that’s not enough to warrant my hate, or even my distaste. While you were handed a case you hadn’t earned, you didn’t brag about it. You’re not an asshole with a small ego like half of the rest of the lab. I can respect that, but I can’t respect you just because you’re a decent person.”

“Thank you…?” Barry offered.

“Don’t thank me, Allen. Impress me,” Singh reached into a drawer and produced from it a folder. He slammed it down in front of Barry. “I won’t sugarcoat it; this is a cold case. Crack it. You’re supposed to be a genius, so prove your doubters wrong.”

“Y-yeah, absolutely, thank you—” Barry began, taking the file, before Singh interrupted him.

“What did I say?!” Singh growled.

“So—right. Um…I guess I should go…” Barry said, standing up.

“Did I say I was done with you?” Singh demanded.

“No…”

“Then sit back down!”

Barry did as he was told.

Singh finished, “Last we talked, you so desperately wanted a mentor, so you’re getting one. James Forrest. One of our best and brightest, and the same man who’s in charge of your ‘impossible case.’” He used his fingers as quotations marks to emphasize his skepticism. “While you’ll work on the cold case alone, you will be required to help Forrest, too. Until such a time as both cases are closed, you will be the CCPD’s first forensic assistant in ten years.”

“Yes, sir,” Barry nodded.

Silence. Singh sighed, before exploding, “Go! You’re dismissed!”

“Sor—yes, sir!” Barry stammered, rushing to the door. After stepping outside, he stopped and peeked his head back in to say, “Have a good day, sir.”

“GO!”

Without further ado, Barry, file in hand, stumbled away to find James Forrest. Unseen by the young man, Singh shook his head as he watched him go, the tiniest of smiles creeping over his lips.

…

“What’s with the smile?” Forrest wondered, as a smirk ghosted over Barry’s lips.

The blond didn’t look up, caught in the Impossible Case’s file, the cold case laid out next to it.

Forrest frowned. “Barry!”

The young man’s head shot up. He blinked once, and then looked at his superior, a kind, albeit serious, black man in his late forties.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just…what was the question?” Barry asked.

“What’s with your smile? Did you figure something out?” Forrest repeated.

Barry shrugged, the same smirk overcoming his face again. “Yeah, you could say that. The jagged cut in the victims’ bodies—I don’t think it was a sign of a struggle. I think the blade itself was…angular, like a saw.”

“Barry...” Forrest began, unintentionally patronizing the man, who felt the need to defend himself.

“Nothing else at any of the crime scenes indicated a struggle. It doesn’t make sense!” Barry pointed out.

“I want to believe you, but…why a saw?” Forrest argued.

“Maybe—probably it wasn’t a saw. I’m just saying that the blade was oddly shaped. If we could cross reference recent purchases…”

“Barry, I’m sorry, but what your about to ask is an impossible task…no pun intended,” Forrest said. “Assuming your hunch is correct, tracking down every jagged knife would be like trying to find a—”

“—a needle in a haystack. Right,” Barry sighed, recognizing the fault in his plan. He slid the file back over to Forrest. “I don’t have any other ideas at the moment. Maybe I should just focus on the cold case.”

“At the rate we’re going, this is about to become a cold case,” Forrest muttered, before saying, “Go for it, Barry. We’ll…figure something out. Eventually.”

Barry nodded, and carried the cold case file over to an empty desk in the corner. He beat back his feeling of inadequacy and ignored the occasional glares from his colleagues so he could focus in on the information before him.

The first crime had been committed two years ago. They were bank robberies—heists—each and every one, and no less than two million dollars had been stolen in total. The perps hadn’t taken more than ten or so thousand each time, which of course meant there had been dozens of robberies. Every single one went under the radar, more than half undetected, and the other half considered unrelated since they were such minor robberies in the grand scheme of things.

It was only after they caught most of the gang that the CCPD realized the same crew had performed each crime. None of the thugs would give up their free comrades. None revealed the location of the dough. They’d only been caught in the first place because one of them got antsy and wasted time taking more cash than usual. These guys were (for the most part) well-trained career criminals: Sam Scudder, PJ Jackson, Jose Martinez, James Jesse and the idiot who had gotten them caught—Axel Walker, Jesse’s kid cousin. A teenaged anarchist who happened to only get juvie because of his age.

“What a little jerk,” Barry muttered, reading Axel’s rap sheet. It was longer than his cousin’s, and he was over ten years younger than him. More importantly, the kid had escaped juvie and hadn’t yet been caught.

That led Barry to an entirely different train of thought—one directly related to the ‘cold’ aspect of this case. How had someone kept him in line? Who was capable of not just orchestrating those heists, but also controlling Axel Walker?

…

Snart hadn’t stepped foot in The Hole for almost six months, but the smell of the establishment brought him right back to some of his fondest memories as if he’d just been there yesterday. Booze, blood, and a faint touch of cinnamon—a combination he remembered fondly. The Hole was like a world of its own, a home away from home, a bar for criminals and outcasts alike.

He found Mick in a corner booth, alone. The man looked every bit the mess he was: scruffy hair, an untrimmed beard, his tan skin blanched with worry. Snart pitied him almost as much as he was disgusted by his defeatist attitude.

“Hello, Mick. You look like shit,” Snart stated, sliding across from him.

“I didn’t answer for a reason, Len. I’m done with that life,” Mick cut to the chase, grimacing.

Snart glanced around the bar—an underground criminal bar—amused. “I can tell.”

“Fuck you, man. You don’t—you can’t understand. You were born this way; it’s in your blood. Me? I just got dragged into it,” Mick spat.

“Tell that to your parents,” Snart shot back.

It was like someone had lit a match beneath Mick. He surged off his feet and dived across the table for Snart. However, in his drunken state he didn’t stand a chance. Snart grabbed his hair and slammed his head onto the table.

WHAM!

As if a gun had been fired, everyone in the room stood up. The bartender, Tanya, drew a pistol from beneath her skirt and aimed it at Snart.

“Snart, you know better than this. Only rule here—“

“—is no fighting,” Snart said, his hands in the air. Mick glared at him but did the same. “It’s okay. We were just leaving.”

“Damn straight,” Tanya growled, motioning to the door with her gun.

Snart walked slowly out of the bar, Mick just behind him. As soon as they made their way out of the Barbeque restaurant that fronted for The Hole, Mick grabbed by Snart by his collar and slammed him into an alley wall.

”Never mention my parents again, you hear me?!” Mick demanded.

Snart, utterly composed, nodded and said, “I heard about your sister. I’m sorry, Mick. You know I of all people mean it. If Lisa was killed…”

Mick relaxed, scowled and let Snart go. “I know you mean it. Our sisters are why we’re friends. My sister’s why I’m outta the Rogues—permanently.”

“You want out, fine. I just came here to tell you I was sorry to hear about Dana, and if you ever want back in you’d be welcomed with open arms. The Rogues are a family, Mick. Don’t ever forget that,” Snart said, before turning to walk away.

However, just as he reached the edge of the sidewalk, he stopped, and added, “If you need money, I’ve got a job. The perfect heist, worth millions. It’d be the last you’d ever have to do. You could retire. But don’t feel pressured into it…”

Mick sighed and leaned against the wall. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Snart smirked, put his hood up, and disappeared down the street.

…

Shouting shattered Barry’s concentration. He looked up for the source of the noise, only to find cops scrambling out of the building. Glancing around, he noticed the other police scientists paid the chaos no mind. Another day, another crime, right?

Unable to resist, Barry approached Patty, who was situated at a nearby table, and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Lunch break. They need their coffee and donuts,” Patty quipped.

“Really?”

“No, not really. Well, it is their lunch break, but they’re all freaking out because there’s a car chase,” Patty explained.

“Wow, uh…” Barry was at a loss for what to say, but not because of social anxiety. His instincts urged him to go help out. He was the fastest man alive. No car could outrun him. “I’ll be back. I’m starving.”

“Do you want to grab lunch with me?” Patty asked, as Barry got tunnel vision, and hurried over to his station to grab his bag.

“Maybe another ti—wait, what?” Barry swiveled around, bag in hand.

Patty continued on confidently, “Do you want to get lunch with me?”

“I…yes! Absolutely!” Barry’s grin faded as he admitted, “But not today. I just…I told my dad I’d eat with him, and…”

“Oh. Yeah. Don’t worry about it,” Patty said, unsure how to take the comment.

“Um…see you later,” Barry said, mentally berating himself as he turned away.

Outside amidst the chaos, Barry caught sight of Daniel and ran up to him.

“Car chase?” he asked.

“Yeah. How’d you…never mind,” Daniel said, shaking his head.

“Why’s everyone freaking out?”

“It’s this kid, Axel Walker. He—”

“—broke out of juvie,” Barry interrupted.

Daniel frowned, but nodded. “And then some. This is the third car chase he’s been caught in, but he’s escaped every time.”

“What?” Barry muttered. How had a teenager outmaneuvered the police multiple times?

“Listen, Barry, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but get back to work. No police scientist is gonna catch this guy,” Daniel said, patted him on the back, and then ran off after the others.

Barry watched Daniel go, and then looked to the crime lab. He eyed the door, and then his bag. Frowning determinedly, Barry tightened his grip on his bag and ran after the others.

…

Outside Juarez’s Mexican Bar and Grill, Iris West tapped her foot against the ground, impatient. She looked at her watch. He was nearly fifteen minutes late.

Suddenly, a tricked out sports car screeched by, creating a gust of wind that blew her hair over her eyes. Iris snorted frustratedly and readjusted her bangs right as three cop cars zoomed past, which in turn caused her hair to fall back again.

“Son of a…” Iris muttered, before a husky voice interjected.

“I’m not that late, am I?”

Pushing her hair back, Iris locked eyes with Leonard Snart. She crossed her arms and leaned back, daring him to continue.

“Joking! I’m only joking!” Snart said, approaching her, arms out.

Iris sighed, shaking her head, “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. So lunch is on me,” Snart wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her around to the restaurant.

“Oh, you bet your ass you’re paying. I’ve covered you the last nine times,” Iris teased.

Snart smiled. “Love you, too, babe.”