Archive of Our Own

Day One: “I chose you.”

Tears ran down Albert’s face as he gazed at the love of his life.

“You could have had your pick of men; better educated, perfectly sane, and with far less emotional and criminal baggage. I’ve got a long record of felonies and an astral twin, for heaven’s sake! I’m damaged goods.”

The Philosopher’s Stone ‘smiled’ (he could hear it in his mind, clear as day) and uttered a few soothing noises to calm him as it often did. It would have enveloped him in a gentle hug if it could, but had to content itself by flooding his mind with loving endorphins. Rita was long gone by now, exasperated with the ongoing status quo.

“And yet, I chose you,” it whispered.

Day Two: “Nobody warned you about me?”

Gregory Wolfe was a commanding presence, accustomed to being obeyed. He also expected people to fear him, and found himself perplexed by one inmate’s response to his visit.

“So let me be certain about this,” Roscoe began with more than a hint of condescension, “you of all people are running for mayor?”

“I thought I made that clear.”

“Oh you did, I just find it difficult to believe. You are not exactly popular in this city for a variety of reasons, most notably due to your conviction for corruption and abuse of prisoners. At this very institution, no less,” Roscoe said with a slight grin.

“Didn’t you run for mayor?” Wolfe asked pointedly, at which Roscoe frowned. Both knew the answer to that, but the Top wasn’t going to let it rattle him.

“Of course not, it was just an idle fancy spoken aloud. We supervillains indulge in that sort of thing on occasion. But I was the Vice President-elect, so I presume you are talking to me for a reason.”

Wolfe smiled, which was probably the best example of nomen est omen Roscoe had ever seen. “I want your help with my campaign.”

Roscoe burst out laughing, and the warden glowered at him. “I’m sorry, is there a Candid Camera: Iron Heights edition now? Did nobody warn you about me?”

“I’m aware of who and what you are, Mr. Dillon. You’re body-hijacking criminal scum who deserves a bullet in the brain, but you might be of some use to society by serving my bid for election.”

“All right, I’ll help you.”

Wolfe blinked with surprise. “That’s it? You’ll help? That’s all it took?”

“How could I say no to a stirring peptalk like that? Let me know what you want me to do.”

“Let me know what you want me to do, sir,” Wolfe sneered at him, but Roscoe looked neither chagrined nor cowed. His face was a mask of neutrality.

“Let me know what you want me to do, sir.”

“That’s better,” the warden grimaced as he walked away from the cell, nightstick in hand. His shoes rang a sharp staccato down the hall. “I’ll be in touch, inmate.”

Roscoe sat back down on his bed wearing the same mask, watching as the guards followed Wolfe and left him alone in his cell. “Oh, I am certain you will.”

Day Five: “No, anything but that.”

It was his first get-to-know-you outing with Owen, and Digger was incredibly excited. He had a son, and his son wanted to know him! They were going to do stuff together!

He had no idea what to do with a kid, or what his son liked doing, so he’d left the itinerary up to Owen and was happily imagining going to a bar and getting plastered….maybe getting into a scrap or two, with his boy to back him up. He was picturing the use of boomerangs in the fights, which was an enduringly pleasant thought.

“Son!” Digger exclaimed as they met up in front of Owen’s ramshackle apartment building, and briefly embraced.

“Hey Dad, you ready for a night out?” His son seemed a little self-conscious and anxious, but also eager to get started.

“You bet yer arse I am. Where we headed?”

“Well, I thought we’d go to a movie and see what we wanna do from there. I already bought some tickets.”

“Great!” Digger enthused, and turned in the direction of the local multiplex, though Owen cleared his throat.

“Actually, it’s at the Princess Theater downtown.”

Digger turned and stared. “But isn’t that the place they show the artsy-fartsy stuff?”

“Yeah, is that a problem?” Owen looked decidedly concerned and a bit embarrassed. He’d been told it was a good movie by a guy at the record shop and had thought his dad might like it.

Anything but that, Digger lamented internally, but he was not going to disappoint his kid. If his son wanted to watch the artsiest and the absolute fartsiest film in cinematic history, he would go along with it and grin the entire time.

“No worries, son. Lead on!”

Day Six: “Adaptable, I like that.”

The Ringmaster took aim and fired his rings at the Flash, which enlarged and trapped him within. The Flash struggled and received moderate electric shocks for his trouble, sapping his energy and left him exhausted on the ground.

“Nice shot!” Lisa called out admiringly, watching a short distance away. The Ringmaster confidently bowed in triumph.

“Thanks. I realized he was instinctively dodging to the left, so I adjusted my aim to compensate.”

“Adaptable…I like that,” she said with a purr in her voice, which she immediately noticed and frowned at. Where did that come from? This guy was her puppet, worth nothing to her and would be discarded as soon as her goals were met. Sucks to be him.

Ringmaster hauled the tired Flash off the ground and over his shoulder, casting a disapproving glance at his former ally. “It’s time you learned that being a vigilante doesn’t pay, Flash.”

He did that effortlessly. How strong is this guy? She bit her lip and turned away from him, though couldn’t quite resist stealing a glance as he walked towards the police station with his prize. I’m like a kid with a stupid crush and this guy is a complete nobody.

But a thought struck her as she watched him go; there was something familiar about him. Something about the way he walked, the way he swaggered, and the way he grinned at her as he mindlessly did her bidding.

She dropped her handful of gemstones in shock and her legs trembled with the threat of collapse. Momentarily, she felt like she couldn’t breathe: she’d suddenly realized that he reminded her of Roscoe.

Shit.

Day Nine: “Sounds like a you problem.”

“Mark, you handsome devil,” the man said to his reflection in the mirror, admiring his new leather jacket from every angle. “You’re totally getting laid tonight.”

He gelled and combed his hair, ensuring no stray locks fell out of place, and was putting the finishing touches on his cologne when he suddenly noticed Len in the doorway.

“Hey Mardon, we need you.”

“Sorry Len, I’ve got a hot date.”

“You mean you’re gonna go trawl the bars looking for desperate lonely women,” Len said flatly, and the would-be lothario deflated a bit.

“Nope, got a date. With…with Wendy. You remember her, right?”

“I remember she threw a drink in your face and told you to never call her again.”

“Look, what do you want?” Mark hissed through gritted teeth, and Len looked decidedly chagrined.

“Need you to babysit the kid tonight, keep him out of trouble.”

Mark made a face of genuine surprise. “Why? He’s like fifteen, and we let him rob banks with us.”

“Yeah, but he’s gonna get himself in so much shit if nobody watches him, and that’ll bring a lot of heat down on the rest of us.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Mark replied, resuming his generous application of cologne. “I don’t care, I got plans, and I’m nobody’s babysitter.”

Len took a deep breath and pinched his nose, prompting Mark to stop what he was doing. This was clearly serious.

“Somebody has to look out for the stupid kid, okay? Nobody looked out for me and my sister at that age, and we did all sorts of dumb bullshit that could have gotten us in serious trouble or even killed. I don’t want that for Axel, no matter what kind of little asshole he is at times. He deserves to have someone watching out for him and ensuring he doesn’t make mistakes which haunt him for the rest of his life.”

Mark sighed and put down the bottle. “Okay, you’re right. But why me? Why don’t you do it?”

“I need to keep an eye on McCulloch, who’s havin’ problems I’d rather the kid not see,” Len said, and Mark suddenly noticed just how tired the man looked.

“All right,” Mark replied more softly, pulling off his jacket. He placed it carefully in the closet on a properly padded hanger because it was expensive leather and one of the most treasured things he’d ever stolen. “Sometimes I think we do more babysitting than bank robbery around here.”

Len chuckled wearily as he swigged from his booze-spiked coffee. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”

 
Day Eleven: “Think! For once!”

School was out for the day and Roscoe headed to the Wiggins toy factory, as was his habit. The workers were rarely in a hurry, and it always amused them to listen to the “weird kid who talks at us” about tops and toys in general. The boy seemed lonely.

Today was a bit different. One of the employees recognized him and reached behind the foreman’s desk to give him a battered cardboard box.

“Hey Ross, you like tops, right? I saved this for you.”

The boy looked at the box curiously, afraid to open it for fear of a humiliating practical joke; he’d been on the receiving end of a few at school. “It’s Roscoe, and yes. What is it?”

“Old man Wiggins decided to scrap the new specialty top in development, says it’s too buggy and expensive to make. He wanted the prototypes destroyed, but I put one aside.”

Roscoe’s face lit up, as this was genuinely better than Christmas. Somebody had thought about him and given him something he actually wanted. “For me?? Thank you!”

“No problem. Just be careful with it, `cause it really is kinda finicky.”

The boy ran off with his treat, grinning broadly and eager to see what the top could do. Finding a quiet corner off the factory floor, he set it spinning and was astonished to see that it shone with bright lights which illuminated the area around it.

Roscoe was transfixed. “Wow,” he said to no one in particular, and spun it again after it stopped. And again.

But the lights wouldn’t work on the fourth spin, and he frowned. Maybe that’s what the man had meant by ‘finicky’, and maybe he could fix it. Brow furrowed with concentration, he did his best to pry off the electronics panel, and tried to figure out what had stopped working. It was a tough job, as tinkering didn’t come naturally to him, but it was fascinating to learn how the components functioned and to attempt to make them light up properly again.

A few hours passed, though he didn’t notice the time. Not until a factory employee turned the corner and noticed the boy working.

“Kid! We’ve been searching all over for you!” the man exclaimed, and Roscoe frowned.

“Why?”

“Your parents are going nuts! They’ve been looking for you.”

Roscoe’s eyes widened in surprise, but with gratification as well. His parents were worried about him! That was welcome news, since it often felt like they didn’t care one way or another about his welfare. Maybe he’d get in some trouble for making a mistake, but they cared. It felt good.

He picked up his top and hurried out of the factory, finding his father talking to an employee on the sidewalk out front.

“Dad!” he shouted excitedly, barely able to contain himself about the top he held in his hands. His father nodded to the employee and thanked him, then met up with his son as the other man walked away.

“Where the hell have you been?” his father demanded curtly, grasping Roscoe’s arm and marching him in the direction of home.

“I was playing with this top,” Roscoe said in a small voice, confused and worried. It didn’t seem like his father was particularly relieved to see him, nor concerned about his safety.

“Again. Of course.”

“Look, it lights up,” Roscoe faltered, but his father didn’t appear to notice or care.

“We had to call the police about you. Do you know how that looks? It makes us look like bad parents, ones who can’t control their kids!” The grip on his arm tightened and the man quickened his pace, leaving Roscoe struggling to keep up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Think! For once! You’re nothing but a little hooligan to the entire neighbourhood now, and clearly I’m not keeping sufficient watch on you!”

“It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right about that; you’re grounded for the rest of the school year and will come home immediately after class. And once summer arrives, we’ll make sure you’re kept far too busy to get into trouble. I will not have a repeat of this humiliation, do you understand me? I’m the one in charge here!”

“I understand,” the boy replied, almost too softly to hear. He clutched the top tightly and remained silent for the rest of the walk home, and was told to stay in his room until school began the next morning.

Roscoe carefully placed the top on a shelf in his closet, hidden in an old backpack. He planned to go back and tinker with it eventually, but for now he couldn’t bear to look at it.

Day Twelve: “You’re making my head hurt.”

It had been a quiet afternoon, so Mick decided to tinker with his heat gun. The Duke was happiest with regular maintenance, and Mick was always looking to improve its function and increase the heat output.

But all good things eventually come to an end, particularly with a Trickster around.

“Heyyyyyyyyyy old buddy, whatcha doin’?”

Mick sighed and put down his soldering iron. “What is it, James?”

“Did you know that some people call groundhogs ‘whistlepigs’?”

“Yeah, and I don’t really care.”

“Did you know that the official bird of Redondo Beach, California is the Goodyear Blimp?”

“No, but please go away.”

“It’s not even a real bird, Mick!”

Mick said nothing in response, hoping that James would get bored and leave. Instead, the other man began skipping and dancing around Mick’s work table.

“Koalas’ fingerprints look surprisingly human, so maybe Digger’s been framed for some drop bear’s nefarious crimes. Once, somebody bought a corn flake shaped like Illinois for $1350 on eBay! And did you know rabbits can’t vomit? Whaddya suppose they do when they’ve had too much to drink?”

“What the hell’s gotten into you? You’re making my head hurt with all this racket!” Mick retorted, though James grinned at him and held up his wallet.

“Sorry Mick, I was just testing out a new trick: distraction via annoyance, and it worked perfectly.”

Mick stared at him and the wallet in consternation. “I kept that in—”

“A secret pocket, I know. Thanks for your help, pal, I owe you one.”

With an acrobat’s flourish, James tossed the wallet back to his friend, who gave him a dirty look. James just smiled sweetly and hurried out of the room.

With exaggerated grumbling, Mick opened the wallet to check its contents; James had been acting particularly sketchy even by his own rarefied standards, after all. And he wasn’t surprised to discover that the money had been replaced with fake banknotes depicting James making finger guns.

“James--!”

“Check your secret pocket,” a sing-song voice called from the other room, and Mick found all the real bills hidden inside, held within a money clip which wasn’t even his.

“Okay, I don’t know how you did it…” Mick said in disbelief, and James returned for a bow.

“Thank yew, thank yew. Remember to vote TRICKSTER! in the Rogues’ upcoming Pickpocket Competition!”

“But we don’t have a…”

“We do as of today! Remember to vote!”

And of course, James made finger guns at him.

Day Fourteen: “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Hartley sat sullenly at a bar on the other side of town, insensitive words ringing in his ears.

“That damn rich guy,” “the pipe poof,”, and his personal favourite, “the polka-dotted dipshit”. He overheard everything from everyone and was sick of it all. It was time to strike out on his own to work solo, which had always suited him best anyway. The Rogues were fun, but they could be jerks sometimes, especially to those who didn’t fit in as well.

He’d been nursing a single beer for hours, mostly using the opportunity to listen for gossip that could lead to a heist. Instead he mostly heard drunken carousing from a whole host of idiots, but at least it wasn’t the usual idiots he knew. It was enjoyable to be anonymous, at least for a night.

But the feeling wasn’t to last. A man he didn’t recognize sat down next to him and asked the bartender to give Hartley a second bottle of the beer he was drinking.

“I think I know you from somewhere,” the man said after a minute or two, and Hartley swallowed somewhat uncomfortably; it could have been from the supervillain crowd, or might have been from the dating scene. He wasn’t particularly thrilled to meet anyone from either group right now.

“You’re probably mistaken,” Hartley said politely, but the man shook his head.

“Nah. You’re the Pied Piper, right? I’m the Gunsmith, I run with the Keystone Kids.”

“Sorry, I’m not familiar with that group,” Hartley admitted with some regret, though the man laughed.

“We’re pretty new, still getting together and seeing what works. Trying to figure out who’d be a good fit for the group. You wanna pull a job with us?”

Hartley paused. Despite his intention to operate solo, there were reasons to work with a crew: there were others to watch your back, people to bounce tech ideas off of, and even just the camaraderie that came with socializing between jobs. And maybe he’d fit in better with another group than he had with the Rogues.

“…I might. Tell me more,” Hartley said cautiously, and the Gunsmith smiled.

“We’re gonna knock over a country club full of rich people. Ever heard of the Astaire Estates?”

Hartley nodded silently, as his parents were longstanding members.

“So we’re gonna loot the place, and then hold some of the top fatcats hostage until they meet our demands for more money.”

Hartley didn’t necessarily like the idea, but wasn’t truly opposed to it either. It seemed like a solid concept, and he knew perfectly well that the wealthiest citizens in town could afford to be shaken down for more funds. But something about this man’s grin bothered him.

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” he said after a few moments’ thought. “Have you mapped out your escape route afterward?” The best way to discover someone’s intent was to poke holes in their plan, to see what angles they were aiming for.

“We’re going to blast our way out, brother, with the kind of firepower these fuckers will never see coming. Escape will be easy. So, are you in?”

“Hell yes,” Hartley said with his best poker face, desperately wanting out of there. “Where do you guys meet?”

“You can come down to our clubhouse right now, if you want. A bunch of guys are probably shooting the shit,” the Gunsmith replied, hopping off his stool. He tossed a hundred-dollar bill at the bartender -- far more than the cost of his tab -- and the two men walked out into the night.

Hartley was feeling increasingly nervous, concerned that this guy was going to slit his throat in a dark alley. So he needed to act first.

As soon as they turned a corner, Hartley pulled out his flute and began to play. The soothing notes sweetly pacified the man, who was soon swaying in time with Hartley’s motions.

“You need to forget this plan at the Astaire Estates. It’s over, there will be no violence. And you need to take me to the rest of the group so I can do the same to them,” Hartley commanded, and the Gunsmith smiled vacuously at him.

“Yes, of course. Follow me.”

It didn’t take long before Hartley was allowed into the Keystone Kids’ clubhouse, and he was able to entrance the members there too. But this time, he added a new order to the assembled group.

“You guys are going to break up, and never work together again. Maybe this’ll keep you from the kind of violence you’re clearly planning,” he told them, looking around in dismay at the amount of weaponry they’d already stockpiled. There were no space age cold guns or weird mirrors or trick yo-yos; these people were heavily armed with conventional firepower that could tear a human body apart in an instant. It left him deeply disturbed.

The Keystone Kids slowly separated and walked away in a daze, leaving all the guns behind. And Hartley remained behind too, left alone in a bunker full of heavy armaments. After a few moments’ thought, he pulled out his phone and called the Trickster.

“James, hi. Could you put Mick on the phone? I need him to burn a place full of nasty stuff, might get explosive. And are the guys still hanging out tonight? I…could bring some beer for everyone.”

Day Fifteen: “What are you doing?”

Len had been working late…and by ‘working’, he meant drinking cheap beer and feeling sad. Sometime after midnight he heard the boom and crackle of a faulty public address system upstairs, and went to check it out.

“Ladies and gentlemen: the incomparable Abra Kadabra! No, no, that’s not right…Ladies and gentlemen: the incomparable Abra Kadabra!”

Len sucked in his teeth as he trod the steps and the voice got louder.

“Ladieeeeees and GENtlemen! The incomparable Abra Kadabra!”

Len reached the door to the upper warehouse and saw a familiar magician fiddling with a sputtering sound system.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Kadabra stared at him with pure indignation. “You will never understand show business! Abraaaa Kadabraaaaaa!”

The tall man disappeared in a puff of smoke, but Len could see his silhouette as he tip-toed through the cloud and went out the back entrance. With equal measures of charity and pity, Cold decided to let him go without a word.

However, none of that stopped Len from selling the sound equipment to a teenage DJ for beer money. Revenge was always best served chilled. 

Day Sixteen: “You’re looking, but you don’t see.”

The Rogues had taken it upon themselves to de-gremlinify Alvin Desmond, who had worrying habits of digging through garbage and living secretly in people’s basements, as well as scuttling in dark corners and hissing when disturbed. Albert had already given him a spare room in his home, but Alvin simply preferred living like a goblin.

The final straw had come when he’d claimed to be seeking DNA samples of the other Rogues for his alchemical experiments, and Len decided that he wasn’t allowed to hang around anymore if he was going to make things weird.

So began a campaign to properly socialize Alvin: Hartley was to teach music appreciation, Mark was supposed to help with fabulous hair care (but neglected his duties), and Len taught the special importance of hockey and beer.

And Roy volunteered to introduce Alvin to the world of art, which is why they went to a major gallery one quiet weekday afternoon. They wandered for a while, since Roy was hoping his new student would find something to engage his interest, but eventually switched to a more guided tour.

“This is boring,” Alvin said restlessly after looking at yet another Renaissance masterpiece. “Who cares about art? Where’s the science?”

“This painting depicts a 17th century scientist’s lab,” Roy replied in a patient tone. “Take a look at the equipment, note how it’s arranged. See how people studied back then.”

“It’s all wrong, nobody actually worked like that,” Alvin retorted. “Anyway, it’s boring. I want science! And experiments!”

“You’re looking, but you don’t see anything,” Roy sighed heavily. “I can’t see it myself, but I know from scholarly analysis that the artist’s innovative use of colour and shading was used to create a sense of menace in the painting, with the implication that the scientist’s work is sinister or at least not very benign.”

Alvin suddenly walked quite close to the painting and squinted. “Actually, the colours are pretty interesting. I wonder what those pigments are made of?”

“Exactly!” Roy said joyfully, glad to have finally made a connection. “Usually the pigments are mixed to create such subtle colours, so they may be made up of many different paints. Which shades are your favourites?”

Alvin seemed to be thinking intensely about something, and then pulled out a collection tube and a small scalpel. Before anyone could intervene, he’d scraped some paint off the canvas and quickly deposited it into the tube without touching it.

“Oh no,” Roy gasped, backing away and hoping nobody realized the two of them were together. “That was not okay.”

“Sir, step away from the painting!” a security guard ordered Alvin, who was completely nonchalant.

“I’ve just taken a sample of paint to study it,” he told the guard with the distinctive tone of explaining something obvious to a child. “I mean, aren’t you in favour of furthering the aims of science and knowledge?”

“What is with your cartoonish obsession about science?” Roy half-shrieked at him as both were handcuffed and read their rights.

“I pity your lack of intellectual curiosity,” Alvin sniffed, “but what else could I expect from someone who cares so little about the process of art.”

Day Twenty: “There’s only us.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a Multiversal threat. But it was the first time they’d decided to step up.

“So you all know the deal,” Len began. “Some fucked-up interdimensional demon things are running loose all over the world, and when they grab hold of you and stare into your eyes, you turn into one of them. The ‘heroes’ are trying to stop them at their source, so the cities are left unprotected and it’s up to the rest of us to keep `em from burning.”

“Still think we should let it burn,” Mick said sullenly, though everyone ignored him.

“Nobody’s obliged to help,” Len reminded the assembled Rogues. “Anyone who wants to hide, escape, or go on a crime spree is free to do so without judgment. But the rest of us are gonna keep the peace in the Twin Cities. Any questions?”

“What happens if one of us gets turned?” Lisa asked, and Len looked deeply pained. He was imagining it happening to her.

“Let’s hope it never comes to that,” was all he could say, turning away so the others couldn’t see the worry on his face. He checked his watch, which provided an opportunity to distract himself from those thoughts. “Mardon and Dillon are due back with scouting reports in two minutes.”

Mark and Roscoe returned separately within the next few minutes, both looking tired and haggard.

“It’s bad out there,” Mark said quietly, shaking his head. “Lotta demons.”

“And they’re converting people all the time,” Roscoe added. “Civilians try to make a run for it, but are easily caught and turned. I paused on the ground for a moment and one of the demons grabbed hold of my hand, but fortunately I was able to spin away.”

He held up his palm and there was a moderately sized scorch mark on it, prompting Lisa to begin fussing over him.

“So we got our work cut out for us,” Len concluded grimly. “Any guesses on how many demons are in the two cities right now?”

“Somewhere between seven and twelve thousand, and their numbers are growing all the time,” Mark replied, and Roscoe nodded in agreement. Both were taking advantage of the rare opportunity to rest while they could.

“Okay then. Are the stockpiles ready?”

“Every working weapon is here or in one of the supply depots, ready for action,” Hartley confirmed, holding up his inventory sheet. “Sam’s readied the medical and food supplies here and in the other safehouses, so we can eat, sleep, and get patched up if there’s an injury.”

“I’ve already prepared the plans for feeding and sheltering civilians,” James said.

“Then I guess it’s time to head out. You all know what you need to do, and where the other hideouts are. Let’s go protect the cities,” Len announced calmly.

And they stepped out into new territory. 

Day Twenty-Two: “Who said this is a good idea?”

Axel ran as fast as his short legs could carry him. He was eight metres above the ground, but that wasn’t much help against an angry gorilla with psionic powers.

“Yo, how’s it going?” Joey inquired cheerfully over the comm system. Tar Pit wasn’t exactly built for speed or stealth, so he had to stay home on this type of mission.

“Not great!” Axel panted, glancing worriedly behind him. “Who said it was a good idea to put a whoopee cushion on Grodd’s throne?!”

“Well, uh…you did, dude.”

“There’s a reason nobody listens to me!!” Axel shouted desperately. 

Day Twenty-Four: “Is this safe?”

Sam Scudder peered over the desk he was hiding behind, and instantly realized how foolish he’d been. It could have been his end, but Barry’s speedy reflexes pulled him to safety before the laser blast hit him.

“Thanks,” Sam gasped, smarting over his mistake. It was embarrassing to have made such a poor decision in front of his archenemy.

“You’re welcome,” Barry said tersely, looking for a way out of the Treasury building. But the space aliens had every exit covered, and he suspected that any attempt to vibrate through a wall would end in fatal weapons fire. “I don’t think we’ve got a lot of options.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” Sam declared with a bit more confidence than was warranted, eager to show off his skill and intelligence. He pulled out a small mirror with technology embedded around its edges, though the object didn’t look as refined as most of his devices. It was, Barry guessed, still a work in progress.

“This’ll open a portal to the Mirrorverse so we can get the hell out of here and travel to another reflective surface elsewhere on the planet,” Sam explained. “I’m still, uh, researching the place, but I’ve been there before.”

“So you don’t know it very well?” Barry asked with a skeptical look.

“No…but I’m not seeing many other choices. My primary gun’s still not working.”

Barry couldn’t disagree with that assessment. He nodded and told Sam to open the portal; if they survived and defeated the alien invasion, at least it’d give him some insight into Mirror Master technology when they inevitably went back to opposing sides.

Sam keyed a command into the mirror, and a window appeared on the wall beside it. Barry could see a dark expanse inside and suddenly realized how much trust he had to place in Sam right now, which made him shiver. He had no idea what was about to happen.

“Is this safe?” he asked in hapless futility, though Sam shook his head with worries of his own.

“Not in the slightest.”

Sam jumped through the portal first, so Barry felt he had no choice but to follow. The two men hurtled into a dark realm studded with distant lights, and Barry let out a yelp when a hand grabbed his arm to keep him from falling into the abyss.

“We made it, we’re okay,” Sam reassured him, but it was not to last. Moments later, several aliens jumped through the portal into the Mirrorverse and headed in their direction.

Sam’s eyes widened and he hurriedly closed the portal, but that did nothing about the enemies already inside. He raised a tiny laser pistol and prepared to fire, though Barry’s quick hand once again saved him from a potential mistake.

“What are you doing?” Barry demanded, concerned about his intentions, but Sam was frustrated to have been so rudely interrupted.

“I’m going to blast these guys to kingdom come, to keep them from doing the same to us!”

“No way, we don’t kill,” Barry said firmly, and was not planning to change his mind. “What are those lights I see in the distance?”

“They’re mirrors all over the world. Each one’s an exit out of here, but could lead to the other side of the planet,” Sam glowered at him, obviously still resentful.

Barry thought about their situation for a moment. “And do any of the exits lead off-world? Or is it just the Earth?”

“I mean, maybe? I’ve been exploring this place but have to check the portals one at a time, so it’s slow going. Not all of us have super speed.”

Barry grinned. “Then I guess it’s good that some of us do.”

In an instant, the Flash ran at the approaching aliens, sweeping them up in his wake. They shot wildly as best they could, but never hit anything due to the vast empty expanse around them. Sam stood silently and watched as his unlikely ally darted from portal to portal, peering inside just long enough to see where it led before rushing to the next.

After what seemed an eternity, Barry gave the aliens a shove through a particular mirror and they disappeared from view. He hurried back to Sam, who’d settled himself onto an invisible perch to tinker with his mirror gun.

“It’s done. I sent them to another planet with people who look like them, so I know they can survive there,” Barry announced, and Sam smirked at him.

“I would have sent them into someone’s mirror in Antarctica.”

Barry just smiled. “I have to say, Scudder, that I’m really surprised you didn’t just take off and abandon me here.”

“I did think about it,” Sam admitted, though he didn’t seem particularly proud of that. “But it wouldn’t have been sporting, and we Rogues would have lost a good foe. Not much fun in crime without the game, y’know.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Barry chuckled, now smiling broadly. “We made a pretty good team. I don’t suppose I could interest you in some reform and old-fashioned heroism..?”

Sam laughed, with genuine warmth behind it. “Nope. I’ll get us both out, and you can deal with the rest of the aliens on Earth…maybe with the help of the Justice League, or even with Snart if he’s feeling really charitable. Capiche?”

“Got it. Thanks for helping me as much as you did.”

Sam gave a mock salute and the two stepped out of a mirror on the other side of Central City, well away from the aliens they’d escaped earlier. Barry waved and prepared to run back, but Sam whistled at him to draw his attention.

“My parting gift to you, Flash.”

A mirror portal opened next to them, and two dozen startled aliens suddenly poured out. It didn’t take Barry long to corral them into a solid reflective prism created by Sam, and the Mirror Master took a grand bow.

“I fixed my gun while you were running through the Mirrorverse, and these are all the jerks in the vicinity of the Treasury building. I figured it’d give you a head start in beating up the rest of them and saving the Earth. Ta-ta!”

With that, he stepped into a reflection and was gone.

Day Twenty-Five: “You know I’d do anything.”

Axel and Joey had spent the day shooting the shit and playing video games without anyone else around, which was always a formula for disaster.

“I wrecked you good,” Axel gloated as his virtual fighter performed a victory lap on screen, and Joey shrugged with stoicism born out of necessary patience.

“Eh, I woulda beat you if I didn’t have to button mash.” As an eight-foot burning tar monster, he had to use an oversized controller with a custom polymer cover devised by both Tricksters for Joey’s very specific needs.

“Whatever, scrub. I bet you used the same ‘strategy’ before all this.”

“Ha! I was the Tekken 5 and 6 champ in the entire Windsor Heights neighbourhood! And you just play against geezers all day, so of course you look good,” Joey jeered, but it was friendly ribbing and they both knew it.

“Pfft, Mardon’s actually not bad at these games…always plays as Raiden in MK, though. I’ll freakin’ show you, he’d totally be up for a game right now.”

Joey yawned, purely out of habitual memory from his old human body. “Nah, I’m gamed out. Let’s do something else, like daring each other to do stupid shit.”

“I’m always up for that! You know I’ll do anything,” Axel whooped, and his friend grinned. The flames atop his head suddenly burned a little brighter for a few moments as he thought about a funny idea.

“Would you put a whoopee cushion on Grodd’s chair?” Joey suggested mischievously, laughing.

“Hell yeah, let’s do it!” Axel enthused as he started rifling through his bag of gags. Within a minute he’d found a huge rubber whoopee cushion and pulled it out with an exaggerated maniacal laugh. “This’ll be great!”

Joey looked as sombrely confused as a tar monster could possibly be. “Uh, what are you doing, dude? That was a joke.”

“No way, it’ll be amazing! Can you imagine the look on that monkey’s face when he sits down? This little number does particularly massive embarrassing farts.”

“Yeah, and he’s gonna kill us for it. Or at least you,” Joey noted with significant concern.

“Oh please, I can outrun Grodd any day. I just have to plan my exit from the Legion of Doom base ahead of time and we’ll be golden,” Axel said dismissively, so Joey shrugged again.

“Okay, if you think you can do it, then it’ll be lit! Could you record it so I can see?”

“Oh yeah. This is gonna be so epic,” Axel grinned, in perhaps the greatest understatement of his life. 

Day Twenty-Eight: “We all have our reasons.”

It was a dark and stormy night, which somehow turned out to be relevant to the evening. The Mirror Master had bought a decrepit old warehouse with some ill-gotten gains and was hosting the first ever Rogues social gathering.

Or so he hoped. He had no idea if anyone was even planning to attend, because apparently criminals were not great at RSVPs. He’d told the others that the event began at 7 PM, and the buzzer first rang at fifteen minutes past the hour.

A tall skinny man in a striped costume stood at the door, and Mirror Master opened it after verifying his identity with a couple of hidden cameras and facial recognition software of his own design. The newcomer awkwardly held up two six-packs of lager.

“Hello, I’m the Top and I brought beer,” he said politely in a somewhat stilted tone, and was clearly ill at ease.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Mirror Master observed with a bit of a chuckle, as both conclusions were painfully obvious. “C’mon in, you’re the first to show up.”

The Top sat down and was soon joined by the next arrivals, the Pied Piper and Captain Cold. Captain Boomerang was already drunk when he got there, and Heat Wave appeared next and gave the side-eye to Cold every five minutes or so.

“Where’s the bloody booze, innit?” Boomerang brayed at Piper, who winced at the high volume in his sensitive ears.

“You’re holding a cup of it right now,” Piper replied with barely concealed disgust, and Captain Boomerang laughed uproariously and hugged him.

“You’re a fun bloke, polka dots! We’re gonna be best mates!”

The Trickster came creeping in soon afterwards, feeling more than a little cautious and trying to assess the vibe of the crowd. He’d only met some of the Rogues in passing, and his team-up with Captain Cold hadn’t gone as well as it could have; there’d been double crosses and the two had shot each other due to the Flashes’ machinations. Still, Mirror Master had thought he’d seemed promising and sent him an invitation, along with…

There was a crack of lightning and simultaneous thunder, and the lights momentarily went out. Mirror Master sighed and checked the outdoor cameras even though he knew exactly who it was.

“Weather Wizard is here, boys and girls,” a newcomer in green declared imperiously as he walked through the front door with a stylish wand. “Oops, I don’t see any girls. Where are the girls?”

“No girls,” Mirror Master replied with some defensiveness, already wondering if he shouldn’t have invited this guy. He didn’t know the Wizard personally but had been impressed by his criminal work and some intense battles against the Flash.

“Did you make this storm?” Captain Cold grumbled, and the Weather Wizard waved his hand dismissively.

“Guilty as charged. Charged. As in lightning?”

“That needs some work,” the Pied Piper told him, arms crossed and frowning.

“Tough crowd,” Weather Wizard muttered, but he knew the man was right: his pun game had always been weak, and the skill was something of a necessity in their field.

“Your attention, please!” the Mirror Master called, and everyone turned their eyes to him. He looked around at the assembled crowd of young supervillains, gauging who seemed like a good fit for the crew and who might be a liability. “The card tournament’s starting now for anyone who wants to play.”

Everyone filed over to the giant rickety table, as it turned out that the entire group was interested in poker. As the game began, Mirror Master continued watching the others for signs of deceit (beyond the usual card cheating, which was rampant amongst their profession) and genuine anti-social behaviour which would spell trouble within the ranks. He hadn’t noticed any thus far, and the guys seemed to be having fun.

“Captain Boomerang’s Royal Flush is using obvious fake cards,” the Trickster commented with a grin during a surprising lucky win.

“Ah, you never miss a trick, do ya? Call me Digger, mate,” the Australian cackled with purely good humour, slapping the back of Weather Wizard and causing him to choke on his beer.

“I’m Mick,” Heat Wave announced with a pleasant smile, and Captain Cold gritted his teeth at him.

“I’m Len.” He was not going to be upstaged by that fire-eating circus weirdo. Not again.

But the rest of the Rogues sat in silence, not yet ready to reveal their secret identities to people they scarcely knew, so the game moved on.

“Who had the bright idea to dress you in polka dots?” the Weather Wizard inquired of the man across the table after his fourth beer, still somewhat annoyed about earlier criticism of his pun.

“I left it up to that tailor downtown, Paul Gimby or something,” Pied Piper sniffed. “He’s the expert in fashion, not me. But I mean, at least I’m not wearing a puffy pirate blouse with matching elf booties.”

“This outfit is stylish as hell!” Weather Wizard retorted hotly. “But it’s funny, that guy designed my uniform too.”

“Yeah, and mine as well,” Mirror Master said, nodding. “I think we all—”

“Mine too!” the Top blurted out suddenly, cutting him off mid-sentence. His eyes widened under his mask when he realized he’d interrupted their host, and he went silent with a slightly reddened face. The others stared at him for a moment, then moved on.

“Don’t you get hot in that coat?” the Trickster asked Len, who shook his head.

“Nah, I built a portable cooling unit which is stitched into a seam to keep things nice and frosty.”

“Niiiiiice. I could use one of those in my workshop,” the Mirror Master whistled, and Len nodded magnanimously.

“Sure, I can set ya up.”

“Great, thank you,” Mirror Master grinned, satisfied. “And I also wanted to thank everyone for coming tonight. I invited you all here because I’m hoping to build something big amongst the professionals working in Central City, and I’m really pleased with this gathering. Some of us have worked together before, some of us haven’t, and we all have our reasons for being here. I’m hoping this is the beginning of a successful collaboration…a meeting of Rogues, if you will.”

“Hear hear!” Digger crowed loudly, and there were smiles around the table.

“And I guess I might as well introduce myself: I’m Sam Scudder,” the Mirror Master announced as he pulled off his cowl and showed his face to the others. “I was born and raised in Central City, and I can tell some of you were too. This city belongs to us.”

The locally born criminals nodded amongst themselves, but they didn’t seem to be excluding Digger or the Trickster from the group, so it felt like a moment of acceptance.

“You know what? I like this place, it feels like it could be home,” the Trickster concluded after a moment’s thought. He wasn’t ready to tell the others even his Americanized name just yet, but he was enjoying the guys’ company. And their beer wasn’t bad.

“Glad to have you here,” Sam told him, and his tone seemed sincere. “A toast, then: to new friends, good times, and some really lucrative hauls.”

“Hear, hear!”

Day Twenty-Nine: “You love this, don’t you?”

There was an urgent knocking at Roscoe’s apartment door, and he opened it to find Lisa in tears. She immediately ran into his arms before he could say anything, so he held her silently and waited to let her speak first.

“Lenny and I got evicted,” she sobbed. “It was just like when we were kids, and it sucked and brought back a ton of bad memories.”

“Oh no, that’s awful! Well, you can move in here for as long as you want, of course,” he said soothingly, stroking her hair with one hand and holding her close with the other. “What happened?”

Her tears were lessening, and she took a deep breath. “The landlord found out who Lenny is and got a special order to evict us while we were out…no idea if that’s even legal. He called us both ‘criminal scumbags’, which I guess isn’t too far off for Lenny, but it still stings.”

“What’s his name? I will pay him a visit,” Roscoe said grimly, his expression hardening, though Lisa squeezed him appreciatively.

“You’re too late: Lenny beat him up already. So, all the more reason we both have to go into hiding, unfortunately. Can he stay here too for a while?”

That was the absolute last thing Roscoe wanted in the world, and it took every bit of resolve he had to avoid saying No, this is entirely his fault and he can sleep on the street. But those words would have hurt her more than anyone, so he put on a strained smile and said Len could stay as long as was needed.

“You’re the best!” Lisa squealed, planting a kiss on his cheek, and he stood up straight to steel himself against the coming maelstrom. “Lenny’s hiding out in the lobby with our stuff, and I’ll let him in.”

“Of course, I’ll be there to help in a few moments,” Roscoe said with as much cheer as he could manage, which wasn’t much. But first, he had to put on a massive pot of coffee and stash the alcohol in his bedroom closet to keep it from being poached by her brother.

Two afternoons later, Roscoe didn’t bother tiptoeing around the apartment as Len slept on his couch in the middle of the day. He methodically picked up the clothes and trash Len had strewn around the living room, dropping it all into a single garbage bag while protected with thick rubber gloves.

“Hey, that’s my shit,” Len remarked partway through, tired and bleary-eyed.

“Yes, it is, and you can sort through it yourself.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Len growled, pulling a pillow over his head and resisting the urge to yell or possibly punch the other man in the face.

“And you are a terrible house guest. Would it kill you to put your dishes in the sink, and maybe even wash them occasionally?”

“Fuuuuuuuuck. You must be loving this,” Len said bitterly. “I look bad and you seem like the big hero to her, so it's a win-win situation for you.”

Roscoe stopped what he was doing to stare at him. “My God. Not only do I wish you were a hundred miles away from me and everything I own, but Lisa is incredibly stressed by this entire situation and that is the last thing I want for her. Did you really have to beat up the landlord?”

“You woulda done it too.”

“….Yes, I would have.”

Silence reigned for about a minute.

“The only thing the two of us must do is keep her from getting distressed about our predicament, and that means you do your part by not being an idiot and I do mine by not strangling you…or rather, not being overtly hostile to you despite your grotesque piggishness,” Roscoe told him tersely.

“And you’re completely failing at that,” Len observed with rolled eyes.

“I am. I endeavour to do better.”

“I guess I’ll try harder too. This really fucking sucks, y’know; I made my sister homeless and publicly embarrassed her because I didn’t cover my Rogue tracks well enough. And I tried to, I really did. I’ve been struggling to keep her away from the Rogues and crime, and I hope you do too.”

“I do. Her skating career is a far better life for her than constantly being on the run or in prison.”

“Then we’re both gonna work at this for her sake. Let’s shake on it,” Len declared, and Roscoe looked at him with obvious distaste.

“Not until you have thoroughly washed your hands. I have no idea where you’ve put them.”

“What’d we just say about working on this shit?”

Roscoe thought about everything for a few moments, then took a deep breath. “Fine.”

He held out his hand, and they shook on it.

Day Thirty: “I know what this looks like.”

“I’m telling you, the Secret Society of Super-Villains is a great opportunity for us to do bigger things than we’re used to!” Sam said heatedly as he and Len entered the Rogues’ current hang-out. “We’ll get richer and more powerful than we’ve ever been!”

“They’re no good. They’ll stab every one of us in the back first chance they get, and I don’t trust a word they say. I’ll stick with the Rogues,” Len countered in a patient tone. This was an argument they’d had before.

They walked into the foyer and were met with the distinctive sounds of barking dogs in the next room.

“Uh…what’s that?” Sam wondered aloud, and Len was just as puzzled.

“Not aware of any of the guys adopting a mutt, though maybe Digger’s making good on his plan to pacify guard dogs during our upcoming robberies. He said he’s gonna feed them sausages with sleeping pills inside, can you believe that?”

The two walked into the next room and were treated to a fantastic spectacle: James had six dogs wearing a variety of Flash Family costumes, and he was coaching them to run an agility obstacle course.

“What in the world..!” Sam exclaimed, and the Trickster looked up at them as he petted a good boy.

“Hey guys. I know what this looks like, but it’s not what you think…” James began, and Len pinched his nose in frustration over a building headache.

“It looks like you’ve got a bunch of dogs dressed as all the speedsters,” Sam said disapprovingly, hands on his hips.

“Oh! In that case, it is what you think. They’re going to make the Flashes look so stupid,” James said gleefully, and both Sam and Len decided to leave him to it.

“I need a drink,” Sam muttered, and Len nodded tiredly at him as they headed to the nearest bar.

“I’m rethinking my policy on the Secret Society,” was all Len could bring himself to say.