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Title: “Duck, You Idiots!”
(A Barry Allen, Chaos Gremlin Production)
Rogues Hideout #29, 2:03 A.M.
“—I swear, if that little speedster is still awake—” growled Mick Rory, rubbing his face as he stumbled into the common room in nothing but sweats and a scowl.
“—then I’m throwing him in a snowbank,” muttered Leonard Snart, who was nursing a mug of black coffee even though it was two bloody in the morning.
Unfortunately for the sanity of everyone in Hideout #29, Barry was awake.
And he had ideas.
Chaotic ideas.
“DUCK!”
“What the—?!”
A blender soared across the room like a deadly metal pigeon, narrowly missing Hartley Rathaway’s head.
“Barry!” Lisa Snart shrieked as the appliance exploded against the far wall. “What the hell are you doing?!”
Barry grinned — a wild, sugar-high grin — from where he stood on the back of the couch, his hair a bird’s nest of curls, mismatched socks glowing faintly with static electricity.
“I decided,” he announced, “that you all need better reflexes!”
“It’s two in the morning!” Roy Bivolo yelled, ducking as a lamp whizzed past his ear. “And who made you coach, you little menace?!”
Barry’s eyes gleamed. “Me.”
And that’s when the chaos truly began.
Round One: The Kitchen Assault
The Rogues dove for cover as their pint-sized gremlin started hurling anything within reach.
Plates.
Pots.
A half-eaten sandwich.
A toaster.
“WHY IS THERE A TOASTER FLYING AT ME?!” screamed James Jesse, mid-cartwheel to safety.
“Because you didn’t duck!” Barry cackled. “That’s the point!”
“Kid,” Mick roared from behind the overturned couch, “stop throwing my cookware!”
Barry blinked innocently, mid-throw of a frying pan. “This one?”
CLANG!
“OW! YES, THAT ONE!”
Lisa was trying to calm him down, her golden hair frazzled. “Baby, maybe we can do this tomorrow? Like... after sunrise?”
Barry paused, pouted dramatically—then yeeted a chair instead.
Round Two: The Impossible Barrage
“Where is he even getting this stuff?” Mark Mardon muttered as a toilet seat flew past him.
“Forget that,” Axel Walker hissed. “Where is he keeping it?! He’s been throwing crap for ten minutes!”
“Physics are fake when Barry’s sugared up,” Hartley deadpanned.
Kyle Nimbus phased into mist to avoid a flying remote control, only to reform just in time to get hit with a plunger.
“Oh, come on!”
Lisa shrieked again. “He just threw an iron! Barry! That’s dangerous!”
Barry blinked, grinned sheepishly… and then vanished.
“Where’d he go?” Len hissed.
There was a beat of silence—then a sudden, delighted shout from above:
“ROUND TWO!”
He dropped from the ceiling, arms full of random objects — a broom, a shoebox, and a live goldfish in a bowl.
“Kid! NOT THE FISH!” Shawna yelled, teleporting to save the poor creature.
Barry cackled, spinning in place like a manic tornado. “DUCK OR DIE, SUCKERS!”
The Moment of Doom
When Barry reappeared again, he wasn’t holding a lamp. Or a mug. Or even a broom.
He was holding... an anvil.
Everyone froze.
“Where in the actual hell,” Len asked slowly, “did you get that?”
Barry blinked. “Found it.”
“In Central City?”
Barry shrugged. “Warehouse. Probably.”
Lisa groaned and pressed her palm to her face. “Oh my god, he’s feral.”
“Put. It. Down,” Len said in his ‘leader voice’.
Barry beamed and chucked it.
Everyone scattered. The anvil crashed straight through the coffee table, the floor, and probably into the apartment below.
“…I’m not fixing that,” Roy muttered.
“Add it to the list,” Hartley said grimly. “We’ll rebuild it right after we fix the sink—”
“The what?”
A second later, Barry appeared holding a sink. An entire sink. Pipes and all.
“Hey, guys, catch!”
“Nope!” Mick dove out of the way as the sink embedded itself into the wall like modern art.
Hideout #29 groaned, shuddered, and finally — with the slow creak of absolute defeat — collapsed into chaos.
Aftermath
It was 3:02 a.m.
The Rogues sat (or lay, or groaned) amid the ruins of Hideout #29. Barry was giggling hysterically, upside down on the remains of a couch, covered in dust and glory.
“That was amazing!” Barry gasped between laughter. “You guys suck at ducking!”
Mick groaned. “You’re a menace.”
Roy coughed. “You’re a disaster gremlin.”
Hartley rubbed his temple. “You’re grounded. For eternity.”
Barry just grinned. “French fries, then Round 3!”
The Rogues, as one, groaned in existential despair.
That’s when the door opened.
In stepped Oliver Queen — wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, and the world’s most unimpressed expression.
He took one look around. The anvil. The sink. The dust-covered, shell-shocked Rogues. Then Barry.
Oliver sighed, long and deep, like a man questioning every life decision.
“Barry,” he said finally.
“Hi, Ollie!” Barry chirped, still upside down.
Oliver crossed the room, grabbed the boy by the scruff like a misbehaving kitten, and hoisted him up. “Bed. Now.”
“But—”
“No.”
Barry’s protests faded into sleepy mumbling as Oliver deposited him onto the mattress, tugged a blanket over him, and waited until his breathing evened out.
Then Oliver turned back to the Rogues, who were still staring at the devastation like survivors of a war zone.
“Okay,” he said flatly. “Who in the ever-loving fuck gave Barry sugar?”
Silence.
Every Rogue pointed at someone else.
“It wasn’t me!” Lisa said immediately. “I locked the cabinet!”
“With five hundred locks,” Len added.
“Five hundred?!” Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. “You people are insane.”
“We had to,” Roy said. “Last time he got sugar he redecorated the garage with glitter and duct tape.”
“Then how—”
“He phased through the locks,” Hartley said tiredly. “Just for Oreos.”
Oliver closed his eyes, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer, and walked toward the door.
“I’m going back to bed. You idiots clean this up.”
As he disappeared down the hall, the Rogues collectively collapsed in exhaustion.
Lisa glanced at her brother. “So… do we, like… ground him?”
Len stared at the ceiling. “No point.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll phase through it.”
There was a beat of silence before Shawna groaned. “I hate that he’s right.”
From the bedroom, a sleepy, muffled voice called out:
“Love you, Rogues!”
Even through the wreckage and exhaustion, a few smiles appeared.
“Love you too, kid,” Len muttered.
“Yeah, menace or not,” Mick said gruffly. “He’s ours.”
And as the Hideout creaked ominously around them, Mark added dryly, “Ours, and absolutely untrainable.”
End.
(Hideout #29 repairs estimated completion time: Never.)