An AU set (or at least starting) during the second season of "The Flash." Sara arrives in Central City during "King Shark" and right after "Escape from Earth-2."
I'm not sure how long this will be yet. Enjoy!
...
It could have been any of a multitude of variables, really. Tweak time just…here…and…there…and everything's different.
But what matters for now is this: Rip Hunter never comes for them.
It affects them all, of course; all in different ways. The inventor, the (former) barista, the hawk, the arsonist, the professor, the mechanic.
The crook. The assassin.
But, as the Time Masters say, time wants to happen. And maybe some things are meant to be.
She doesn't stay in Tibet much longer, really. She's spent so much time drifting that she just can't help wandering back to what used to be home, a lonely moth drawn to the flame of friends and family, even as she knows she should stay away.
She visits Laurel, who tries to understand as best she can. And Laurel, sister and friend, knows what she craves hearing even as Sara believes, deep down, it can never be true.
"Walk in the light. Be the White Canary."
She can't resist, despite the gnawing doubt inside-she takes the white leather suit her sister offers her. And then, intrigued by the mention of her sister's "resourceful friend," she decides to visit Central City for a time.
Her mother is happy to see her, but they're too different these days to really spend too much time together without…trouble. She begs an introduction to the S.T.A.R. Labs crew from Laurel, but arrives to find grief and anger and the aftermath of loss rather than the escape and camaraderie she'd hoped for.
Oh, and a giant shark that walks like a man. There's that, too.
Well, shark or man, the league has taught her to handle larger opponents, even the odder ones. The King Shark, as Cisco calls him, is soon back in A.R.G.U.S. custody with no blood shed. She doesn't know if the bloodlust doesn't acknowledge more…fishy...targets or if it's truly subsiding, and either way she's pleased to think she's been a help.
Dig, Lyla, and Team Flash certainly seem to think so, and Barry Allen and his crew also seem truly glad to have her hang around to help deal with everyday threats such as giant man-sharks while they work out how to deal with someone called Zoom.
So she does. She gets a tiny apartment in Central City. She tries to fit in, to befriend the still-shaken Caitlin (who'd apparently seen a lover murdered right in front of her not long before Sara had shown up) and the distracted-but-friendly Barry Allen. Cisco is alternates between awe and half-flirtatious teasing and she welcomes the latter, anyway. It makes her feel almost…normal.
At night, though, she lies awake half the time, staring at the ceiling, wishing for…she doesn't even know what. More of a mission, perhaps. A connection, maybe?
And then Cisco's computer system logs a reading from what he calls a "cold gun."
"Snart's back in town," he informs them. "Right on time. No heat gun, though. It's just him; Rory would have burned something down by now."
The set of Barry's is mouth is stubborn. "Doesn't mean he's up to something. Remember the Trickster and Mardon? He could have gone along with them. He didn't. He warned us."
Joe—she likes Joe West; he reminds her a little of her dad—is in the lab at the time, and he shakes his head. "Didn't help, though, and he could have. Barry…I know you want to believe the best of the man. But Snart…whatever his past, he's still a crook. And still a killer."
Barry's eyes narrow, but he doesn't say anything. That tendency to believe the best of people is something she finds both charming and naïve about Barry Allen, but his faith in this man seems to be a little above and beyond.
"…whatever his past, he's...still a killer…"
Like me, she thinks. Just like me.
"Let me go check it out," she tells them abruptly. "I'll report back or I'll call for help. If Barry's right…then you won't have to waste your time."
After the Trickster…incident…it seems a wise decision to leave town for a bit. And so he does.
He knocks about in National City for a while, becoming familiar with the city in case he ever learns of a…job opportunity…there. He eats at its restaurants, reads in its libraries, browses its museums and shops. It's a taste of normalcy, albeit a solitary one, but he's OK with that.
The bartender at his favorite restaurant makes a bit of a play for his attention. So does the classics professor who is doing research near his favorite spot at the college library. He considers, but eventually demurs. He's not in a mood for complications, and he might want to come back to this city someday, after all.
He never even entertains the notion of a more permanent connection. Why the hell would that happen?
In January, he gets a lead on a job possibility in Central City and briefly thinks about calling Mick and taking it on, but in the end, he decides against it-something just seems off about the information. Anyway, Mick, having had a big score in Coast City with another group while Len was still in Iron Heights, is disinclined to bestir himself for a team-up.
Lisa has turned over a bit of a new leaf after their father's death, and although he suspects it won't last, he's glad for it anyway. She's traveling right now, going cross country on her bike, and occasionally calls to check in. She sounds content, at least, and he'll take it.
Frankly, he's considering doing the same, finding something else to do with his life. It's a function of some self-examination after the incident with Lewis and, at the same time, wondering if he's starting to lose his edge, get a bit soft.
"…well, you're doing a pretty damned poor job of being a villain this week."
No point in doing something if you can't be the best. But what else can a lifelong criminal, even a world-class one, do? Be an electrical engineer? Right.
In the end, anyway, it can't last. A few months later, bored and in need of a challenge-and perhaps just a bit lonely, although he'd never admit it—he finds himself reading about a valuable new acquisition at Haynes Manuscript Museum in Central City and acknowledges curiosity both personal and professional.
The pull of home is strong. And he follows it.
He'll need a crew if he's going to pull the job off, but the initial recognizance, he'll do on his own. Which is why he's studying the building, its security system, its guards, one winter evening—half-heartedly wondering if Barry Allen will show up—when he hears a throat cleared behind him.
The last thing he expects as he turns around, though, is an absolutely stunning blonde in white leather.
He's standing in the shadows, and she gets an impression of height, and strength without bulkiness, though it's hard to tell, really, because of the parka. She can't see his eyes because of those damned goggles.
He doesn't seem overly surprised, doesn't start or jump. He does cock his head at her in a considering fashion, studying her from head to toe.
"Well," he says finally, "you're new."
The dry tone actually startles a chuckle of her. "True enough. I'm…lending a helping hand, you might say. To the Flash and his crew. You're familiar with them, I understand."
"Oh, I am." She can both hear and, just barely see, the smile. "You, I don't know. And I'd remember you."
It almost gets a laugh. Is he flirting? She bites it back, gives him a thin smile. "White Canary. And you, they tell me, are Captain Cold."
It's his turn to laugh. "Ramon and his names. True enough. And what brings you to Central…White Canary?"
Oh, there is definitely flirtation in that voice. "Like I said," she informs him. "Helping out. Offered to see if a certain…known felon…was up to no good."
He smirks, tilting his head to the other side. "What?" he drawls. "A man can't admire a historic building in his hometown without drawing attention? As attractive as the attention might be…"
Enjoying the banter, she takes a step toward him, smiling a little more as he does too, watching how he doesn't back down.
"Oh?" she says, almost matching his drawl. "You wouldn't be, say, casing that museum for a heist or something would you? Because I don't really care otherwise, but if you were doing that…well, I'd probably have to warn you off."
He's in the circle of the light thrown by the nearby streetlight now, having moved—almost without really meaning to, she thinks—toward her even as she moves toward him. She sees him raise his eyebrows.
"Really?" he queries. "And how would you do that?"
"Mmmm. You really think I'd be out here if I didn't know how to handle myself in a fight?" She opens a hand and shows him a baton. "Come on. B…the Flash…thinks you're better than this, you know."
But he's paused and his face is unreadable again. "Does he now. Well. The Flash…is, perhaps, a little too trusting."
And he fires a warning blast toward her, the crackle and hiss of the cold gun sounding loud in the still February night, a streak of ice spreading over the façade of the building behind her as it strikes.
Later, she'll realize that he intentionally aimed wide. A warning, really, although given the verbal dance they'd been engaged in, maybe it's more along the lines of showing off.
But at the time, she thinks he's attacked her, definitely reads the step he takes toward her as the start of another attack, and maybe it's the sense of betrayal—ridiculous, to think they'd already formed any sort of connection—but something trips in her, that switch that's been so hair-triggered since her resurrection. And the bloodlust roars…and takes over.
Sensing something, perhaps, he's started to back up, but not fast enough. Through the haze, she gets the sense of his eyes widening behind the goggles as she flings herself at him, baton in one hand, knife in another.
Too late.
The gun goes flying. He gets his hands up, gets into a fighting/blocking stance, and it's more than most people manage in such a circumstance. He might even have managed to get in a blow, but he doesn't even try—something she doesn't wonder at until later.
She does, though. She strikes.
And she strikes again. And again.
It feels like forever. It's really probably only a minute or two.
But when there's no resistance before her, the red starts to clear gradually from her vision. She draws a deep breath, fighting the last of the rage and adrenaline down, and takes a step back, shaking her head.
And there's a tall man in a blue parka, its fur ruff blood-stained, a knife jutting out of his shoulder, lying crumpled before her, his left leg bent at an awkward angle underneath him.
She stares at him a moment, then registers that yes, he is breathing, he even seems to be semi-conscious based on the noise he's making, she didn't kill him, she stopped, but barely, she's a monster, she…
And then she calls, not for backup for a fight, but desperately, heartbrokenly, for help.
