(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Jell-O Squares, we have two chapters and an epilogue left of this thing. Thank you, thank you, thank for reading! Keep those stellar reviews coming! Almost done! ~Doverstar)
Peter Merkel Jr. was never enough.
Or rather, he had never been enough for everyone else. Especially dear old dad.
Peter Merkel Senior was a talentless man, preying on the abilities of others. If he couldn't be something extraordinary himself, he would exploit extraordinary people and get the same results. Twice as quickly. So naturally, he owned a circus.
His son had displayed an uncanny flexibility, and the moment Mr. Merkel discovered this—when the boy was the clearly-capable age of five—he began paying for the best training he could possibly find in downtown Central City. Junior was going to be a contortionist, a soft pretzel of a person, one more act in his father's growing freak show.
Merkel Senior controlled everything in Peter's life. Absolutely everything, from the earliest memory the Rag Doll could call upon. What he wore, what he ate, in which position he slept—this varied, depending on what bending tricks the boy had fumbled in the performance the day before—every single detail was predetermined. As Peter got older, contortion simply wasn't drawing the crowds the way it had when he was still in elementary school (if he'd been allowed to attend elementary school). So his father had taught him knife-throwing, a new trick to add to Peter's bag.
It wasn't that Peter had always wanted to please his father, and somehow never seemed to measure up. He didn't really have a choice. It was either satisfy daddy or go to bed with a fresh new nick from their practice knife at the end of every day. And Peter had collected an awful lot of nicks over time.
His father had demanded he climb higher than the highest acts in the show. He demanded he throw harder than any specialist in the blade demonstrations. That Peter move faster, stretch farther, and aim more accurately than anyone in the city, anyone in the country could claim. If Merkel Senior was disappointed, he made sure his son knew about it.
"He was always in control," Rag Doll sighed. He was crouching like a large, twig-limbed bird on the iron bannister of the tallest platform in his underground cavern. The platform on which Caitlin's phone booth was precariously sitting. "Complete control freak, absolutely ghastly."
The girl on the other side of the glass was watching him, but it wasn't with much fear, to his disappointment. More like contempt, and her mouth was pulled into an extremely tight line, as if he were a toddler refusing to hear Mummy when she called him inside.
He was starting to think she'd stopped listening to him, the way her expression remained closed and hostile, and that wasn't much fun, so he added with a pinch of disapproval, "D'you know, from what I've seen on S.T.A.R. Labs TV down there, I rather think you know all about being a control freak, don't you, Caity?"
She actually rolled her eyes at him. Not an exaggerated, slow roll, but the kind people executed by looking away. That was just mean. And she wasn't doing very much talking, so perhaps she was ignoring him, which wasn't allowed.
Without a change in demeanor and quick as scratching an itch, Peter gripped the rail with both hands, curled his legs tight into his chest, and backflipped underneath the iron bar. When he came out from beneath it, he used both feet to kick the phone booth with the strength of a jackrabbit.
Punctuated with an almighty crash, the booth rocked in place, teetering into the rail opposite the Rag Doll. Leaning like the Eiffel Tower against it. Inside, Caitlin tumbled against the west side's wall, head bumping against the glass. To Peter's delight—he loved a bonus—her wounded ankle smacked against the rusty bar in the center, the one she was chained to.
But she didn't cry out.
"Oh, go on, that hurt!" He sprang onto the toppled booth and sat cross-legged, parallel to where she lay winded. "Do I have to do it again? No one buys a bird that can't sing."
Miss Snow rolled onto her back, glaring up at him.
Peter scowled. "A stubborn control freak, then. Look at you! Caity's just on top of it all! The strong, independent female. Always in the know. Telling Savvie where to go and who to be, can't even let the man think for himself. Why, if he did, he might not do it the right way! Eh? Can't have that. Best make him do it your way than give him the chance to work it out without you."
Caitlin scooted to a cautious sitting position, sliding the sprained ankle underneath one leg. Her voice was hard. "Yes, I get it. You've been watching us. But it doesn't matter. You can know everything there is to know about him, and he will still beat you."
"Underestimating me now?" Peter snorted. "Really—you'd've got on famously with Daddy." He slid off of the phone booth and righted it, watching her shift and shuffle to land back on the proper floor of the thing without too much damage. "He bossed about an entire circus of people, Caity. Kept saying no one had better ideas than he did." He pointed both thumbs toward his chest. "I did, though! I thought, he would look so much better if he were on fire, and you know what?"
Peter stood on one leg and pulled the other over a shoulder, stretching out, relishing the exercise. He twisted his head around to catch Snow's eye; she was watching him with something like disgust. Most women had the same reaction.
"He absolutely did! His hands caught first, if memory serves; made his arms look bigger when they were gone, and what man doesn't want large arms?"
"You're sick." Caitlin shook her head at him, head rearing.
"Sticks and stones."
The light in the phone booth zapped and flickered, and Peter climbed down a ladder to a lower platform, retrieving an old oil lamp and returning to light it.
"That's better. He'll be able to see you now. If he gets here." The Rag Doll pulled out his phone—he always kept it in his breastpocket—and checked the time. "Taking his time, isn't he, your friend?"
"He'll be here."
Blimey, she liked to snarl.
Peter slid his phone back into place. "Such confidence. But you're clever. You know this is a trap. You know he'll have to meet me before he's danced one step with my pretty bomb. Out of time!"
"Savitar is the fastest man alive," Caitlin countered. "You think he can't disarm a bomb in time?"
"I think you'll be surprised." Rag Doll smiled brightly. "Ah, you're cute when you smirk like that, your nose gets all wrinkly!"
She looked as if a skunk had just walked by. You win some, you lose some.
Peter went on, hopping back up onto the bannister and swinging a leg to and fro. "You're right, I hope. He'll find us. And I'll be waiting, and you get to watch! Best view in the house." He picked up his doll mask, fiddling with the red wig, preening. "And when I kill him, all that confidence will go spilling down the drain. You will scream, won't you? Do promise you'll scream. I mean, a bad foot's one thing, but losing your big brooding hero, that's got to do the job. It just won't be the right mood if you're Miss Independence up here when it happens." He shrugged. "Daddy didn't scream when I burned him. He never did do anything just for me."
With a finger, he mimed a tear tricking down his cheek, pouting at her. When she didn't react, the Rag Doll flipped both legs over to the other side of the railing and swiveled around, facing the large drop between himself and the cement ground far beneath them.
"Sparky, do us a favor, will you?"
Mick Rory started, springing from his seat on the wooden crate beside the telly. He looked up at the platform with glittering, beady eyes.
"Play guard dog. South tunnel. And don't forget to give him the gift we wrapped!"
Rory growled—eloquent for him, honestly—and stood, moving toward the nearest tunnel, gift in tow.
"All this talk of burning has made me very, very nostalgic and I want Savvie smelling of smoke when he pops in. Make sure he still has both feet, though, I don't want this to be too easy. The rest doesn't matter to me. Actually, hang on, manners—" Rag Doll glanced back at the phone booth, jabbing his head toward Rory. "Caity, what do you like? His hair? You like his hair, yes? Mick, spare his feet and his hair, there's a good man!" He beamed at Snow. "I can be nice."
Caitlin shook her head at him. She looked disbelieving. Ungrateful. How did Savitar put up with her? Day in and day out, it must be like having an anxious little nursemaid simpering after you. Merkel wondered, briefly, what she would look like on fire. Probably not as satisfying as he was imagining. Some other end, then, maybe something with water? Or ice, that would be poetic. Slow frostbite. She'd scream then.
"Why would you blow up half of Central City?"
At last! She was curious.
The Rag Doll glanced back at the prisoner, his head moving almost completely around, much like an owl's. "What's the best way to control people, Caity?" He didn't give her a chance to guess. "Fear! Fear makes us all do simply ridiculous things. Every time. Lovely Lisa and the semi, Nimbus and the restaurants, Rory and the dear old CCPD—I am creating a rather unhealthy appetite for fear in our fair town. My father controlled every little inch of my existence from the moment I was born. Joke's on him, though, because I will be the one in control soon." It felt good to say it aloud. It felt glorious. "And I shan't be running a filthy circus tent, no, I'll be in charge of an entire city and I'll never even have to leave my fortified-albeit-smelly kingdom down here!"
"Savitar won't let that happen." There was a deep loathing on her face. That was fine. Expected, even. Well, he hadn't wanted a standing ovation anyway. Not that she could really stand, in her position. Perhaps he shouldn't have sprained her ankle on the way in; it made her a boring audience.
"We'll see, won't we? If I take out half the city, it'll be, shall we say, the final straw to break the camel's back. And I didn't just fashion this place because it was prime real estate, by the way." He snapped his fingers. "I picked it because it was the best place to plant my bomb. The remaining half of Central City will be as ants, running about with their hill kicked in, easy pickings. Crime in all its extremely-entertaining glory will be child's play. Trouble is, your running man keeps spoiling my fun." He turned fully around, pulling out his knife and flipping it a few times. She didn't seem impressed. "So I'll need to take care of him first. I think slitting the throat may be too quick—get it? Too quick? No? Perhaps in the heart? Or between the ribs? Oh, never mind."
Peter began descending the platform, giving Caitlin one last grin as he went.
She seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Her chest heaved, and he could plainly see the whites of her eyes. Eyes glued to the knife in his hand. And he wasn't even threatening her. She would absolutely scream when the time came. At least some things could always be counted on. Her speedster didn't even deserve it! It's true what they say. The little things in life are the sweetest. That panicked, glassy expression she was carrying, for example.
He pointed at it with his blade, elated.
"Look at that face! Frightened at long last, I should think! I'd say he wouldn't feel a thing, but Caity, I can't lie to you now, not after all we've already been through together. Haven't decided how yet, but whichever way I kill him, upon my honor…" The Rag Doll strapped on the mask and wig. This time, the eyes in the plastic face cast an electronic, red glow. "It will really, really hurt."
Savitar's lair, back on Earth-1, had been dark and cold and messy.
But hadn't been in the sewer.
For obvious reasons. He may have been a time remnant, far from being a god yet, but he was human enough, still, to want to avoid living somewhere that smelled like rat vomit. He didn't feel the cold in his lair, though he knew it was there. Here, even what passed for liquid simply looked frigid, though he didn't go anywhere near it. He'd relished the dark, but that wasn't to say he hadn't installed at least one or two light fixtures in the place. He needed to see in order to preform maintenance on his armor. The tunnel system beneath Central City had zero artificial light. The only reason Savitar wasn't racing past sludge blindly was because Ramon had installed night vision in his suit's hood. It was probably a prototype for the suit Barry had yet to don—the brighter red one, though Cisco might not be making it quite as soon now that the timeline had been altered. Savitar was possibly the only person alive who knew what it would look like. Still, every time he turned a corner, he expected to slam at superpowered speed into a concrete wall. Even with night vision everything looked black.
As for the mess—it was the sewer. Details are not necessary.
He sped through tunnel after tunnel, always waiting for an opening, a sign of some kind. Some change in scenery. The faster he ran, the sicker he felt. Moving faster than any living thing had always been a freeing experience. Today every step was inadequate. It was almost as though he were in a dream, and though he knew he was running, he never really got anywhere. He could be going supersonic and still be too slow. Each new awning was a disappointment. He was no closer to finding Caitlin, and every time he entered a different tunnel, with zero results, he was that much more nauseous. Running that much faster.
In his ear, Professor Stein suddenly barked, "Stop!"
Savitar slid to a halt, boots of his costume halfway squeaking on the cement. He tapped the comms. "What is it?"
"You're just rushing around in a kind of crooked circle." Stein sounded clipped with frustration. "The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, Savitar. Or at least a semi-straight line. There's no sense in blindly running down every stray path."
"We don't have time."
"Agreed, which is why you ought to take the smartest route. We know they're underground, we know they're in the very center of the city—"
"Interrupting me isn't getting us any closer. Until you find a map," Savitar puffed, trying to control the bite in his tone, "this is the fastest way."
"Not necessarily," argued Stein. "Use your instincts! Take a moment and listen, look around. The human race was given eyes and ears for a reason, you know. I'd imagine someone who frequently uses those tunnels as passage would leave something behind, however unintentionally."
Savitar inhaled through his nose, digging for control. He'd convinced generations that he was the first speedster. He'd outwitted Barry and friends for months, before H.R. had pulled the rug out from underneath him. He had all of Barry's genius and twice as much cunning. He shouldn't need Stein in his ear, reminding him to stop and think. But back then, there hadn't been Caitlin. There hadn't been anyone. Just him, running through time, blipping in and out of the Speed Force and recruiting pawns that hadn't meant anything. Now he had someone to look for, to look after, and the thought that he wouldn't get there before the hour was up had made him careless.
The speedster nodded slightly at Stein's words and scoffed. "Too bad there aren't any mile signs down here," he croaked. "Evil Lair, Next Right."
"He got jokes," Wally snorted in the background somewhere.
"Yes," Stein agreed wryly. "Though I think you might've noticed a mile sign by now, instincts or no instincts."
Savitar could hear the clicking of keys; West was evidently still trying to pull up a schematic of the tunnels. They could see two blinking points onscreen—Savitar's, a bright green dot, and Merkel's hideout, a wide yellow circle that looped in on itself. While they had been able to trace Merkel's call to the center of Central City, the map their system used was a bird's-eye view of downtown, not of the inner workings of the sewer structure. It shouldn't have been difficult to find the right map, even if it had been outdated. But there was nothing.
"I suspect our flexible friend had something to do with the lack of underground diagrams," Stein had admitted when Savitar had first entered the tunnel in Nimbus' cell. "He seems to have thought of everything else."
Savitar took another slow breath, glancing around.
The ground was slimy, but there wasn't so much filth that it would leave footprints. He doubted that the Rag Doll would leave much of a trace for fear of being followed—he'd kept himself hidden for the past three or four years, apparently. But the speedster examined the wall on his left all the same. When Grodd had hidden in the sewers, if memory served, he had used the walls to write what he knew, slowly getting wiser, a sort of trail of breadcrumbs for himself. But there was no graffiti here.
Then he saw scorch marks.
Savitar ran a gloved finger over the nearest smudge. It came off, darker than his suit's color. Barely noticeable, just little flecks of smoky black, parallel to his elbow, continued down the wall. Mick Rory wouldn't need a flashlight, coming down here. He was made of light; he'd use fire to guide him and prevent stumbling into the river of muck on the right.
"Got it," he breathed into the comms.
In the next instant, he was running again, always keeping one eye on the scorch stains as he went.
"Yes, that's it!" Stein was cheering. "You're approximately one mile from the goal."
One mile was six minutes to a speedster. By now the scorch marks were the only things he could see, everything else blurring, as though he were running through a cloud of black paint that had just been released into clear water. He felt his feet were barely touching the ground, and the Speed Force's energy whirled around him, bright white and electric. A familiar rush started shoving his anxiety backward.
Then a wall of fire burst into his path.
Had he stopped, Savitar would have slid right into the flames. But he didn't stop—he ran through it, with barely a flicker clinging to him. His suit was an almost exact copy of Barry Allen's, made with the same material firefighters used. The attack would have to be hotter, the flames much brighter than that, to tear through.
Still, it made his skin flare more than it should have, and he ran a bit harder, shutting his eyes for a moment.
Another blast, even larger this time, followed him. Finally, Savitar quit running, feeling the heat rush against his back and losing energy, dying just before it reached him.
Mick Rory stood a few feet away, tossing something large and metal—a flamethrower, it seemed—to the ground beside him. He replaced it with his own brand, holding a flame in each hand. The dual glow illuminated a wide, mad grin. "Welcome to the jungle, Freakshow!" he rumbled.
Savitar rolled his eyes. "I don't have time for this."
He darted toward Rory, but unlike their previous skirmishes, today meta was ready. The first fireball missed his head, but while the speedster ducked, the second burst against his chest. The flame wasn't high, and Savitar's suit easily resisted it.
He narrowed his eyes at Heat Wave. "Don't make me dunk you in that." Savitar jerked his head toward the river of sludge beside them.
Rory flat-out spat on the ground, shrugging. "I don't get to take your legs. Didn't say anything about the face."
The stocky meta seemed to have an unending supply of fuel. Twice Savitar tried to turn and keep going, get to Caitlin, he was so close, and twice fire slashed and writhed against his back for it. Mick threw early, and he threw small, blazingly-powerful bursts. The flames must have gone right past blue and into clear white, because Savitar could feel them eating through his costume.
"What's happening?" Wally's voice sliced through as Savitar dropped and rolled.
"Rory," Savitar gasped, standing. "He wants to play."
"There isn't time!" Stein practically shouted. "The bravado can wait. You have exactly forty-five minutes to rescue Miss Snow and disarm the bomb. Your adversary is stalling. He's there to weaken you!"
Not bothering to do it at super speed, Savitar met Mick's eyes, examined his sneer and the elaborate, heavy way he breathed. This man had caused enough trouble. He'd been in and out of S.T.A.R Labs, helping Nimbus gas Caitlin on his way out, he'd reduced the entire CCPD headquarters to a pile of ash, and was—now that Savitar knew how to get where he needed to be—the only thing still sitting between the speedster and his goal.
He could kill the pyro. He could drown him in the waste, he could snap his neck. He could do almost anything, really. And then he wouldn't have to deal with this. Then he could save Caitlin.
Rory seemed to see the wheels turning. "What's wrong, Speedy? I thought gods liked showing off." He summoned another blast.
"Ignore him." Wally's tone was the hardest Savitar had heard it on this Earth. Almost icy. "You can't mess around right now."
Wally.
He could kill Rory. He'd never have to see that wild grin again. A punishment for getting in his way. But the meta had something else to answer for first.
"Then I won't mess around."
Mick Rory seemed frozen in time as Savitar zapped toward him, ramming his entire body into the pyro, throwing in a few satisfying punches, just because it felt good. He stopped with his feet firmly planted, arms drawn in. In slow motion, he watched his enemy fly backward, the fire already dancing in one hand shooting toward the tunnel roof, painting the ceiling with one big scorch mark. Harmless.
Just as Rory's heels slipped from the concrete, body flailing over the river of muck behind him, Savitar grabbed him by the collar and ran back, back the way he'd come.
"Where're you going?" Wally cried, with the sound of a chair rolling across the floor of the Cortex. "That's the wrong way!"
Savitar didn't respond, the sights and smells of the sewer whizzing by as he made it to the nearest manhole. He stopped beside the ladder, still gripping the pyro. In front of him, Mick struggled to keep his footing.
Savitar shoved him into a sitting position and pressed the compressor ring on his finger. Normally it held his civilian clothes. Tonight, he'd also 'packed' a pair of Ramon's power-dampening cuffs. It had been Eddie's idea to be prepared for an attack from Merkel's team.
He fastened them around Rory's wrists and chained both arms to the iron ladder reaching up to civilization.
Rory growled. His lip was bleeding, and his left cheek was already starting to swell, looking purple. "You think I can't get outta this? You think I'm the main event?"
Ignoring him, Savitar touched a finger to the comms. "West."
"Still here," Wally replied. There was a careful steadiness to his voice now. Savitar knew they could hear Rory on the speakers in the Cortex through the comms; West must be piecing two and two together. The speedster could recognize the avoidance of hope better than anyone. It sounded fragile.
"Why on Earth aren't you moving?" Stein was saying in the background. "There are a mere forty minutes left! Is this the best time—"
Savitar cut him off, glancing at the painted letters on the cement wall above them. "There are trackers implanted in the meta cuffs. Tell Eddie he's gonna have to make another stop on the way back."
Meanwhile, Caitlin was gagged.
Peter Merkel had only entered the phone booth once—to fasten a wad of fabric around her mouth. "Dreadfully, terribly sorry, Caity. But if this isn't good and tight, I think you may ruin the surprise."
Then he'd slunk back out, locking her in again. Not that she could've moved if he'd left it open.
But she was working on that.
It wasn't hard to slide her head up and down against the glass walls of the booth, pulling the gag's knotted back over the crown of her skull as it weakened with the movement. It fell limp around her neck, like a bandana, and she spat it from between her teeth.
The chains around her wrists were what was keeping her from reaching her necklace. Once she escaped from the chains, the zip ties would be easy. Without the attachment to that rod in the center of the booth, she could reach her pendant and freeze the ties right off. Of course, she could, theoretically, free herself from the zip ties without the use of her metahuman abilities. But past experience told her she would need to move quickly after the chains had been dealt with. And getting out of the ties manually, the way an average captive might, would definitely take up too much time.
If Savitar was walking into a trap, she wasn't going to be the bait. Not for much longer.
The chains were sturdy, if a bit rustier than what probably healthy against her skin, and Caitlin had tried to turn and worm her wrists from the loops holding them without much luck. If wriggling out was impossible, then the chains themselves needed to be broken away. Feeling her heartbeat in her now extremely-swollen ankle, Caitlin scooted toward the iron bar and began furiously rubbing the nearest link against the iron rod. The chains were rusty; she thought that if she could use enough force, they might break, little by little, when driven against something sharp.
While she rubbed, Caitlin replayed the Rag Doll's monologue in her mind.
He had been painting this version of Central City with confusion and fear ever since the particle accelerator had failed. Clearly power-hungry metas had flocked to him for direction, filled with the idea of a bigger goal than a few stolen goods—a city where no one, including the police force, had any control over them. If no one knew when the next superhuman attack might be, or where, soon enough the entire population would be afraid even to go out for dinner. And though law enforcement might try to come up with a way to combat it, Caitlin knew that without some metahuman help of their own—or one very determined Cisco Ramon wielding a wrench and blueprints a mile long—they wouldn't have the resources to fight an ever-growing horde of altered criminals.
But she and Savitar had arrived on Earth-66. They'd ripped Merkel's plans down the middle without knowing they were doing it, giving the people something to believe in. The way the Flash did back home—whether you were caught in a car crash or held hostage at a bank, you knew there was someone out there, someone who could do things no one else could do. And that that person was on your side. You knew he would do everything in his power to make sure you were going to be okay. However gruff Savitar could be, he got the same job done, and the people on this Earth were starting to take notice.
"So I need to take care of him first."
Caitlin narrowed her eyes at the link she was working on. She wanted to spy a dent, a mark, anything, that said that her frantic rubbing was working, but in the minimal light flickering and dancing above her, she couldn't tell.
He couldn't kill Savitar. Logically, she knew it was nearly impossible. Savitar could move faster than Merkel could breathe. One ultra-bendy circus freak with a knife should not have been able to best the fastest man alive. It couldn't be done. But he'd been so confident, almost gleeful, that she couldn't help wondering if there was something he hadn't bragged about, something they hadn't thought of.
She rubbed harder, using nervous energy now, ignoring the throbbing in her ankle as she shifted closer to the bar. She was worried enough when Barry bolted out to fight some superpowered nut job on Earth-1—and that was on a good day, when Barry was grinning and promising his team a victory trip to Jitters on his way to do battle. Now she would be trapped in this ridiculous, filthy old rectangle while her friend ran in blind.
No. She wouldn't. She would get out. If Savitar didn't have to worry about a hostage, he could go to town on the Rag Doll, and Caitlin could work on disarming the bomb. With no way to tell how much time they had before Merkel's deadline was up, anxiety settled thick and heavy in her chest; she tried not to think of how many seconds had gone by. Wasted. Because she was just sitting here.
Rubbing the chains off wasn't working. They weren't decayed enough. But Caitlin had thought of that. "Always have a backup plan, Doctor Snow." Harrison Wells had drilled it into her mind for years before the accident, eyes on her work as he sat a few feet away, playing chess with Hartley. If the chains weren't cooperating, the rod jutting from the floor might be her next best bet. Each time the weak light shone down on the floor, Caitlin examined the place in the ground it had been pierced into.
Phone booths didn't just come with an iron stick poking out of its center. Merkel had rigged this specifically, and if it could be wedged in good and tight, it could be jiggled out. She just had to use the right amount of strength. Hands were out of the question.
Luckily, she still had one good leg.
She tried to empty her mind as she set to work kicking at the bar. Fretting wouldn't help anything. Worrying about Savitar and worrying about Merkel's confidence and worrying about the bomb threatening the people above—it wasn't productive. So though the sharp movements of one leg had her wounded ankle screaming for her to stop, Caitlin continued, gritting her teeth and kicking until it felt an hour had passed with the same action, over and over again. Each time she kicked, the chains around her wrists yanked at her, but this was more of an encouragement than a hindrance. If Caitlin had to move toward the bar over time, that meant it was moving.
There was a shuffling sound of footsteps approaching, and she jerked to a halt.
Caitlin saw a silhouette on the metal steps of her raised platform, just for a moment, thanks to the lamp Merkel had set a few feet outside the booth. She dragged herself around the iron bar, pressing her back to it, hiding any sign of escape.
It was Nimbus. In one hand, he held a tube of Pringles, stuffing them into his mouth with the other. Still chewing as he approached the phone booth, he said throatily, "How's it feel?"
Caitlin glared at him. "How does what feel?"
He jerked his chin up and tapped the glass with a toe. "Being stuck in a box." Nimbus swallowed the snack. "Told you we weren't gonna be in your private chicken coop long."
She slid her bound hands along the iron bar, feeling for the indent in the floor. Trying to tell how far it was from being pulled out. "At least we fed you," she said tightly, hoping conversation might cover up any movement.
Nimbus wiggled the container of chips at her. "Do you do tricks?" When Caitlin didn't answer, he said, "It's almost time for the big show. I can't chat long. Just wanted to see it for myself." He crouched down beside the door, looking her up and down. "Boss said he'd make us even. Glass walls and all."
"I won't be here long," Caitlin quoted, scowling.
There it is. The bar had been wedged, bent by her kicking, and the hole Merkel had created when he drove it into the floor was now just barely a half-inch wider. The phone booth really was old. Caitlin wrapped her fingers around the bar, slowly lifting it. She moved so carefully, it almost felt she wasn't doing it at all.
Nimbus grinned, never blinking. It made his skin seem even paler. "Why? Because he's coming to rescue you? He'll never make it past the door."
Caitlin shook her head, willing her expression into that of stone. The rod was free. Her chains slackened, she heard it. But Nimbus didn't seem to notice.
"My employer's really good with knives. Your friend will be bleeding out on that floor down there in ten minutes." Nimbus glanced down, far, far below them, at the wide stretch of cement ground, lit only by one orange light, like the kind lining roads on the surface. "Then we got the keys to the city."
Caitlin felt a roaring in her ears, that same protective snarl that rose up in her and caused her to snap at a reckless Barry Allen. But this was stronger.
Now. She was free. Caitlin slid the rod from its hole and let it clang to the ground, her bonds loosening, so that the metal wasn't pressing hard against her skin any longer. She wouldn't need to untie anything in a moment. Fear bubbled close to the surface—what if I lose control? But she didn't have much of a choice. And if she didn't do this, the risk of Savitar dying would be that much greater. Him, and everyone living in this half of Central City-66.
"I wonder if you can handle it," Kyle added, turning back to her. There was a crazy delight in his wide eyes. "Watching him die. Right in front of you."
His gaze landed on the rod, limp and rolling slightly on the floor of the booth. The delight faded to confusion.
In a heartbeat, both bound wrists flew to her snowflake pendant, thumb and forefinger grasping it so hard she was afraid she might crack it. Caitlin yanked it off, the clasp at the back of her neck snapping almost at once. Wispy cold ran down her throat and pumped through her arms. Finally.
An icy echo surrounded Caitlin's voice, eyes tinged the white-gray of blizzard storm clouds. "Wouldn't be the first time."
She felt it build, locking eyes with the meta. A cloud of ice burst from her lungs and she opened her mouth wide, letting it fog up the glass of the phone booth. The lights cracked and, already struggling to hang onto life, broke above her, glass showering down. She watched thick ice coat the chains and flung the against the walls, watching the links shatter. The same thing freed her from the zip ties, and she made quick work of the door handle.
Nimbus stared at her, licking his lips, as she stepped out of her prison, the cold numbing her bad ankle, as if the sprain were completely healed. There was fear in his expression, she could see it vibrantly. He hadn't been expecting this at all. "You're one of us."
Caitlin tilted her head, but it was Killer Frost who answered. "He didn't tell you?"
A blast of cold air caught Nimbus right in the chest, knocking him backward, over the metal bannister, off the platform and onto one far lower.
Caitlin struggled to remain in control, glancing over the rail to see Nimbus unconscious below. I am not going to kill him. I am not going to kill him. That's not what we do. That's not who we are. She repeated it, over and over, dropping a dagger of ice the size of her forearm when she realized she was holding it. It was in her. The anger Frost carried for her, the anger Frost wielded when Caitlin would never. She could feel it; it was part of the ice. But if she lost herself now, there was no guarantee she could be brought back. And the last thing this situation needed was someone like Killer Frost, who might be all too prepared to just up and join Merkel's gang instead of opposing it.
She could use her powers to fight Merkel. Fight Rory, Nimbus, Snart, Park. But even now, Killer Frost was aching to go down there and finish Nimbus off. Even now, Caitlin could hear her laugh, hear her itching to break something. Frost was made up of everything negative that had ever affected her. She was so full of bitterness, full of pain, she was constantly looking for ways to let it all out. Snow had to cut her off now, before it was too late. Freeing herself was enough—trying to take on the bad guys in this fragile state of mind, with these abilities she hadn't yet learned to direct, would only be borrowing trouble.
Caitlin forced her steps to return to the phone booth, where she picked up her dampening necklace with shaking hands. Frost crawled over the wire as she held it, quickly fastening it beneath hair that hadn't yet turned white.
The cold slid away from her throat. Caitlin exhaled slowly, watching puffs of frigid air float out as she did, until they grew smaller and smaller, and then faded out altogether. She was herself again.
The Rag Doll was nowhere in sight. Neither were his groupies. He probably had them deterring Savitar, or worse, painting the city red far above, soaking up whatever this side of the town had to offer in the way of crime before the bomb went off. In fact, they were probably a safe distance from the blast zone. There was no sense in Merkel losing his minions in this convoluted process.
She had to find the bomb. The Rag Doll had said it was here—here in this cavern. She was no Cisco Ramon, but she had to at least try to disarm it. Then all they would have to worry about was Merkel and his meta crew.
Caitlin crouched beside the rail, moving silently and slowly down the steps. She left the lamp where it was, beside the freezing phone booth. From the ground, no one would see it; it was smack in the center of the platform. But if she took it with her, if she used it to light her way now, she could be discovered. Best to try and escape on her own; Merkel couldn't use her as leverage then. Barefoot, skin cold, still alone. She would make it out.
But she was a little late.
Just as she reached the bottom of the steps, sliding cautiously onto the next platform—Nimbus still lay on the one below this—Caitlin's heart leapt and then sank with dread as she heard a familiar FWOOSH.
With Stein and Wally counting down the steps he had left to go, Savitar reached Rag Doll's lair. He hadn't realized how far down he'd traveled until he got there.
It was a massive cavern in the underbelly of the city. The ceiling stretched so impossibly high, if he hadn't had night vision, it would have been too dark to see the top. It was tall enough to host several extremely wide platforms of various heights, supported by long, thin poles of metal. Merkel had grown up in a circus. Clearly he was most comfortable being able to climb and stretch his muscles as far as he could. Savitar knew exactly what Cisco might say if he were here—"He's like some freakish murder monkey." It paid, in stressful times, to have the memories of a man who knew someone like Ramon. You could pull a laugh from almost anything, wherever you went.
But Savitar was as far as he could be from laughter. He stopped cold in the center of the room, looking for Caitlin. She'd be on one of those platforms, according to the live video they'd received. With his night vision, he could see what was on the lower platforms—boxes of weapons, several hunks of metal, a chair or two, some kind of inventor's table. But the higher they got, the harder it was to see any details if he wasn't up there himself. The phone booth should have been flickering, but there was no sign of the white-blue light, however far back he leaned.
The rest of the cave seemed empty, with several tunnels leading out. There was an old street light rigged in one corner, shining down on a long crate leaning on its side. The crate was facing an old television, and Savitar could see the Cortex, blurry onscreen. In real time. There was Stein, still seated behind the white winding desk, and Wally standing on its other side, phone to his ear. Calling Eddie.
Uninterested in the décor, Savitar began looking for a way onto the platforms. The legs were too thin to run up the sides. There was no ramp, and the only sets of metal steps simply led from one surface to the other. Nothing that went from the main floor to the first. Moving a few steps closer, he spied silver hooks hammered into one of the legs of the lowest platform—a makeshift ladder.
Then Caitlin's gasp, her voice, ripped through the silent cave.
"Savitar, look out!"
Instinctually, he turned on his heel. The Rag Doll had crept up behind him, absolutely noiseless, wielding a knife in each hand.
"You're here!" cried Merkel, in a tone that told the speedster he was smiling broadly behind his mask. This mask was different than the one he'd worn before. It was still white, but more like a mannequin's expressionless face—plastic, maybe—strapped to his head. Red light glowed from the eyes. Mechanical, then.
Savitar didn't waste time on banter. For a split second he looked up, up at the platforms, eyes searching for Caitlin. Her voice came from far above them. But it wouldn't matter if he found her, not if the Rag Doll went free. He began running right away. He darted around Merkel, aiming to kick his feet out from under him.
With one smooth stroke, suddenly there was a long slice across his forearm.
Savitar gritted his teeth and slid in a half-second out of the way of Merkel's next swing. He stared at the Rag Doll, mouth only slightly open to show his shock. How had he been cut? Hadn't he been moving too quickly?
"That is really, very impressive up close." The Rag Doll bowed.
Again, Savitar advanced. He aimed a fist right beneath Merkel's jaw, but when he halted a heartbeat later to deliver the blow, the Rag Doll flipped backward, locking both feet behind Savitar's head and launching the speedster into the air.
"However, I believe it would have been more impressive if you were actually at top speed!"
Savitar slammed onto the ground on his back and quickly righted himself, before Merkel could leap on top of him. There was, amazingly, another cut along his shoulder this time. He could feel it stinging—he could feel everything stinging. The heat he'd felt since Rory's attack was worse; he could even feel it between his toes.
"What's going on?" Wally demanded over the comms.
"I don't know," Savitar growled, eyes on the Rag Doll as he turned to face the speedster, flipping the knives expertly. "I'm slowing down."
"Impossible," Stein dismissed. "Apart from a spike in adrenaline, your inner makeup seems average—your blood sugar levels, your heart rate—but your muscles…" He paused, and Savitar could tell from his voice he was pressing his knuckles thoughtfully against his mouth. "They've weakened dramatically in the past few minutes. It's as if someone were…wringing them out, like a dish towel."
"Got that," the speedster grunted, gathering the energy he needed to put a bit more distance between himself and the knives. Even his Speed Force lightning was weaker; only one or two strands followed the movement. His legs shook beneath him.
"It's dreadfully rude to be on the phone when you have company," Merkel interrupted, front-flipping twice, faster than Savitar had expected, lashing out with his blades again.
Savitar sprang backward, exploding into a racing circle around Merkel. If he moved quickly enough, he could pull the oxygen from that area, rendering his opponent helpless.
Stinging pain near his spine made him skid to a halt, feeling for the wounds. He couldn't move quickly enough.
Savitar glanced behind him, noting two knives—the ones that must have grazed his back—embedded in the wall beyond. The Rag Doll had already acquired two more, darting in and out. As Savitar ducked and dodged, landing at least one punch (though Merkel was up again in a blink, pushing up off of his palms) he could feel the warm sensation tingling along his neck and at his fingertips.
Everything in him wanted to give Merkel the full treatment—rapid punches, whiplash, possibly a few broken bones—but adrenaline or not, livid or not, only one of them was fast enough right now to draw blood. And it wasn't him.
"You've gained multiple abrasions along the flesh of your back," Stein reported. "How is he able to make contact, you should be moving at an—"
"You're definitely going slower," Wally interrupted. "Says here you're running at only…half your normal speed." Confusion made his voice crack. "You can't go any faster?"
Savitar tried racing in a circle along the walls, going for a supersonic punch. But he couldn't even gain the ground to go all the way around. Nausea was building in his throat; he was sweating inside his suit, making his wounds flare and scream. He was getting dizzy, too.
He had to slide to a halt. "Nope."
"I'm rubbish at surprise parties," Merkel was saying conversationally. "Never can keep a secret for long. I sent Mister Rory with a welcome package—a chemical our own Lisa Snart concocted."
Savitar dodged yet another swing, but the second caught him lightly just below the collar bone. He wasn't losing an obscene amount of blood, but he would be soon if this kept up.
"She's rather good with chemistry. That and firearms, anyway, which, actually, is probably—" the Rag Doll swung, trying and failing to take one of Savitar's ears, "—why it came in the form of a flamethrower. Mick really loved that bit. The man is simply ill about heat!"
The fire he'd run through was what was making him sluggish. Mick hadn't just been trying to toast him—he'd been ensuring Savitar would be coated with whatever Snart had cooked up.
"Anyway, something like ten minutes ago, it was supposed to take effect. D'you know, I think it's a bit late! Ironic, since it's meant to slow you down." Merkel shook his head, vaulting over his enemy's head and landing on the other side. "Not completely, only for a few minutes, but that's just enough. My performances usually only last six minutes anyway. What, did you think I wouldn't make this a fair fight?"
The contortionist wasn't finished yet. In the time it took Savitar to turn around, the Rag Doll had slashed a blade down the speedster's left side and wrapped one of his legs around one of Savitar's, knocking him to the ground.
Rag Doll's masked face and wild red wig loomed down over him. "Care to cut a deal, old chap?"
Savitar rolled and got to his feet again. He dashed to the farthest wall, getting a running start.
When he stopped, Merkel was a foot away, to his right.
"Hear me out, can't you?" The Rag Doll pouted.
He leapt like a frog into the air, wrapping his arms and legs around Savitar's throat and chest, pulling him slowly to the ground again. Savitar felt his lungs constricting; the Rag Doll was like a cobra. He wouldn't be the mouse. Reaching up, he grabbed his enemy's mask and ripped it off with one thrust. Then, shutting his eyes, Savitar phased through Merkel's body, halting a few paces back. The very action made him gasp for breath; his skin was warmer than ever.
The Rag Doll rushed after him. Without the mask, his face was thin and his smile crooked. "You're good. You're excellent. You've bested nearly all my brightest men—and women—and really, I've been thinking you and I might work better—" He slashed toward Savitar's neck with the left knife, but the speedster darted out of the way. "—together."
Savitar paused to regain oxygen after the previous attack, watching Merkel with hooded lids.
"Wait him out," Stein commanded. "He's slipped up, given you too much information."
"Yeah, it's gotta wear off soon," agreed Wally.
"Barring any side effects, anyway," Stein added.
Merkel was still talking. "Not to go all Darth Vader on you, mate, but I do mean it." He scratched the back of his neck with the flat of one blade, also catching his breath. "Join me. Us. Come on, I've been watching you, remember? I know everything."
The speedster watched him, watched the other knife twirling and the smile growing. I know everything.
"That's right. Cameras caught every scene you lot played out in your humble abode. I know who you are. I know your secret. And I know your potential." Merkel dropped one weapon, letting it clang to the floor. He spread the free palm. "Nobody else ever saw it, did they? Your whole life, well, not life, more like existence—no one gave you the chance to show it."
Wait him out. Savitar was the king of patience. But it was hard to tune out what sounded suspiciously like the truth while he waited.
"Think of it, Savvie. Realizing all that potential! You take up with me, right here and now, and we'll toss that little bomb idea, shall we? More of the city will be left to take. I'll even let Caity go free—she'll live through all this. And you get to help run the place. Central City's ours. Everyone will know you. You'll be able to do whatever you like." He grinned. "Then you'll truly be a god."
The cavern was silent then, save the two men's heavy breathing. The solitary street light seemed to dim a little. Savitar blinked hard. Everyone will know you. She'll live through all this. You'll truly be a god. A few months ago, he knew he would have been intrigued by the offer. A few months ago, he could've taken this operation from Merkel and made it his own. He would've said yes in a second. He would already be in control of Earth-66. He would already be the ruler here. He would take this amateur chaos and mold it into something really terrifying.
But he hadn't come to this Earth alone. He'd made the mistake of accepting a chaperone. And then she wasn't just his chaperone, she was his teammate. Then she was his friend. His friend, the only one he had ever had, in both timelines. Killer Frost and Caitlin Snow, the only ones who had ever actually been by his side. He may have the memories of Barry's friends, Barry's family, but they had never really been there. She had. He should have known, bringing her here, that history might repeat itself. He just hadn't counted on Caitlin moving him, directing him, the way he had once moved and directed Frost.
Looking at Merkel now, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Joining this team of metas, this group of wicked, fear-inducing criminals was exactly what the God of Speed would do.
But he wasn't the God of Speed. Not any longer.
Savitar held up Merkel's mask, expressionless, so that the two almost matched. Slowly, he phased his hand through it. It cracked, loud and sharp, shards of plastic and metal flying, sparks popping into the air.
"Sorry." Savitar clicked his tongue. "Doesn't sound like me."
Merkel shook his head, curling his lip. "Well, now you've gone and made me cross."
He was, at this point, beside the makeshift ladder made of hooks, leading up the lowest platform. In seconds, the Rag Doll had slipped up to the surface, disappearing from sight.
A moment and a sudden yelp later, he reappeared, yanking a figure up by her hair. He pulled the victim with him toward the edge, balancing on one foot as though he'd never had two to begin with.
"Look who Klondike Bar-ed her way out of her cage!" The Rag Doll crowed, hoisting Caitlin into a higher standing position with a fistful of her light brown locks. "Creeping away is slow going when you can't see. Did you think I wouldn't have a Plan B, Savvie?" He pressed his remaining knife more tightly to her throat.
A slight movement said she was reaching for her necklace.
"I don't allow Killer Frosts in here, love, they're awfully messy." Merkel leaned toward her ear. "Try it, go on. Test me. He already broke my lovely new mask. I've run out of patience for you and your frankly emo boyfriend."
Savitar only had to meet Caitlin's pain-bright eyes for a moment. New energy welled up within him, and the Speed Force leapt and shrieked behind his eyes in welcome. The heat was waning. Six minutes were up, and he'd been just dying to really stretch his legs.
He ran beneath the platform and up the east wall, turning in midair to face the backs of the two people on the edge. Muscles getting stronger by the second, Savitar pushed off the wall and landed right behind them, relishing the feeling. In one fluid motion, he removed Merkel from Caitlin and kicked him bodily off of the surface.
With a thud, the Rag Doll landed on the concrete, somehow unbroken. Savitar was beside Caitlin for a second, but his eyes were on the enemy. He flashed back down to the main floor. Merkel staggered upward, trying to stand, but Savitar slammed him back down.
"That was a bad move." He dropped down beside the Rag Doll, one knee on his chest.
"Perhaps," the Rag Doll gasped, not bothering to struggle. He didn't seem afraid, to Savitar's irritation, but he did seem surprised. "Six minutes gone. Right, good, you got me. Using the same bait twice, I admit it's stale. You do make a lovely pair, honestly," he went on quietly. "But for how long? If she weren't here—if she'd left you in the dust, would you have turned me down so easily? Can she even trust you?" He raised his voice, shouting up to the platform, "Can you even trust him, Caity? After what he's done?"
But the speedster wasn't letting the doubt, the guilt lathering years past sink in this time. No more bitterness, no more angst. It couldn't touch him anymore. In that moment—being the Flash again, defeating the villain, with a team in the Cortex and a drum beating within him, no amount of darkness from 2024 or Infantino Street came even close to swallowing him up.
After being what he had been, who he had been—after killing H.R., threatening Iris, possessing Julian, trapping Wally—the girl who remained crouched on the edge of the platform above had still been there with him. She'd been willing to help him change. She'd been willing to think he still could. She wasn't afraid of him, and she didn't hate him. She knew him, completely, and she'd stayed.
"I'm not that person anymore." Savitar didn't look around. He knew Caitlin was listening. He knew she agreed. "You were wrong. You're not the only one who gave me a chance."
"Ugh, that's very nice," Peter sighed, lifting his head off of the floor to get a better look at his opposition. "But I wasn't talking about your little god act. I was talking about the—oh, what d'you call it? The breach machine."
Savitar's blood turned to ice.
"You heard me, didn't you, up there?" Peter called. "You can't get home, Caity, and it's because of him. He's the reason you're trapped."
On the other end of the comms, Wally cursed.
Merkel smiled broadly at the speedster. "Told you I can't keep a secret."
Above them, Savitar could just barely hear Caitlin's sharp, almost shaky inhale.
Savitar still didn't turn around. But it wasn't because he knew he had her support this time. He was frightened of the expression he might see. He didn't even need to see it—he could picture it. It would be like the time Barry had told her not to treat him like Ronnie. Like the time he'd confessed about Flashpoint, what it had done to her life in particular. It would be like chipped glass. Wet brown eyes, some of the light fading in a sudden loss of confidence.
He wouldn't look at her. What was the point?
He should have expected something like this; he'd known Merkel had been watching them, that he'd had the entirety of S.T.A.R. Labs bugged. Having been in that role himself, he knew every piece of information against the opposing side could be used. The Rag Doll had been sure to miss nothing.
That included late tinkering hours in Savitar's basement bedroom.
"What does he mean?" Wally's voice was louder than usual. Older, rougher. "Savitar?"
Above, Caitlin Snow had yet to say a word.
With a fast, firm hand, Savitar switched off the comms. He looked down at the Rag Doll and couldn't form words. Something large and thick and soaked with a feeling between fury and horror had clogged his throat.
"And you're forgetting the bomb, Savvie dearest," Peter went on gleefully. "Ooh, look at his eyes get big! There's a little detonator somewhere in this room and you've got—I'd say twenty minutes to disarm it? And get Caity far, far away—assuming she wants to go anywhere with you now, that is. Are you sure you're fast enough?"
Using his speed, Savitar dragged Merkel up a wall, onto the platforms, and into Caitlin's phone booth prison, using the iron rod in the center to block the door handle. "Stay," the speedster ordered through his teeth. Merkel's smile never fell.
He examined the room. He'd been the Big Bad once. A small, powerful explosive and very few options in the way of keeping it hidden, keeping it safe until the time was right. Where would he hide it?
And then Caitlin, climbing shakily down from the lowest platform, said dully behind him, "The television set." Her tones seemed faraway, distracted. Almost completely devoid of emotion.
For a moment, he forgot what was hanging in the air and turned to look at her upon hearing her voice, eyes skipping hers completely and settling instead on her ankle. "You're not hurt." It was as solid as a statement, but there was a questioning pitch.
"Killer Frost took care of it."
Savitar nodded and went to the back of the old television set, eager to keep his face hidden. Merkel's revelation kept them at arm's length anyway. Minutes ago, he might have hurried up to her, just to feel that she was all right, that she was physically there. But now it felt as though a chasm had opened in the floor, and they were on opposite sides.
He phased his hand through the shell of the television, just enough to create an opening, pulling the back away from the rest of the machine, not batting an eye as sparks shot through the air.
There, nestled in the center, was the bomb. Blue light shone from a timer that warned sixteen minutes until detonation.
"Careful, speedy!" Merkel bellowed cheerily from the phone booth. "It's extremely sensitive. One wrong move and you'll get the job done early, I expect. Oh, but take your time and you, Caity and I all shall be blown to kingdom come!"
Savitar looked at that narrow face, those large, mad eyes, and felt the red swimming through again. Even beaten, this man wouldn't shut up. He had to have the last word. And he was about to happily take out half of the city and himself. He'd kidnapped Caitlin, wounded her, locked her up, and held a knife to her throat. He'd told her about the breach machine. He'd threatened to take her life.
And he'd sliced up the only suit Savitar currently owned.
The speedster stood, shaking his head slightly. "No," he called up coolly. "Just you."
Caitlin's brow furrowed as Savitar strode over, all business. "What are you doing?"
The question was tight and stressed, like a spring pressed down beneath a boot. There was more ice in her stare than he'd ever seen in Killer Frost. He watched her breathe short and fast. She was probably counting to a hundred this time. He couldn't blame her. But the snarling in him still dismissed it.
"My speed's back. I can get everyone else out." Savitar heard the red in his voice as he spoke, and he let it stain the words. With every heartbeat pounding through the wounds patterned across his body from the fight, with every step he took to face the tunnel through which he'd come in, the old rage was pulsing and flowing.
Peter Merkel might have fashioned the beginning of this story, but with the sight of that bomb in the television set, and the contortionist locked in the booth above, Savitar was all too pleased to control the end.
"He wants to watch the city burn," the speedster went on, shrugging, "he can have a front row seat. He stays here."
Caitlin caught her breath, shooting an alarmed glance toward the bomb and back to him. "But—that's not what we—"
He didn't let her finish. He wasn't listening anyway. After flicking back on his comms, Savitar scooped her up, bridal-style, and the Speed Force held them tight as he ran back into the sewer system.
"Stein," he ordered curtly, "I'm getting Caitlin out. Where's Eddie?"
There was a second of hesitation before anyone responded. For the first time, Stein sounded flustered, and not at all friendly. "Detective Thawne is currently heading south, near Englewood. According to Mister West, he'll meet you twenty miles from your current location," he added coldly. "On Infantino Street."
(Author's Note: And now she collapses immediately because that took forever and my brain is fried and I went back and changed several lines last-minute. If it's choppy, I apologize, I edited different scenes at different times so there may be continuity errors in there somewhere. Forgive me. I'll re-read it later and fix whatever I hath wrecked! Love you, Jell-O Squares. I mean it. All you nutty nuts reading this monster nerd session are really, really great readers and a really, really smart audience. Next chapter will be the last, but don't fret, an epilogue will also be added! You're all the cheese in my quesadilla. ~Doverstar)