f a s t e r

Nia looked up as a figure phased through the door. Eobard. “It was you,” she said, horrified. She glared hard, wishing that she wasn’t in such a vulnerable position like this, unable to move without help. Ignoring his question, she skipped straight to the point. How she felt had to be pretty damn obvious. “What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?” She felt foolish for having trusted him at all, but she’d thought… in one’s dreams it was harder to be deceitful usually. Clearly she had been naive. Nia hadn’t even told anyone about the dreams, about the man she’d met while dream walking. “You could’ve killed me.”

🗲 🗲 🗲 🗲 

“So many questions,” Eobard said with a thin smile, leaning against the wall and folding his arms across his chest as he watched her. “Yes, it was me, and yes, I could’ve killed you. If I was less careful, I would have.” As it was, the tree had been an inconvenience, but he wasn’t one for patience. He’d just cooled off on speed a bit on the approach to compensate. It wasn’t a perfect science, but the speed in his veins was more instinct most days than the pure science it’d started as.

“I just need you to do me a favour, and then you can be on your way. You can dreamwalk--I need you to find someone for me. Get into his dreams. Nothing too strenuous.” 

/

The guy had a point. Tech, on its own, wasn’t good or bad. It was people who influenced it one way or the other, but at the end of the day… “People are always going to use it for shit like that.” Maybe people like Tim Drake and Lena Luthor were good. Maybe they meant well. But for every one of them, there were a thousand who were more like Tyler Stone. And maybe it was unfair for Miguel to point fingers given his own history of helping the wrong side for the wrong reasons, but it was hard not to think of people like Luthor, Drake, and even Stark as complacent in what happened, in the end.

Security advancements like the ones Drake was making would lead to the Public Eye system that made 2099 a dystopian hellhole. Virtual reality like the shit Luthor was throwing around would evolve into the Cyberspace system that left millions of people dead, with Miguel’s brother just barely escaping the fate. People were only excited because they didn’t know how this all ended up.

“Surviving’s not always all it’s cracked up to be,” he murmured, gripping his glass tightly and wishing, not for the first time, that there was something stronger than water in it. “This stuff will make the world better in the short term, maybe, but in the long term? We’re all sho — screwed.”

“Of course. L’appel du vide--we find it hard to leave anything alone.” He wasn’t above the affliction, either. He’d been chastised for it constantly; by his parents and Robern, until he’d put an end to that, and ever since then by the Science Police when they managed to get their hands on him every so often. In his time, he was pointed to as a prime example of why scientific pursuits were kept in the hands of just a few. 

Bullshit, as they would say in the 21st century. He far preferred it here, even for its archaic technology. There was far more freedom, far more excitement to keep him occupied so that the lightning in his veins didn’t threaten to burn right through him.

He almost missed the slip of slang from the other man’s tongue, so busy was he mentally railing against his own timeline. Had it not been corrected midway through, the word might have slid on by, but as it was, the correction snagged Eo’s attention.  Shocked. That hadn’t become slang until an invention in the 2070s. Certainly it shouldn’t be something heard here, now. Things weren’t exactly as they were in the history books, but surely it couldn’t be that off. Eobard’s brow knitted, and he regarded Miguel with new focus, searching for any other sign that something was off. “Sounds like a voice of experience. You know what they say--hindsight is 20/20.”

Eobard shrugged, plucking a drink from the tray of passing waitress.  “That’s hardly the technology’s fault, is it?” Eobard asked with a raised brow, bringing the glass to his lip and taking a sip.  “It thinks the way we program it to, it does the things we task it for.  The problem isn’t the technology, it’s the people using it.”  

The argument the other man was making was precisely what had led to the suppression of science in his own century--permitted only to be performed by people specially appointed to do so, tightly managed and controlled.  The 21st century, this century, was the golden age of innovation as far as the history books were concerned.  In centuries since, increasing restrictions meant to deter crises were put in place. 

They never worked.  Not really.  Where one problem went away, another took its place.  

“Humanity’s a creative bunch.  We’ll always find new and more efficient ways to bring ourselves to the brink.  I’m confident humanity will survive whatever genie it lets out of the bottle--at least for a few centuries.”

Eobard stared at the younger speedster, what could be seen of his face beneath the mask torn between disgust and annoyance as he watched Bart pile his plate high with food.  “They’re not planning on snatching the food out from under your nose, nephew,” he said with a disdainful scowl.  His own plate was reasonably laden, because he was not a greedy child, thank you.  

Speedsters needed a far higher caloric intake than their non-speedster peers, for sure, but there were ways to consume that much without drawing attention to oneself with a plate a half-mile high in the midst of a high-class gala.  

Avoiding attention was, coincidentally, the reason that Bart Allen had not recieved a supersonic hand through the chest yet this evening.  There was always more than enough time at his disposal, and there were other ends to be explored tonight.  Connections to make, secrets to steal, relationships to exploit.  Quiet havoc to wreak.  

***

Nia shrugged, but she felt a flash of pride nonetheless. She was, however slowly, learning to be proud of her abilities and to stop feeling guilty that it was she who inherited them and not her sister. Nia had not chosen this, they had chosen her. Even if they weren’t the easiest to control. “I don’t know of many myself,” she admitted. Her mother was the only other she knew of. If only… This whole thing could be so much easier.

His comment about his dreams being different certainly was true. They gave her the feeling of being in another world, like she’d hopped dimensions instead of into a dream. But not in the way that dreams normally made no sense. It was difficult to explain, but it was like another flavour of weird. “Oh?” Was he an alien then? There was a lot of them hiding among humans on this planet after all. “Where’s home then?” 

🗲 🗲 🗲 🗲

She would be more apt to have her finger on the pulse of others like her, no doubt, so her suggestion that there weren’t many only served to make her all the more valuable.  He was certainly willing to take her word for it.  “I’m sure it must be lonely.  I’m self-taught, myself, so I understand how difficult it can be.”

Where’s home?  Well, if that wasn’t a loaded question.  The real answer, as far as Eobard had ever been concerned, was nowhere, but he knew perfectly well what she was asking and so went with the easier answer.  “I’m from almost five centuries in the future.  Central City, technically, though we commuted frequently to New York and D.C.”  What took today’s citizens a several-day train ride or drive took just under an hour on the hyperloop, in his time.  “To be honest, I feel more at home in the past than I did there.  Different values, you understand.”  

Emma’s eyes narrowed at his, catching the brief flash of red. So, it seemed this one wasn’t just a regular boring person. It seemed he had secrets of his own and Emma knew a secret when she saw one. It was just the meticulously picking and prying it took to get them to expose it. Though a telepath could often pull the deepest things out of someone, Emma took pride on being about to pick someone apart without going into their mind. A skill she had to learn long before her mutant gene became active. Her powers were an aid but not her source.

“I’m hardly ever mistaken.” Emma replied as he stated about judging by appearances. However, Emma always did looked down her nose at people. She had a lot of thoughts as to way but there was one simple motive. Don’t let people see you weak and no one can abandon you if you made sure they never had you in the first place. A seemingly complex behaviour distilled to one simple lesson. “I have a thing about scientists. You always seem to play with things that never concern you. Then you cry and pout like a child when you are shocked that things didn’t go exactly to plan.” As he offered his hand, Emma glanced down at it before back at him, not taking it straight away. Make them wait. Make them second guess things. It came natural. As their hands met, she finally spoke. “Emma Frost and I have my drink.” Just like that a Manhattan was placed into her hand by the bar staff.

🗲 🗲 🗲 🗲

“There’s always a margin of error,” Eobard answered smoothly, taking the refilled drink the bartender slid down the counter toward him.  “An outlier, an exception to the rule.”  He was an exception to a great many, himself.  A stand-out ( disappointment ) within the Thawne name, a speedster with his own form of Speed Force, a free scientific mind in a society of sycophants.

Speaking of science.  

Eobard scoffed at her words, though something about them hit a little close to home than she probably knew.  “That’s the entire point of science.  Forging out into the unknown, taking apart the world and putting it back together again to figure out how it works.  A proper scientist takes their failures in stride and turns them into successes.  Nobody said it’d be easy--and I’m not much a fan of easy, anyway.  Fortunately.”  

She stared at him for a long moment, and Eobard returned her gaze steadily until her hand finally accepted his and she offered up a name.  Emma Frost.  

Fitting. 

"A pleasure, Miss Frost.  You’ve discussed what I do--may I inquire as to what it is you do?  Aside, of course, from freezing bar fights in their track and cutting a truly stunning figure in that dress.”

[ ✉️ -> dream guy ] yeah?  [ ✉️ -> dream guy ] is that just because it’s different? [ ✉️ -> dream guy ] though it’s certainly been… interesting recently.

\

Emma had considered herself done and believed the appropriate punishment had be served. After all, there was a time the White Queen would make a man enjoy humiliating himself and do the most crazy things as punishment foreven the smallest slights against her. However, she liked to think she matured past that but she sure as hell was going to let it be known that some if not many mutants were scared to stand up to a human, even in their own home. Emma had no such issue.

She was about to leave until a drink was put on the bar near her, causing her to stop and look at the man who addressed her. Her eyebrow quirked slightly as he spoke. She seemed to pause, as if she didn’t hear him before she leaned in a little. “With a face like that, I doubt they are smart ideas.” Her tone was low in its delivery, her cobalt eyes not shying away from his own eyes. “I suggest you do what that gentleman is doing and enjoy his drink. I am being gracious enough to let you choose if you want to make a mistake.”

Oh, he liked this one.  His instincts said she was dangerous, left a faint taste of ozone on his tongue in warning, and he didn’t care one whit.  What was the point of having the powers he had if one wasn’t willing to push their luck?  He was still alive, after all.  There were few mistakes he couldn’t undo.  

Not that he thought he’d have any desire to undo an evening with a woman like her.  

Eobard’s smile sharpened, eyes flickering briefly electric-red before fading back to their normal blue. “And here I thought a woman as sharp as you would know better than to judge by appearances.  Smart ideas are my stock-in-trade.  And at any rate--science makes no progress without a few mistakes.  I appreciate your concern, but I daresay both of us can take care of ourselves.”  He offered his hand across the counter.  “Professor Adrian Thawne.  Can I get you a drink?”

/ .- / -.- / .- /

Jessica inhaled sharply, and tried to remember everything the doctors had said about high blood pressure being bad for the baby. She frowned at him, let out a heavy sigh. “I was talking about as a P.I.,” she deadpanned. “Most potential clients don’t hit on me. Or are you in the doorway of my building just to be annoying?” she asked, gesturing behind him.

The fall air was starting to get that sharp, crisp scent to it. The one that really stuck in the nose, made you take notice. She noticed a lot of things about him. He was cocky, with the looks to make up for it. Walking that line between conventionally and not-conventionally handsome that always got her into so much trouble. His smirk was like glass, sharp edged and polished, like he’d practiced it and worked on it forever. 

“Jones,” she said. “Jessica Jones. Alias Investigations,” she said, reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a crumpled business card. “You wanna discuss what kind of portfolio you have up in my office?”

🗲 🗲 🗲 🗲

Eobard’s grin only widened at the sharp intake of breath from the woman, watching her expression as she sized him up where he lingered in the doorway.  Even so, he began taking mental note: P.I.  Private investigator, which meant she was attentive, meant that she noticed things that were off.

Years of time travel had made him a much better actor than he’d once been, way back when Robern had been constantly lurking at his shoulder waiting for a wrong move.  For all that’d worked out for him.  At least he’d been wiped from the timeline rather than been on the receiving end of some of Eobard’s bloodier means of getting rid of people--satisfying as it might have been to see the look on his brother’s face. 

Ah, well.  Hindsight was twenty-twenty.  

“Then most of your potential clients lack initiative and have paid for it,” Eobard replied smoothly, reaching behind him to prop the door open so she could slip past him if she truly insisted.  “I’ve found that those who don’t mix business and pleasure have far less of the latter.” 

But then she was passing him a business card (how quaint), offering a name and inviting him up, and he knew that wasn’t going to be a problem.  “Dr. Adrian Thawne,” he returned.  ‘Eobard’ stood out this far in the past, so he’d long ago settled on an alias for coming back to the century of the Flash. He smoothed her business card out in his palm before carefully tucking it into his breast pocket.  “It’d be my pleasure, Miss Jones.”  He took the door handle and stepped inside, holding the door for her politely.