#mcff

She browses his belongings while he’s in the bathroom disposing of the used condom and – the chain flushes and she returns to the bed to wait – using the facilities. 

They tangle up in the sheets and talk and she pries him open, using his nativity and the interested sparkle of her dark eyes as a crowbar. She bumps cold her feet against him, hooks her ankles around his and uses the leverage to roll on top of him. 

She sits on his hips and produces the papers she’d found. 

“Where’d you get that?” He grabs at them and she deflects with a laugh. 

“Oh, I looked around while you were busy,” she says and holds it out of reach, humming as she reads out the message. “Dear Mister Ohmsford,” she reads in a haughty tone. He groans, drags a pillow over his face. “We are extremely sorry to inform you that the application for scholarship of your medical degree at the University of—” She drops to a southern brogue, just poor enough to make him laugh into the pillow. “—Alabama School of Medicine has been rejected by our Scholarship Selection Committee.” She pulls the pillow from his face. “So you’re a doctor.”

“Apparently,” he says, snatching the paper from her hands and tossing it like it’s scrap, “I am not!” He grabs her by the hips, flips them over and lands on top, descending for a kiss which she dodges, putting the flats of her fingers over his lips but wrapping her bare legs around his to hold him in place. 

“How much was it?” she asks and when he looks at her in confusion she slaps him hard on the backside once, eliciting a yip, and says, “The scholarship.” 

“I don’t know,” he says in an attempt to wave it off. When she fixes him with a stern look he sighs. “Enough for the first year of tuition at least.” 

“Which is?” she prompts. 

“I-I don’t know,” he says. “Fifty or sixty-odd thousand, you know.” Another stern look and she watches his defences just crumble before her gaze. “Fifty-seven thousand six hundred and fifty three.” He sighs. “Give or take.” 

He’s like a puppy, she decides, but the kind you screw rather than bringing home from the pound to feed and snuggle. He’s clearly spent a long time staring at the tuition fees to remember the numbers, she doubts he has an eidetic memory. 

“Can I kiss you again yet?” he says. 

“I could earn that in a night,” she says, reaching for where the paper fell and holding it up, waving it like a flag. 

He let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, so you’re a movie star.” 

“Greta Garbo, baby,” she purrs and he tries to kiss her again. She covers his mouth. “I’m no movie star, though they might make one about me one day.” 

He eyes her up. “High class escort?” he says. “Because I don’t have any money.” 

She glances around his dingy apartment, wonders who he shares it with, and looks back at him. “Damn,” she drawls, “I sure know how to pick ‘em.” 

He manages to look mock-offended for a moment. “So what then?” he says. 

She looks him over, long and slow, at his naked body sprawled atop hers. “You’re not an undercover cop or something, are you?” 

“Well, if I was I’d be a terrible one,” he says, and she takes a moment to laugh with him, enjoying a moment of mirth. 

She could still bail, she tells herself. She doesn’t have to take him to her father, she doesn’t have to pull him into a life he’ll never really be free of. She could walk away, be gone like a shot. 

She doesn’t. 

“Ever thought of robbing a bank?” 

He doesn’t take her seriously at first, laughing at her first three attempts to convince him it’s true, and then he does. 

He’s off her like a flash, swinging his legs off the bed and gathering covers into his lap, clearing his throat a few times to shift the nerves that have sprouted there. “You—You’re a—” 

“Bank robber.” Four times. 

“You’re a murderer?” he says. 

She feels offense rise, but it makes sense. “No,” she says. “I’ve never killed someone.” 

“I find that very hard to believe,” he says, like he hasn’t found all of this hard to believe. 

“I can’t prove it to you,” she says, “but I don’t have a reason to lie.” She shifts down the bed towards him and to his credit he doesn’t shy from her. She finds her phone in her pants where she left them and turns it over in her palm. “Let me prove my other claim.” 

He looks at her and that seems to be an agreement, so she thumbs her phone open and opens her bank account, one of the many she has locked away safe and sound. She turns it over to show him and his eyes widen at the numbers. “If you have that much,” he says, “why can’t you just be my scholarship? I’ll pay you back in full when I’m a doctor.” 

“Doesn’t work that way,” she says. “It’s dirty money.”

“Then why do you do it?” he says. “If you can’t spend the money.” 

“For the high,” rolls from her lips uninvited. “Ever been high?” 

He meets her eyes and shakes his head. 

She shrugs, lays back on her elbows and displays her body to him like an invitation. “Feels a lot like taking a stranger home.” He drags his gaze over her and she knows the moment she won. “If you can’t be a doctor, why not try a new profession? One that’ll pay for medical school three times over in a few years.” 

“Thought you said you made that much in a night?” he says, but he licks his lips. She isn’t sure if it’s at her breasts or her offer (maybe both). 

“Money takes time to launder,” she says. She props her body up a little further and looks him over this time. “Plus, it’d be a little silly to drop the haul of a bank robbery the day after you steal it, don’t you think?” 

“I’ve never hurt anyone,” he says. 

“You wouldn’t have to.” She sits up all the way, drops her hands to her lap and meets his eyes, her own serious now. “You’d be the lookout. You’d have a weapon but you wouldn’t have to use it. You’d just follow my lead.” 

“Your group... they’re good?” he says, studying her face like he’s searching for the answers to the questions of the universe. She wishes she could give them to him. 

“The best,” she assures him anyway. 

He licks his lips a few times, tucks his hair behind one ear and she desperately wants to kiss it. “And what do you do?” 

Her eyebrow raises, her eyes sparkle. She lets a smirk play over her lips. “Oh, honey,” she purrs, leaning towards him, “I’m the one that busts the vault.” 

His eyes darken and she’s won. 

*** 

If anyone thinks he’s not cut out for this life, they don’t say anything. 

She leads the way as always. “Are you the human shield or the leader?” Blondie asks and she isn’t sure of the answer so she doesn’t reply. Their masks are already on. 

“Just follow the script,” she says and fires a warning shot that brings everyone’s attention on to her. “This is a robbery! Hands in the air!” 

They’ve been over the plan. For every time Cephalo has told him something she’s told him twice more. She’s not sure why she’s invested in his life continuing beyond this night, but she is. 

The second the gunshot rings out, she sees him freeze. “Position!” she hisses at him and he scampers, like the puppy she already thought he was, and tucks himself to keep an eye on the surroundings. 

The group spreads out – Cephalo taking the lead now, of course – and she follows, casing the place as quick as she can. 

The drill is this: find the vault, find the money, find the safety deposit boxes. Open the door to the boxes first, leave someone else to grab those, then go for the vault. 

Blondie stays outside all the doors and covers her, although if they get caught he’ll be the first to bolt, following a yell from Cephalo. 

It’s happened before. He’s never been afraid to leave her to die. 

She leaves Zora to the boxes and whistles for Blondie. He follows her to the vault. “So uh,” he says, “how do we get into this?” 

She pulls her bag from her back, retrieves small explosives. “This is a Marksman 7200,” she says, “only way in is explosives. You place them just right and—” She mimes an explosion. He stares at her. 

“Isn’t that dangerous?!” 

“Says the guy wearing a clown mask in a bank,” she says and starts placing the explosives. 

He stays quiet the whole time, one eye on her and the other on the bank. If there are alarms going off, she doesn’t know about it and it calms her, just a little. Cephalo is with the hostages, that doesn’t calm her at all. 

She busts the vault open with little in the way of ceremony, but Blondie still lets out a whistle and hisses, “That was cool,” when the smoke clears. 

She’s surprised, but she keeps her head down and calls for the others to collect the money. 

And that’s when the game changes. 

“Rover!” Cephalo bellows. Eretria snaps her head up. They don’t use identifiers unless they have to, and that means something is really, really wrong. 

“Rover?” Blondie hisses. She pushes past him, away from the sound of bags filling with money. 

“What is it?” she snaps at Cephalo, and then she freezes in place. 

He’s holding a woman in his grip, tall and slender with dark hair to her shoulders and large glasses slipping down her nose. Her pencil dress keeps her covered, but leaves little to the imagination, and it’s riding up her thighs. Eretria’s sharp eyes snap to the view and she storms forwards. “What the hell did you do to her?” 

“Relax,” Cephalo drawls and drops the woman with little ceremony. She lets out a cry and Eretria catches her. “I didn’t touch her yet.” 

The woman – no, she’s barely older than a girl, Eretria’s age if ever a day – sobs in confusion and turns her head. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with!” 

“On the contrary,” Cephalo says. “I do.” He holds up a feminine wallet. “We found her out there. Take a look, Blondie. See if you can carry any weight at all.” 

Blondie takes the wallet while Eretria tugs the skirt down the woman’s legs, covering her up. The woman frowns at her in confusion, then looks back at Cephalo and Blondie. 

“Amberle Elessedil,” he says. His nose wrinkles up. “Elessedil? Aren’t they practically royalty?” 

“Mhm, and with royalty comes money,” Cephalo says. 

The woman – Amberle – drops her gaze, suddenly aware of the predicament she finds herself in and Eretria growls at Cephalo. 

“What the hell? We aren’t kidnappers,” she snaps. 

“No, we’re robbers, thieves and murders,” he says. 

“Speak for yourself,” she snarls. 

“You’ll get your boots wet eventually.” He steps towards her and she instinctively shies away. If Blondie notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Put her in the van with the haul. If she gets away? I’ll know who to blame.” 

Eretria cuts her gaze across to Blondie, who’s looking as uncomfortable as she feels, then nods, getting to her feet and dragging Amberle with her. She’s bound lightly, wrists locked at the small of her back with a cable tie, and any fight she attempts is quickly shut down. 

“Are you gonna do something about this?” Blondie hisses as they escort Amberle like produce to the van. 

Eretria fights down the fear in her chest. “No.” 

*** 

It was a lie, of course, but she’s always been one to manage expectations. 

Blondie rides up front, elbow hanging out of the window and a glare set on his face. They’ve swapped vans twice since the heist and Amberle’s spent the whole time transferred from back to back, Eretria’s sleeve wrapped haphazardly around her eyes as a makeshift blindfold. 

“We aren’t kidnappers,” she keeps repeating, she keeps saying it every time they move Amberle again. “Where are we even going to keep her?!” It’s like they’re adopting a stray dog, except she’s not a dog, she’s a beautiful woman with a life and a soul and they’re hurting her, bruises are coming out on her upper arms from Cephalo’s manhandling and her dress is ripped. 

Eretria hasn’t left her side yet and she doesn’t plan to. 

“I hoped you were the leader,” Blondie says. She ignores him. The disappointment in his eyes makes her want to puke. “Guess you were just the meat shield.” 

It’s decided they’ll keep her in the warehouse. Cephalo ties her to a metal chair, puts her in the very centre of the concrete floor where she can’t reach anything to get away. He threatens to break her legs one at a time if she runs and Amberle sneers at him in response. 

Eretria would have snarked something along the lines of, “If you break them, how will you spread them, pig?” but she’s never been the smartest girl in the room. 

“I’m leaving,” Blondie hisses, and Cephalo claps a hand on his shoulder. 

“If you leave, I’ll shoot you between the shoulder blades and leave your body to stink up the place for our hostage’s entertainment,” he says and Eretria believes him. Blondie’s eyes say he does too. 

Cephalo exits, leaving Eretria staring down the woman in the chair, Blondie by her side. 

“I preferred the strategy you used to recruit me,” he says. 

“Who is that?” Amberle says. 

“He’s the new guy,” Eretria says. She slaps his hand when he goes to move the blindfold. “Do you want her to identify us?” 

“I don’t want any of this,” he says. “Meeting you was the worst thing that ever happened to me.” 

It feels like a stab in her chest and she turns to him. “Do you think I planned... th-this?!” She gestures at Amberle. “I didn’t. We don’t take hostages, we don’t kidnap people, let alone high profile city royalty like an Elessedil. I don’t know what he’s thinking.” 

“He’s a sociopath,” Blondie snaps. “He probably isn’t thinking at all.” 

“What’s your name?” Amberle tries. 

“My friends call me Shot,” Eretria spits at her before Blondie can say something stupid. 

“Huh, I guess no one calls you that, then,” Amberle says. 

Eretria wants to hit her. She doesn’t do it. She tenses her jaw and looks back at Blondie. “What do you want from me exactly?” 

“I want you to do something,” he says. “From the way you sold it to me, it sounded like I was joining up with a group you led. That didn’t kill and didn’t kidnap.” 

She snorted, rolled her eyes and looked away. “I don’t call the shots around here,” she says. “That’s my father.” 

“He’s your father?” Amberle says in disgust. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” 

Eretria spins around, storms over and grabs her by the hair, wrenching her back until the chair is precariously balancing on two legs, ready to drop back to the hard floor below. Someone squeals, but she’s pretty sure it isn’t Amberle. “Listen, princess,” she snarls down into her face. “I’m the best damn hope you have of getting out of here alive and—” She flicks her eyes down to the dress, ridden so far up Amberle’s thighs she can see her underwear. “—unscathed. So you better start showing me some damn respect.”

“Rover!” Blondie says. She realises he doesn’t know her name, otherwise he’d call her by it and ruin even more of her pitiful existence. 

“What,” she says, not a question. 

“You’re scaring her,” he says. 

She looks back at Amberle. Her jaw is set and her throat is tight. “No, I’m not,” she says. “She’s not afraid of me.” 

“Okay, well, you’re scaring me,” he says, tone edging into pathetic. 

She resists the urge to release the chair and sets Amberle back where she was instead. The woman pulls at her restraints and Eretria glares at her and then at Blondie.  She stalks over, grabs him by the elbow, tows him away. “I’m going to try and get this sorted,” she says. “Worst case scenario, we keep her alive and untouched until her family pays the ransom and we turn her over. She sees no faces, she hears no names, she gets no information.” Blondie meets her eyes, his own earnest and bordering on desperate. “Best case scenario I get this all shaken out and we let her go, somehow.” She cuts her eyes over to Amberle, then back at Blondie. 

“What do you want me to do?” he says. 

She looks him over a moment. “You look exhausted,” she says. “I want you go to out back and get some sleep.” She pulls a knife from her boot, turns it over and offers him the hilt, clutching the blade in her grip. “Put this under your pillow and if someone tries to hurt you, hurt them first.” 

“Even your father?” He takes the blade. 

“Especially my father,” she snarls. 

*** 

She drags a chair over, places it in front of Amberle’s, and sits, leaning back in it and watching the woman. 

Despite the blindfold, she still feels like she’s in a staring contest. 

“I’m Amberle,” the princess says after a moment. “And you?” 

Eretria snorts, slices an apple she found and puts a piece in her mouth. 

“I like your voice,” Amberle continues. “I heard it all the time when we were in the van. You’re... It’s nice. You don’t sound like the others.” 

Eretria doesn’t speak, so Amberle just keeps talking. 

“So that’s your father?” Amberle lifts her chin. “Must’ve been a tough childhood.” 

She looks across at the princess and considers offering her a piece of apple just to shut her the fuck up. 

“And the other man I heard. He’s new?” When Eretria doesn’t reply she adds, “He doesn’t seem cut out for this kind of life, not like us.” 

Eretria snorts. “Like us, princess?” she says. “And what do you know about tough childhoods?” 

“I’ve been breaking rules since I can remember,” Amberle says. “And getting punished for it just the same.” She lifts her chin further. “I lost my father when I was young and my grandfather raised me. He told me I couldn’t do the things I wanted to do, that girls couldn’t be what I wanted to be.” 

“So what did you do?” Eretria says, curiosity peeking up from wherever she last stowed it away. 

“I did it anyway,” Amberle says. Her lips twitch in amusement. “My father would have been proud, I think.” 

“Must be nice.” Eretria slices more apple. 

“Doing what I want?” 

“Your father being dead.” 

Silence falls and Eretria slices more apple. Amberle finds new words, quicker than Eretria would’ve been able to. 

“However much you think you’ll get for me,” she says, “my grandfather will pay triple that if I ask him nicely. No ransoms, no demands, just me walking up to him and asking him to wire you money.” 

Eretria glances up at her. She stays quiet, but she stops slicing the apple. 

“You don’t have to keep working for him like this,” Amberle says. “I find it hard to believe you like it – him calling the shots, I mean.” 

She doesn’t speak. 

“All you have to do is get us out of here,” Amberle says. “We can take an Uber to my grandfather’s penthouse, and from there he can—” 

“—call the cops,” Eretria finishes for her. 

“Hardly,” Amberle says. “He’d hardly call the police on my saviour.” 

Eretria snorts and slices apple. She stands up and puts the piece to Amberle’s lips and when she shies she snaps, “It’s apple.” 

“I don’t know where your hands have been,” Amberle says and Eretria snorts. 

“Nowhere you’ll ever have the privilege,” she says, and walks across the warehouse to sit where she’s out of earshot for some peace. 

*** 

If Blondie slept badly, he doesn’t say so, but he looks as tired as he did when he left. 

“Did you have to stab my father?” Eretria says, looking up from where she’s thumbing through her phone. 

“Sadly, no,” Blondie says. “How is she?” 

“She needs the bathroom.” Eretria stands up. “I’ll take her.” 

“I appreciate that.” 

Whatever easy comradery they had before this incident seems to be back and Eretria lets out a breath of relief as she unhooks the bindings from the chair. “If you try anything, I don’t let you pee next time.” 

“Noted,” Amberle says and she behaves herself as she goes, Eretria leaning against a wall and not looking at her, even though Amberle has no way to know if she’s looking or not – or if she’s doing anything else. 

She latches her back to the chair and takes a step back. “Hungry? Thirsty?” 

“Are you going to wash your hands?” Amberle says. 

“Haven’t decided yet,” Eretria replies. 

A moment of silence passes and finally Amberle says, “Both.” 

“I’ll get you something.” Eretria leaves without any kind of fanfare and when she comes back, Blondie and Amberle are sitting, quiet. 

He’s doing better at being noncommunicative than she manages, she notes and provides the food. “I’m untying your arms so you can eat,” she says, “but if you try something we both stab you. He has one knife, I have the rest.” 

“Thanks,” Amberle mumbles and tucks into the food like she’s been starving. 

Eretria wonders if she’s ever really experienced hunger before. 

*** 

Cephalo sends the ransom out after a day of Eretria trying to convince him not to. On two four, she brings Amberle a new set of clothes and stands over her while she changes. “I suppose a shower would be too much to ask for,” Amberle says and Eretria answers with a snort. 

On the third day, she realises she hasn’t slept in that long, and although sleeplessness isn’t unfamiliar to her, seventy-two hours of unrest is a bit much even for her. 

“Can you monitor her?” she says and Blondie nods. “Don’t untie her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t do anything.” 

Blondie scowls. “I’ve got this,” he says.

“Don’t let my father be alone with her,” she says. She looks at him for a long, lingering moment. “I’m serious.” She holds a hand out towards him and on her palm is a disposable phone. “My number’s in there. I’m trusting you not to use it for something stupid. If my father—” 

“I’ll call you,” he says. He takes the phone, tucking it into his pocket. 

“Don’t let anyone catch you with that,” she says and leaves. 

*** 

If she sleeps at all, she doesn’t know it.  She tosses and turns, claws pillows closer and shoves them further away, stares at the ceiling until it feels like her eyes bleed and then stares some more. 

When her phone rings, she wants to be surprised. “He locked me out.” 

She’s at the door in a second flat, lockpicks in her shaking hands. “Move!” She shoves Blondie aside and shoves them into the locks. She’s not sure if she’s sure of what she’s hearing, if she’s imagining the sound of a belt unbuckling, but she’s positive she knows the sound of Amberle’s terrified screams for mercy and help. 

The lock clicks and she yanks herself back from it and kicks the door open, storming in and pulling a gun, pointing it at her father. “GET OFF HER!” 

Blondie is right behind her but she’s focused solely on Cephalo and Amberle. Her shirt is ripped and she’s on her back on the floor, still bound by the ankles and wrists. Cephalo’s pants are open, but not all the way. He draws up to his full height, turns slowly with a smirk lingering on his smug face. “What’re you gonna do, kid?” 

She flicks off the safety. “Get away from her.” She gestures with the gun. “Blondie, get her.” 

He skids across but Cephalo intercepts, he grabs him. “Leave her alone,” he says, laughter in his words, “she’s not gonna do anything.” He looks at Blondie and smirks. “You could have a go too, if you wanted.” 

Blondie looks like he’s about to throw up at the mere thought and Eretria steps closer, but only twice. She knows better than to let her gun come within anyone’s reach. “Up against the wall,” she says, gesturing with the gun. Cephalo doesn’t move. Blondie hauls Amberle to her feet, tucks her safe against his body. 

“What?” Cephalo says. “Are you fond of these two? Did they grow on that stone cold heart of yours? Do you want a pet princess for Christmas?” 

Eretria wavers, starkly aware that she has no play here. “I said get against the wall!” 

“Or what?” Cephalo says. “You don’t have it in you to shoot me, although I admire you spunk to point a gun at me to begin with.” He looks across at Blondie and Amberle. “She’s gonna be our big payday, kid. We can run away with that much cash. Start a new life wherever we want.” He looks back at Eretria. “Maybe somewhere in Greece.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” she says and holds the gun steady. 

Quick as a flash he’s grabbed Blondie. Amberle screams, nearly falls when his steady pillar of support is wrenched away. He pulls him to his chest, puts a knife to his throat. “Drop the gun,” he says. 

Blondie lets out a gasp of fear, hands raised, and looks across at Eretria. 

Amberle pulls her blindfold off and blinks hard in the fluorescent light of the warehouse.

“I said drop the gun,” Cephalo repeats. 

Eretria stands her ground, holds it still and pointed at his head. “Drop the knife,” she counters. 

“Kid,” Cephalo says, “he’s never gonna love you, not after all this. Neither of them will.” The knife digs into Blondie’s skin. “I’m doing you a favour.” 

“A favour?!” Eretria snaps. “You’ve never done me one favour my whole life.” The gun wavers in her grip. “All you’ve ever done is take.” 

Cephalo drags Blondie’s head back by his hair. “She’s seen our faces now. She’ll have to die next, but not before we get paid. Drop the gun, kid, before you all have to die.”

Next. 

Blondie’s never going to make it out of this alive, not now. 

Eretria points the gun at Cephalo’s head. “Final warning!” 

The knife cuts into Blondie’s neck, red glinting beneath the silver of the blade, and Eretria fires the gun. 

Cephalo and Blondie both hit the ground. Amberle lets out a scream and scrambles to check on them. 

Eretria stands, frozen in terror. 

“He’s alive!” Amberle screams.

“Yes, I am?!” Blondie says. He has one gloved hand pressed to his throat as he scrambles to his feet with Amberle’s help. It’s bleeding over his hand but it’s a trickle not a gush. Enough that Eretria knows if she’d waited even a second longer he’d be dead. 

She should’ve shot earlier. 

She looks down at Cephalo’s body and then across at Amberle. “You said triple.”

“I-I did,” she says, nodding. 

Eretria lowers her gun and takes a breath. “Looks like I’m calling the shots now, Blondie.” 

“The name’s Wil,” he says, meeting her eyes. “My name is Wil.” 

She hesitates, looking between him and Amberle for a moment. “Eretria.” She puts the gun away. “I’m Eretria.” 

“Let’s get out of here, Eretria,” Amberle suggests. 

“Then we can pick our next move.” 

Eretria looks across at Wil. He thinks all the doors are open now, but she knows better. More are closed than ever before. 

“You two go,” she says after a moment of hesitation. “Amberle will make sure you’re set up for med school. Only my fingerprints are on the gun.” 

Amberle steps forward. “We’re not leaving you,” she says, and Eretria looks at her in confusion. “We’re in this together now. We’re not leaving you alone.” 

She wonders how long that will last, and looks at Wil, who nods his agreement. 

“Then we need a plan,” she says, and steps across, sliding her knife between Amberle’s hands to cut through her bindings. “And a place to bury a body.”

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“We can hardly continue calling you the Temporal Anomaly,” Amaya said. 

“Why not?” The man shrugged and took another sip, then offered the bottle to Sara, where she was sitting just across from him. 

Mick tracked the bottle with his eyes as Sara took it and drank. Ray squeaked a couple of times. 

“It—I mean—” Nate stammered. 

“I like it,” the anomaly stated. “It’s enigmatic. Mysterious. Frightening.” 

“You think Temporal Anomaly is frightening?” Mick said, taking his bottle when Sara offered it to him. 

“Do you think Heatwave is?” the anomaly asked, no hint of malice in his tone. “Are you going to tan everyone to death?” 

Sara tensed, but to her surprise (and his), Mick let out a laugh. “I might just do that.” 

“Then—Then it’s settled,” Ray stammered. “We just call him Temporal Anomaly.” 

“Until we figure out who he is at least,” Sara said, looking across at the anomaly. “Just because we’re letting you stay, that doesn’t mean we trust you.” 

“Noted,” the anomaly said, and sipped Mick’s beer. 

*** 

The only thing that was really off about the anomaly (Sara felt weird calling him that) so far was that she’d noticed things would go missing and then reappear. 

For example, Mick, the one day, couldn’t find his sweater. It seemed like a small thing and she was sure he hadn’t taken it off in 1901 the day before, but he couldn’t find it regardless. 

Next day, it showed up. 

Then Nate’s history book went missing. Mick asked how he could tell, considering how many he’d scrounged back to his room, but it was definitely gone. 

Until it wasn’t. 

The pattern repeated: one of Amaya’s bracelets, Ray’s screwdriver, Steins glasses for a whole day, Jax’s music player, a comb from Sara’s dresser. They all went missing and then reappeared. 

And she knew why. 

Amaya wasn’t trained. Mick wasn’t observant. Ray was oblivious. Stein was distracted. Jax was young. 

Sara, on the other hand, was league of assassins. She had perfected the art of stealth, both in being unseen and seeing the unseen. 

“Gideon, has anything changed with this item?” she asked of her comb, placing it in a scanner. 

“No, Captain Lance,” Gideon said. “It is as it should be.” 

She hadn’t thought it would be different, but it was best to be sure. She liked Barry Allen, but she wasn’t as trusting as the man who kept inviting traitors in for dinner. 

Had her comb and Mick’s sweater and all the other items stayed missing, she’d think that the anomaly was just a thief, stealing for the sake of taking and having, or even trying to hurt them, but nothing precious had been taken (her comb had sat between a photo of Laurel and another of Oliver, next to Laurel’s favourite gold ring, and an arrow necklace with an emerald cut into it that reminded her of Oliver, even if she’d never wear it out) and all the items had been returned to where they’d been taken from within a day or two. 

Which meant he enjoyed the challenge. 

Stealing Stein’s glasses had meant sneaking into his quarters and taking them while he slept. Jax’s music player had been in his pocket. Ray’s screwdriver most likely under his nose. 

Her comb had been in her room, locked tight and inaccessible. 

And yet, he’d acquired it. 

He liked the challenge more than the having, it seemed. He didn’t want her comb or Mick’s sweater, he wanted to know he could take it without anyone knowing what he’d done. 

It was possible returning it was a point of pride too. 

She didn’t say anything to him. She let her combs go missing, an occasional broach be lifted, and kept an eye out for any sign of pickpocketing or theft that could cause damage to her ship or crew, and she bided her time. 

A good opportunity to use what she’d figured out showed up a few weeks later. 

The man who’d killed her sister, the man who’d killed her, and the man Barry Allen had mistakenly thought of as a friend, had teamed up to try and end the world. 

She’d be more concerned if she had much more left to lose. 

But as it was she just had a mission to focus on and this time it was stealing an amulet from a museum before the legion of doom (she hated Nate for that name) could steal it first. 

“I suppose we could rig the alarm system to not go off,” Ray said, wrinkling his brow up. “It’s higher tech than I’m used to though.” 

She looked up from the blueprints displayed on the bridge table and across the room at the anomaly. He looked bored, but he’d also been sneaking peeks at the display the whole time they’d been discussing. 

“You,” she said. “Anomaly.” He looked around, lowering his foot from the seat beside his own. “What would your plan of attack be?” 

It was like she’d put a new battery into him. He bounced out of the chair, a spring in his step, and sauntered across, leaning down on his forearms on the display and taking a moment to take in all the close details. 

When Ray spoke, she raised a hand, shushing him and letting the anomaly she’d grown so fascinated by focus. 

After a few minutes, he pointed at the blueprint. “There’s a flaw in the system,” he said. “The alarm is set up to detect people entering but not exiting.” 

Sara looked across at him. “If we could get in, we wouldn’t have a problem.” 

His lips twitched in an amused smile and he looked back at her. “True,” he said, “but we don’t need to be in to exit.” When no one followed his train of thought, he sighed and swiped his fingers across the displays, pulling up information on the staff. “True, it’s a mostly contained facility and there’s not a lot of traffic, but there is this.” A woman’s face flashed up on the screen. 

“Who is that?” Ray asked. 

“That,” the anomaly said, “is the next person to take a vacation.” 

Sara frowned. “How do you know that?” 

He pulled other documents over, the ones he’d flitted through while she’d watched him study the information. She’d been so preoccupied with the furrow in his brow and the way his blue eyes sparkled, she hadn’t paid much attention to exactly what he was studying. 

A spreadsheet filled the display: named were listed, along with dates and times. The columns weren’t labelled and Sara frowned. “I don’t understand.” 

“It’s a ledger,” the anomaly said and when she looked at him he sighed again and put his finger to the top left cell, moving it along the columns as he labelled them himself. “Name, date of employ, security clearance level – we’re going to need a seven or higher for this – and then after that the date of out of house vacation.” 

“How do you know that’s what those dates are?” Sara asked, frowning. 

“They each start one week before the next,” he said, pointing. “There’s twenty-one members of staff and twenty positions.” 

“So they rotate,” Mick said, leaning against the table. 

“Exactly.” The anomaly leant back. 

“So what do we do?” Sara said. “Swipe her credentials when she leaves and enter with them?” 

The anomaly looked across at her. “Nothing so pedestrian. Plus, do you not think that a guard on vacation re-entering the high-security building might cause alarms?” 

“I suppose it might,” Sara said, more of a drawl to match his than she’d like. “So what do we do instead?” 

“One of us – probably the highly trained assassin who knows how to remain unseen – waits just outside the door and places a wedge to stop the door from closing,” he said. “We’ll have fifty-nine seconds to make it into the house before the alarms sound for the door being open too long.” 

“We can’t just go in there?” Nate said. 

The anomaly looked across at him. “We’re still going to need her credentials to access things within the house.” He gestured at the system. “The alarms aren’t hooked up to detect a card that shouldn’t be in there, because the understanding is that no one can get in with that card anyway.” 

Sara nodded. “So what’s the plan?” 

A moment passed in silence and she let it without complaint, and then the anomaly straightened up. “I’ll wait outside the gates,” he said. “I’ll walk by as she passes, pickpocket the card and meet you at the door. We’ll go in together, use your talents to avoid security within the house, and find the item. Then we leave.” 

She took a moment to look for flaws in the plan, but she had to admit he seemed to know what he was talking about. “Agreed,” she said. “We’ll go tonight.” 

He stepped away from the table. “Do you have thieves’ tools?” he asked. “Lock picks, gloves, things like that?” 

“The fabricator can create those things,” Sara said with a nod. “I’ll show you.” 

She led the way through the ship, the anomaly trailing along in her wake, and when she reached the fabricator she stopped, plugging in the request for objects rather than clothing and gesturing. “Gideon has to know what she’s creating, but after that it’s pretty simple to get what you want. You can program in your own items too.” 

He pondered the display for a moment and she watched as he collected lock picks and a variety of other tools from broken credit cards to small strips of metal and even a razorblade or two. She was sure she should want to take blades off him, but if they were going to trust him on their ship and with their heist, they had to trust him with weapons eventually. 

When he didn’t turn away from the fabricator even when he’d filled a small bag with things he needed and seemed done, she tilted her head. “What is it?” 

“Nothing,” he said, and looked over at her. When she kept her frown firmly in place he sighed. “Just something scratching at the back of my head.” He shrugged. “I’ll figure it out eventually.” 

She nodded and leant against the wall. “So theft.” 

The fractional stiffening of his spine told her what she wanted to know: she’d been right, he was the sneaky thief in the night that kept displacing their stuff, and he knew she knew it now too. “Apparently.” 

“You’re good at it,” she said. “I’m impressed.” 

“I have you know I’m excellent at it,” he said, looking over at her, smirk stuck to his mouth. “At least, I think I am.” A frown passed over his forehead and he shrugged, closing the fabricator and taking a step back. “I suppose we’ll find out tonight.” 

“I suppose we will.” She smiled at him, watching as he headed for the door, then rolled her eyes, noticing a distinct change in a small weight on her body. “Anomaly.” 

He looked around and she held her hand out towards him, palm up.  For a moment, she thought he was going to misunderstand and take it, but then he snorted under his breath and retrieved one of her ceramic knives from the front of his pants, dropping it into her palm. “I would’ve gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for your stupid assassin senses.” 

But with Leonard, it had been different, a different kind of trust. When he held his gun to her she stood her ground, demonstrating implicit and complete trust, the kind he likely didn’t have in himself. 

She trusted he wouldn’t shoot her, whether he knew it or not. 

Had anyone else put a gun to her – Rip, Kendra, even Ray, definitely Mick – she would have fought, prepared to survive or die trying. 

With Leonard, she just stood there. 

Love had never come hard for Sara (harder as she got older, perhaps), she’d loved her high school boyfriend, she’d loved her college girlfriend, she’d loved Oliver, she’d loved Nyssa. It had never been hard to open her heart and accept someone in. 

Trust though, trust had been hard even when she was young, but especially after the island and the League.

Leonard had earned her trust so fast she hadn’t even seen it coming.

And now he was dead. 

He died to save them all, to save Mick, to save her. 

No one would ever know but them. 

She walked the halls, not wanting to change her clothes because they smelled like him (she didn’t love him, but the smell was comforting, it was like he was still with her) and sometimes she’d hear an echo of Gideon telling Rip of the progress of the oculus’ destruction, but mostly it was quiet. 

One by one, everyone went to bed. Rip offered her his sympathy, like he knew there was something more between them than just friendship (not love.) and Ray tried to hug her (she dodged, not wanting to taint the smell of him on her clothing, on her skin. Kendra offered words of empathy, and Sara wondered what it felt like to lose a soulmate you’d fallen in love with (she didn’t love him). 

Stein stayed awake the longest and she found herself sitting by his side while he studied something (she asked what, he replied, she forgot) in quiet contemplation. 

A pack of cards sat on the desk and after a while she found herself shuffling them, dealing sets of ten and then shuffling the pack again, repeating in a loop with no one to play with. 

She looked across at Stein and he was asleep and she sighed, dropping the pack on the desk and standing up. 

He jerked awake. “What—Oh.” 

“Sorry,” she said, gesturing. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“It’s not like you to make any noise at all,” Stein said. “Is everything all right?” 

She looked at him like he was crazy for a second, before it occurred to her that maybe he’d just never seen how close she and Leonard had become. “I just miss him.” It wasn’t like she was the only one. “I’m sorry for waking you.” 

She turned to go and Stein’s voice chased her. “Miss who?” 

She stopped and looked around. “That’s not funny.” His look was blank and she read him like a book: he was confused, not attempting poor humour or being cruel (she was unsure if he had a cruel bone in his body). “Leonard?” 

“Who?” he said. 

Her stomach dropped and she looked at the cards, a buzz of confusion in her head. She’d been shuffling them, but why? 

She fought through fuzz, seeking the answer through a molasses of confusion: Leonard. She’d played cards with him. They’d spent hours in stairwells and on their beds, playing cards, they played— 

She couldn’t remember. 

They played— 

It was a— 

They used— 

It was a card game and she was always beating him by— 

She hit the bridge at a run. “Gideon. Leonard Snart.” 

“Who, Miss Lance?” 

She didn’t have to ask any further questions, she just started running, bolting down the halls until she hit his room and let herself in. 

There was nothing. 

The photo of Lisa was gone, his trinkets were gone, the cold gun she’d put down where he kept it was gone, his parka was gone it was all gone. 

Everything was gone and her memories were going with it bit by bit, she could feel them chipping away at her consciousness and she scratched at them like a cat at a door. Leonard Snart. Blue eyes. They kissed, once, right before he died a hero. They played cards but she couldn’t recall the game no matter how hard she tried. 

She spent too long on that thought, stumbling back to her room and dropping to her bed in exhaustion. She couldn’t stay awake, which made no sense: she had League training, she could stay awake days and not— 

No, she had to focus on the details, she had to hold onto the details. Blue eyes and—what colour was his hair? Blue eyes and—a cold gun. Ice. A parka. She loved that parka. 

Her head hit the pillow although she couldn’t remember when she’d lain down. Her eyes were closing. She didn’t eant them to. She knew if she slept it would all slip away and maybe that was why sleep was claiming her with such determination. 

They played cards and he’d held a gun to her and he’d wanted a future with her but she’d said no, angry he’d ever point a gun at her, but she’d wanted to say yes and she’d shown him that before he died a hero. 

They’d kissed just the once. Just once, right before he’d died. She’d kissed him, she’d shown him she wanted a future too, a future for her and for him and for her and him, that she’d loved him too, loved him back. 

She loved him, she’d loved him, Sara Lance had loved Leonard Snart, she had, she’d loved him, she’d loved him she— 

She’d loved him?