Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CENTRAL CITY.

DECEMBER 8^TH, 2013.

When she was younger, Karen Starr used to think the days leading up to the Christmas holidays were a period of peace. Nothing whatsoever tended to happen during those days; in fact, it got so boring sometimes that Karen played the nearest CD at hand to its loudest. And still, the cops never came. The neighbors didn't call to complain.

She hated it—the silence, that was. Passionately. It always felt like something else—something bad—was waiting out there, biding its time.

So when HR asked in her job interview if she was sure she wanted to work at Central City Police Department—with the probability of missing many holiday-related leaves, as well as dealing with ill-tempered cops, nasty criminals, and the (apparently mandatory) experience of getting shot at least once—she didn’t hesitate to say yes.

Was it a smart choice? Not really. Her adoptive father nearly had a conniption when he found her serving him and the rest of the station a good cup of coffee. He tried to get her to quit when it became apparent that the men (and some women) didn’t respect her at all, going from badmouthing her behind her back to outright ignoring her to her face. Last year had been a particularly trying time, but Karen’s opinion hardly changed. She needed to be useful. To feel it.

Three years later, she still didn’t regret it. Besides, no one could deny she was the only coolhead during December, the worst month of the year. Even now, with the station on the verge of a collective breakdown, she was in her element. She could handle the old-timers’ snarky comments (high school had been brutal training for that), and it didn’t hurt that she was good at letting their attitudes roll right off her. Besides, she had her reports—her way to be as honest or ridiculous as she wanted, since only the captain would see them. And Captain Singh, a true Gothamite, had a sense of humor about it.

But December this year was particularly hard. After the attack on Starling City six or so months back, its strangeness started trickling to Central City. There were a lot of meetings scheduled between mayors; lots or workshops about vigilantes programmed for the CCPD. And then, there was the STAR Labs event that had all but drawn all the crazies to the city.

Central City might not be a major metropolis, but for the past fourteen years, STAR Labs had been its pride and joy, promising breakthroughs that would put the city on the map. But now that the big day had arrived, not everyone was excited.

It started with a strike. It was gentle at first, very quiet. A small group of people holding up signs outside STAR Labs requesting they shut down their particle accelerator. STAR Labs had never responded, so those people migrated to the CCPD. Somewhere along the way, more people joined, and by December 8^th, the outside of the building was inundated by a sea of loud strangers.

Everyone, from Captain Singh to the janitors, struggled to get into the building because if it wasn't the reporters that jumped on them like the goddamn Spanish Inquisition, it was the environmental organizations that guilted them into taking responsibility of the accelerator's presumed damage. Karen shuffled through emails every day from experts explaining the risks of turning the machine on, and though she found them quite alarming, there wasn’t really anything she or any other higher up in the CCPD could do.

One could say then that December of 2013 was... memorable. Thank Rao Karen was good at making herself scarce when the mob made its daily appearance.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t occurred to her they would change tactics the day of the event. Not after months of repetitive infractions and a routine that bordered on ‘predictable’. Imagine her surprise when, arriving five minutes before the beginning of her shift, she found a very angry group of people waving huge signs over their heads and shouting profanities while the beat cops tried to keep them in line.

She was ten minutes late when she finally got to her floor. And the problems just piled up from then onward.

It began with Kristen greeting her with the terrible news that coffee had run out by noon. Then the young girl made an impressive run towards the elevator before Karen could yell at her. That was at 3:00 p.m. The blonde had no choice but buy it herself.

And off she went, running to the nearest convenience store and back. On high heels. It was a cheap brand, but cops never noticed the difference when they drank it black like their enthusiasm.

At 6:00 p.m., Karen got the dispatch call that the Mardon brothers had been spotted on the outskirts of the city. Earlier that day, Captain Singh and a bunch of detectives had gone to a crime scene that had left one vic dead and a trail so obvious everyone believed they would be caught in no time.  After that call, Detectives West and Chyre left.

At 8:00 p.m., the inauguration ceremony at STAR Labs began. Captain Singh got a call from the mayor, and he had to leave the building for the impromptu meeting.

Karen thought, for a bit, that the rest of the night would be uneventful. At 8:47 p.m., she had to reconsider; karma tended to be at work when she least expected it. Barry Allen striding into the station without warning certainly fell into that category.

Allen was supposed to be on leave for some bullshit reason—personal business, he’d told David. Karen had been more than happy to watch him walk out the door without a second thought. Seeing him so soon made her... anxious.

And angry. Let’s not forget that.

But someone somewhere hated her. Not only was Barry back, but Detective Eddie Thawne, the station’s newest hire, was hauling in a cuffed man with a smug grin. Following him was Barry, sporting a fresh bruise, and Iris West, who looked like she was trying not to laugh.

Barry looked embarrassed the moment he got off the elevator, but when Thawne finished explaining with, “Barry was chasing him and got hit,” his face flushed even darker.

Karen’s luck had put all her least favorite people in one place. Yes, this had the terrible beginnings of a past life coming to bite her. 

She tried avoiding them, but it was tricky. Karen had to collect Thawne’s report, which meant going over to the desk beside Detective West’s, where Iris had made herself comfortable, and Barry lingered close by. Karen’s next attempt at escape was hiding in the captain’s office, where she busied herself organizing his files and reports.

Through the glass partition, she saw Iris leave and Barry nowhere in sight. Thawne, however, was still typing his report, looking unexpectedly deflated—a stark contrast to his earlier smugness.

Karen had a guess about the reason. If she were a nicer person, she might warn Thawne about the baggage that came with dating Iris West. But she’d rather let someone else break the news.

Yet karma wasn’t done with her. When she returned to the front desk, she found Barry sitting in her chair, glaring at Eddie with what looked like a personal grudge.

“What the hell are you doing on my chair?”

Barry just frowned at her. Normally, people backed down when she used that tone, but Barry had gotten used to it in the last months. Kristen, at the next desk, watched them with wide eyes, clearly curious about the standoff.

“‘Oh, hi, Barry, it’s nice to see you. Longest three days of my life without you. I missed you,’” he mimicked with exaggerated sweetness. “‘By the way, what happened to your face?’ You know, normal people usually worry about things like that, not”—he gestured around, spinning side to side—“chairs.”

Kristen’s jaw dropped.

“Stop that,” Karen hissed, slapping a stack of files down next to her keyboard.

But Barry only spun a little in the chair, smirking as he watched her get increasingly irritated.

“No—don’t.”

He spun the other way.

“Allen.”

Karen finally put a stop to his antics by sticking her foot between his legs, the red heel just inches from his crotch. He glanced down, eyes lingering on her shoe and then flicking up her leg, his expression faltering.

Kristen coughed, failing to hide a laugh.

“All right, all right, I’ll stop,” Barry said, his voice a little higher than usual.

As her gaze traveled over him, Karen noted the bruise on his cheek, which had darkened considerably since he’d arrived, and a small split on his upper lip. A flicker of concern twisted in her chest, but she brushed it off quickly.

Still, she could feel her irritation wavering. And while she could be a real piece of work, she wasn't unkind. Lowering her foot, she pulled the first-aid kit out from under her desk with her heel. Ignoring the eyes watching them, Karen opened the box and handed Barry an instant cold compress, then pulled out antiseptic and a pack of Q-tips. She cleaned the cut on his lip without a word, Barry matching her silence.

When she felt the office’s attention shift away, she muttered, “I thought about laughing, but I think you’ve had enough for one day.”

Barry startled, and the Q-tip nearly poked him in the nose.

“Stay still,” she snapped, moving closer to avoid another near-miss.

He inhaled sharply, his eyes flicking up, but she kept her focus, finishing up the cut without looking at him.

The injury wasn’t serious—a few swipes would prevent infection, and it would heal soon. But she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was drawing this out. And Barry, unusually, was letting her.

“I thought you were heading to STAR Labs with West’s daughter,” she said before thinking.

He sighed. “I was, but some kid tried to steal Iris’s laptop—”

“Okay,” she cut in, not wanting to hear any more. This was her own masochistic streak rearing up, and Barry knew it. “I know you feel the need to be her guard dog, but at this rate, you’ll break a bone.” She dropped the used supplies into the trash. “If I were you, I’d take a first-aid course. Or a medical workshop.”

To her surprise, Barry said, “Not a bad idea. Actually, there’s one next week—you signed up, right? It’d be good to have a familiar face there after all that happened in Starling.”

Karen narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not how you’re supposed to answer.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You think we’re following a script?”

“You know what I mean.”

Barry stood up, and with her heels, they were almost eye-to-eye. He took a step closer. Instinctively, she took one back.

“Fine,” he said with a small nod. “I’ll go with your lines. Just tonight.”

Karen watched him walk away, her hands clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms.

Kristen scooted her chair over with a kick against the floor, leaning in. “Why,” she dragged out the word, “do you dislike him so much? Everyone likes Barry—he’s so nice!”

“The captain doesn’t like him,” Karen replied flatly.

Kristen tilted her head, looking puzzled. “Um, that’s because he’s your stepdad or something...?”

“Adoptive father,” Karen corrected primly. “And Barry can be a bit of an ass too. You saw it.”

“That’s because you rile him up. He never reacts like that to anyone else—not even the criminals who insult him!”

“If you’re going to turn this into a Barry Allen Defense Speech, spare me.”

That was the highlight of Karen’s night, sadly. At 9:07 p.m., the station fell into a lull. Allen went to his lab while Thawne, after taking his catch to the holding cells, returned to play Solitaire at his desk. There were a few other cops milling, but the majority were out on holiday, crowd control, or at the cafeteria. 

Karen tried distracting herself by opening a tab to watch Doctor Who, continuing where she left off last time. She’d finished the first season of the revival and had been putting off the second one because she’d loved Eccleston. She’d watched David Tennant in the Christmas special, but he hadn’t convinced her, even when she liked him a lot in Broadchurch.

But that wasn’t what was truly on her mind.

It’s his eyes, she thought. Barry Allen had such nice eyes and a warm smile—just not for her anymore. And she was so angry, so guilty. She thought she’d been over it. She’d done well these past months, looking right past him, keeping her distance. She even took his food order when the pit ordered takeout, no longer skipping him out of spite. She’d kept it together.

“Are you okay?”

Her hands were shaking. That wasn’t good. “Can you cover the front a minute? I need the restroom.” She didn’t wait for an answer and headed straight upstairs, ignoring the confused, “But the restroom’s right there.”

Karen made her way to the fourth floor, still under construction to make room for new offices. It was restricted, but she hadn’t cared since the first time she’d accidentally hit the wrong elevator button and overheard Ramirez describing her as the “psychotic woman who cheated on Barry Allen with Dibny.” The words had struck her like a punch to the gut, and she’d ducked out before they could see her crying.

Now, as then, the eerie silence here helped quiet the voices in her head and the memory’s sting.

She entered one of the unfinished offices—a spacious one, probably meant for higher-ups—with a balcony that offered a direct view of STAR Labs and its particle accelerator.

There was a sun tunnel in the roof below her, but she couldn’t spot Barry. Either he’d already left or he was tucked away near the windows, which suited her just fine. The last thing she needed was him looking up and seeing her dangling dangerously from the balcony. They already had enough reasons to dislike each other.

Finally, she had the quiet she needed to breathe.

Tonight, STAR Labs looked like a goddamn light show cutting through the drizzle that had started. Proud and bright in the distance, it resembled a sports stadium with a six-pointed star slapped on its side, the name glowing beside it. Karen knew the spectacle was deliberate; on any normal night, the building stayed inconspicuously dark. Dr. Wells liked to keep a low profile, but an event of this magnitude couldn’t be hidden.

Years ago, David had asked her why she cared so much about STAR Labs. She wasn’t a scientist and hospitals made her queasy. But it was the star which held meaning for her. It was the first clear memory she had of this life. By sheer coincidence—or fate—Karen knew STAR Labs' journey by heart: it had mirrored hers, moving from Metropolis to Central City, and childish as it was, she sometimes found herself looking for that star in the dark to remind herself that she could still walk out of the shadows, should she ever want to.

Wells had spent fifteen years on the particle accelerator. Before STAR Labs, it had been a pet project he’d shared with his wife. By the time she died, they were barely scraping by with small offices in Metropolis and Starling. After her death, Wells had said he carried on to honor her dream, but to do that, he needed a fresh start. He closed those branches, packed up, and rebuilt everything here, from scratch.

They called him an underdog; the media ate up the idea of his naïve persistence. Karen, however, didn’t see it as naivete. Stubbornness, ambition—Wells knew exactly what he was doing. So watching it now was a little bittersweet. Even if Karen’s best friend claimed it was a disaster waiting to happen, she hoped it didn’t.

The building’s white and blue lights suddenly changed to yellow. They darkened to a burned orange that was reminiscent of the sun.

Then, the entire city started flickering.

“What the—?”

A column of energy burst through the STAR Labs roof, drowning the skies in a thick, red fog. It spread quickly, overtaking the storm overhead. To Karen’s shock, she could see the same energy enveloping the building before it imploded outwards, sending a wave of red and orange that razed Central City.

She could hear the sound of glass breaking grow closer. Karen jumped from her seat, backing from the window as the lights of the buildings went out one by one.

Karen braced herself to be pushed back by that same energy. She watched, horrified, as her hands glimmered blue in the dark room, her skin tingling.

That was when lightning struck.

The strength of it knocked her back into the room, her body hitting the door and breaking its frosted window; glass crashed around her and she couldn't see anything beyond the blinding light nor hear beyond her own racing heart.

She rested there for a while, waiting for the lightning to strike her this time. It never came.

Biting back a whimper, Karen rose on her elbows. She searched blindly around her, glass digging into her palms. The pain of that did not compare to the one coming from her now racing heart; it felt like the organ had been prodded savagely with a thousand needles.

Karen tried not to panic, but the abrupt way in which the city came alive didn't help. Cars beeped ceaselessly; sirens wailed close and distantly; voices spoke in her ear with no sign of stopping, pained cries joining in the chorus. Not even covering her ears could stop the oncoming onslaught of life and death and catastrophe.

Tears ran down her cheeks—and those weren't normal tears, were they? She saw her reflection on one of the glass shards; there were two glowing tracks on her face, bright blue. Unable to stand the sight, she stood abruptly.

Hands shaking, she leaned her weight on the railing, peering down. The roof of Barry’s lab was destroyed.

“Barry?” Her voice was swallowed by the storm. She yelled this time. “Barry!”

She heard something break. Holding onto her blazer, she hurried back down, driven by dread.

The scene in the forensic lab stopped her cold. The emergency lights had kicked in, and it bathed the room in dark red. Everything glass had shattered—windows, microscopes, test tubes, pipettes—all coated in a slurry of pink, yellow, and green chemicals.

Through the debris, she saw the familiar tip of a Converse sneaker poking out from beneath an overturned metal stand.

"Barry!" She ran to his side; glass crunched under her feet. Karen walked around the stand until she found his face, bloody and puffy and strangely serene considering the circumstances. She called for his name again, but he didn't react.

Desperation fueled her as she grabbed the metal frame with both hands and heaved, straining until her face flushed and her feet dug into the floor. With a loud crash, the stand rolled over, smashing a table. She didn’t care. Immediately, she crouched beside him and checked for a pulse, her fingers numb from the shocks of residual static.

His heartbeat was there—weak, but racing just as frantically as her own. She gently lowered his arm, noticing the branching, lightning-like scar that started at his jaw and disappeared beneath his collar, reappearing at his chest where his clothes had burned holes.

"I'm going for help," she declared uselessly. "Don't die on me, Allen. Please."

She chucked her heels at the entrance and set off.

Down in the pit, chaos reigned. Phones rang off the hook. Officers scrambled from desk to desk, barking into receivers, shouting across the room. The air buzzed with overlapping voices, the static of radios, the sharp clatter of keyboards. Karen spotted Singh—sweat-slicked, back on the floor—leading a squad toward the elevators. He gestured sharply, barking orders that barely cut through the noise.

She opened her mouth to call out, but the elevators dinged shut before she could find her voice.

"Starr! Where have you been? The phones have been ringing like crazy!"

She turned, her vision swimming as she registered the face before her: blue eyes, blond hair. Gripping his arm, she managed to stammer, “Help, please—Barry, in his lab—lightning—”

"Karen, I need you to breathe," said Eddie Thawne. "Jesus, you're hurt. You need to sit down—"

She shook her head. "Barry, he's—"

"Where's Allen? What happened to him?"

Karen took a deep breath. "A lightning bolt struck him. He... he's not responding."

"Okay." Eddie steered her to her chair and sat her down. "I'm going to call the paramedics. But I need you to see if the emergency team is available so they can check on him first. Can you do that for me?"

She stared at him, then nodded slowly.

"Okay." He picked up her phone and offered it to her. She took it and raised it to her ear as Eddie dialed for the line. Karen spoke to the person in charge, watching as Eddie reached for his phone and called 911. They weren't available and she told Eddie so. Once he hung up, he turned to her and said, "I'm going to keep Allen company while the paramedics are on their way. When they arrive, I need you to take them to us."

"I'll take them to you," she repeated.

"Yeah." He ran a hand down his stubble, grimacing. "You don't happen to know Iris' number, do you?"

Karen dutifully recited the phone number and, for good measure, mentioned Joe West's too. She was still saying the numbers after Eddie left, stopping only when the paramedics arrived. Their stark vests brought her out of her reverie, and she jumped to her feet to greet them.

"He's upstairs."

The man in lead questioned her on the way, asking what she saw and what she did. While it hadn't been long since it happened, the details were lost on her and Karen found herself stumbling over her speech. The paramedic patiently asked question after question before reaching Barry's lab.

Karen stopped short of reaching the entrance as Eddie stood to greet the men. She watched as they prepared the stretcher and lowered Barry into it and, once secured, the paramedics hastily took off with him—except for one.

Much like Eddie, the dark-skinned paramedic sought to steer her to the closest chair, but Karen seized her wrist and looked into her eyes.

“I... I don’t feel well,” she murmured, her voice faint. Her vision swam, and her grip loosened as she slumped into the woman’s arms, the distant shouts and blurred faces around her fading to silence.

Then everything went dark, swallowing her whole.

Chapter Text

The cacophony jolted her awake.

Karen slapped a hand to one ear, but the buzzing only worsened, intensifying into a maddening, layered echo—a symphony of scratching, clashing chains, and shrill whistles. Each sound sharpened as it split into distinguishable noises: whispered obscenities, machines humming and beeping, footsteps pounding in rhythm. It was overwhelming, as if every sound in the world had funneled straight into her head.

She fought to lift her other hand. The tingling rush of blood told her it hadn't moved in a while, and she moaned at the effort. Her eyelids felt glued shut. Even so, she could sense something about her surroundings.

Judging by the voices using familiar jargon, she guessed she was in a hospital. But if it was a high-end facility, it certainly didn’t feel like one—the linens scratched at her skin, though the pillow was softer, albeit with a faint, unpleasant smell.

Another sound broke through: slow, deliberate footsteps. Then a door screeched open, a noise so piercing it made her flinch. She managed to lift her right hand, though it fell nowhere near her ear.

“Who's there?” she croaked.

There was a pause, then a deep, familiar sigh.

“Remember your acting days?” a tired male voice asked. “I always thought you should play Disney princesses instead of those tragic roles. What I wouldn’t give to see you do Ophelia instead of Sleeping Beauty.”

A smile tugged at her lips. She reached out blindly until she found his hand, the familiar calluses grounding her. He squeezed her fingers, steady and warm.

“I don’t feel beautiful at all,” she whispered. “And you know I’m terrible at sleeping.” She cleared her throat, which felt like sandpaper.

“Here.” Something pressed gently against her lips—a straw. She inhaled deeply, drinking greedily.

“Well, you might not struggle with sleep anymore. Three months definitely beats four hours a night, right?”

The words struck her like a jolt. It was as if someone flipped a switch, and every sound suddenly cut off.

Her eyes flew open, taking in a wash of blue, yellow, and white—and a single dark shape standing out.

“What? No, I was… I—Allen.” Images rushed back: the lightning bolt, the lab in ruins, Barry buried beneath fallen shelves, the floor slick with colored liquid. “What happened to Allen? Is he…?”

“He’s alive. But not much better off than you. He’s in a coma,” David said, his voice lowering. “Joe’s having him transferred to STAR Labs.”

David Singh looked like hell. His usually sharp suit was crumpled, his five o’clock shadow had grown into a thick beard, and his eyes bore heavy shadows. She could only imagine the fit Rob must have thrown, seeing him like this, unwilling to look remotely put-together.

“What happened to me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

David sighed. “You collapsed after they took Allen away. Since then, you’ve had a relentless fever. You’re awake now, but it still hasn’t broken.” He gestured above her head, and she slid down slightly to glimpse the monitors on the wall. More advanced than a standard heart monitor but less sleek than a tablet, the three screens displayed detailed scans of her body, charts and numbers crowding the edges of a human-shaped graph.

David was right. The stats were off the charts, but nothing suggested a miracle—at least, not one she wanted to be a part of.

“The doctors are stumped, but they’re drowning in cases and running on fumes at this point.” He leaned closer, his tone quiet but piercing. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on. I was a detective, Karen. Whatever they did to you... the procedure... it worked, didn’t it?”

She didn’t meet his gaze, too focused on the steady climb of her heartbeat displayed on the monitor.

“It’s always worked,” she murmured.

“Not like this. This goes way beyond a simple heart transplant.”

Karen pressed her lips together, looking over the equipment. “How did you get all this?” she asked. It looked too sophisticated, like something out of a sci-fi movie.

“STAR Labs generously loaned their ‘toys,’” he replied with a snort. “It’s the least they could do after nearly blowing up the city.”

If anyone asked her, Starling’s Undertaking had been far worse than a citywide power outage. But something in his eyes kept her silent. David had seen his share of horrors over the years, images that lingered in dreams. In all the years she’d known him, only a handful of times had she seen this look overtake him completely. This time, it seemed worse, and there was no telling how long it had haunted him.

A knot tightened in her stomach. The particle accelerator failure... this was its doing. Now Barry lay in a coma, David was reliving ghosts, and she was left like this, teetering on the edge of something unknown. She’d spent years convinced that she was safe, that nothing was wrong with her. Years of silence—only for everything to change now.

She looked down at her skin. No hint of blue. No ghastly green glow like she’d feared. She would take these small mercies, for whatever they were worth.

David’s chair squeaked as he stood. “Rest. You’re still in no condition to keep talking.”

“But what will I do if I have nothing to gossip about?” she teased.

Still, she closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow... for the noise to fade away...

The darkness was a constant companion.

In the following days—or was it weeks?—Karen drifted in and out of consciousness, her sense of time slipping like sand through her fingers. Each time she surfaced, the world was a cacophony of sounds and sensations. Voices overlapped in her ears—doctors discussing patients, nurses hurriedly exchanging information, the distant wail of sirens.

Once, she awoke to the soft hum of a heart monitor, its steady beep both comforting and maddening. Her eyes fluttered open just enough to see the blurred silhouette of someone sitting beside her.

"Ma?" she whispered, her throat dry and scratchy.

"It's me," came Mattie’s gentle reply. "You gave us quite a scare."

She wanted to ask about Barry, about the lab, but the effort was too much. Sleep pulled her under again before she could form the words.

Another time, she woke to the sensation of cool fingers brushing her forehead.

"You're burning up," a familiar voice murmured. Rob, David's partner. He sounded worried, his usually cheerful tone subdued.

She tried to smile, to reassure him, but her muscles wouldn't cooperate.

In her dreams, she relived the moment of the explosion—the sky splitting open, lightning arcing toward the ground, Barry's lab engulfed in a blinding flash. But there were other images too, stranger ones: a world bathed in red light, shadowy figures moving at impossible speeds, whispers that seemed to come from inside her own head.

Sleeping was far preferable to waking. Whenever she surfaced, there was always someone at her bedside—David, Mattie, or Rob—and every now and then, she would call them by the wrong names. Their reactions were always the same: a flash of panic, and then they’d hurriedly fetch a nurse.

She hated it. She hated bringing old ghosts back with her. David's constant worry had always been a shadow over their present, but seeing it darken with each slip of her memory made her feel worse. Each time she saw Dr. Spears in her mind, she forced herself to remember: that woman was six feet under on the other side of the world.

Without her realizing, six weeks passed. On the first day of her fifth month in the hospital, she woke to blissful silence. Her limbs didn’t ache, her fever was gone, and for the first time, she felt truly awake.

It was almost too good to be real.

Carefully, she sat up, then stood, maneuvering the IV cannula around her legs. She rolled the balls of her feet on the floor, testing her balance, and then lifted each leg in a slow march. She was savoring the movement, caught up in the sensation of simply being able to stretch without pain.

But something was different.

She paused, glancing around the room. The colors seemed sharper, the edges of objects more defined. She could hear the soft hum of electricity coursing through the walls, the distant footsteps of hospital staff several rooms away. Her senses... they were heightened.

(No. That's not true)

But there was no denying it—when Karen pulled the needle from her arm, there wasn’t a single trace of blood. Still half-delirious (or so she told herself) and more than a little incredulous, she let herself tip forward toward the floor. Her hands caught the impact just in time. She stayed there, suspended on trembling arms, holding her weight for a moment… then began to push.

That's how David found her, finishing a round of ten push-ups. When she noticed him, his expression was swinging from shock to exasperation. He peeked into the hall behind him before quickly shutting the door.  

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Didn’t feel like it." She tentatively stopped using one hand and tried to do a push-up with the other. She did it four times before her arm started trembling. "I feel fine," she said, a little disbelieving. A scent caught her attention and she inhaled deeply. “Did you have Big Belly Burger? Rob’s going to love that.”

David sighed, dry as ever. “I think he’d be more concerned about you training for a marathon right now.”

Karen finally sat back, crossing her legs as David crouched down with a grunt. She heard his back complain.

“I’m not kidding,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Yesterday, I felt terrible, but today... it’s like it never happened. No pain, no headache, and I can’t hear anything except my own stomach.” She gave a small smile. “It’s over, David. I’m really okay.”

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. “You sure?”

She nodded. “Positive.”

Without warning, David pulled her into a tight embrace. She melted into it, leaning into his warmth, deciding she’d save the teasing about his teary eyes for another day. Some moments were best left untouched.

But even as she hugged him back, a flicker of unease settled in her chest. 

Even as a teenager, Karen knew moving from city to city wasn’t common. But that was the lie she and David stuck to, and it shaped her high school years.

Her memories of Midvale were often tinged with bitterness; the people there, no matter how much they tried, couldn’t hide their pity. Part of the scheme David had come up with was to keep some of the truth in it: she was a memoryless orphan whose social skills were left stunted, but whose intelligence more than made up for that. Unfortunately, her peers were quick to remind her that wasn’t normal either. “She may as well have come from another planet,” they’d say, and Karen knew they meant it. They were glad to see her go when she left, and honestly, she’d felt the same.

One person, however, stuck to her like the plague. Karen had yet to decide if that was a good thing.

Mattie Harcourt was her opposite in every sense: from her appearance to her personality, to their choice of careers (and opinions, always opinions). It was almost a mystery how they’d remained such close friends for so long. Mattie often joked that their friendship was “steel,” but Karen was sincerely amazed by how much Mattie gave without expecting anything back. Karen had so little to offer: no fancy job, no emotional support of the type Mattie needed—and yet, in almost fifteen years of friendship, Mattie had never once brought it up.

She wanted to ask her how she did it. How she coped with the silence and the loneliness while Karen recovered. But she didn’t want to break her focus... and the easy rhythm they had fallen back on. Instead, Karen let Mattie drown the other sounds that had been rattling in her head for days.

"And then I told Vicky, ‘No, not until you get your ass to the Gotham Gazette.’ I mean, you and I know she’s worked hard to get where she is at the Daily Planet, but she’s not going to get anywhere there. It’s boring."

“Nice of you to call one of the biggest news organizations in the world ‘boring.’”

“You know what I mean. An offer from Vesper Fairchild is a once-in-a-lifetime thing!” Mattie glanced at the door and clicked it shut. “Okay, your dad’s left. Now, what’s this I hear about you sneaking into STAR Labs?” She gave Karen a scolding glare.

“You heard about that?” Karen replied, slightly breathless as she wriggled into the jeans Mattie handed her. She couldn’t remember the last time she wore a pair—dresses and skirts were her norm, even in winter.

“Sweetie, I think the whole city heard about it,” Mattie said dryly. It had taken all of David’s restraint not to shake her senseless with worry when he’d found out, though he hadn’t held back on the shouting. “And he has a point. That place might be radioactive or something.”

“You just don’t want me near Barry.”

Mattie didn’t deny it. She’d despised him since Karen’s last hospital visit.

“Karen, you just got out of bed four hours ago. And now you’re rushing off to see Barry Allen, of all people!”

“You weren’t there, Mattie,” Karen snapped. “You didn’t see the lightning strike him. I did. And he had this weird scar... it was running all over him.”

“Lichtenberg figure. It looked like a branch, right? They appear on the skin when someone’s struck by lightning, but they’re usually gone in twenty-four hours. It's normal.”

“I just want to know if he’s okay. I need to see it with my own eyes.”

She didn’t look at Mattie as she said this. And she still didn’t when Mattie replied, bitterly, “I can't believe you still care about him.”

“I don’t know what I feel.” Lie. “But I’m gonna go. Whether you or David it like it or not.”

She finished tying her shoes and looked up. Mattie’s glare had softened to something reluctant and petulant. 

“Fine. But at least try to blend in.”

She handed her a gray hoodie.

“Thanks.”

“Told you those shoes would fit.” Mattie pulled out a black cap, settling it firmly on Karen’s head and tucking her hair behind her ears. After a quick inspection, she remarked, “It always amazes me how makeup changes your face... Wow.”

Karen caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror: a soft-featured woman with wild curls and eyes that were a deep, oceanic green-blue. An effect of the contact lenses. When she smiled, faint laugh lines framed her mouth.

“That’s the point.”

She rarely lingered on her reflection. When she applied makeup, she had an idea in mind—a persona, almost. But the real person behind that mask remained elusive. Lately, though, every time she looked at herself, she felt a disconnect, as if the face staring back wasn't entirely hers.

Shaking off the thought, she grabbed her bag. “Ready?”

Mattie raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Karen hesitated. In truth, she wasn't sure. But the need to see Barry safe outweighed her doubts.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “Let’s go.”

STAR Labs looked different since Karen’s last visit. A new fence now surrounded the facility, reaching as high as a semi-truck trailer and stretching to cover not just the lab’s block but the adjacent one and a parking lot. If the lab hadn’t been right by the ocean, she was certain the fence would’ve extended even further.

“You think it’s electrified?” she asked Mattie.

“I wouldn’t put it past Harrison Wells.” Mattie adjusted her cap to shield her face. Disapproval simmered quietly from her; Karen told her she didn’t need to come along, but the girl had insisted.

Now that they were standing in front of STAR Labs, Karen saw what the news reports hadn’t shown. The building’s white paint had faded to a dull gray, and every window was shattered, save for a few at the top. From their vantage point, they could see that all four towers were scorched black, with one missing a substantial chunk of material.

The fact that the structure still stood at all felt miraculous.

Karen counted silently. One. Two. Three cameras along the top of the fence, their movements alternating in a slow, methodical sweep of the area.

Mattie’s voice broke her concentration. “You’re not actually thinking about breaking in, are you?” When Karen didn’t answer, she added dryly, “So, you’re leaving me out here. In the open. Where anyone can see and possibly kidnap me.”

“We’re in plain view of at least eight cameras,” Karen replied calmly, gesturing around. “No one would be that stupid.”

Mattie snorted. “Maybe, but the lab did almost blow up the whole city.”

Karen backed away from the fence, keeping her eye on the cameras’ rotation.

“How strong are your arms?” she asked suddenly.

“Karen, no.”

Karen just raised her eyebrows.

Mattie sighed dramatically. “Well, unlike some people, I go to my Zumba classes, so I have built some strength.”

“Think you’re strong enough to give me a boost?”

Her friend blew a raspberry. “This is usually a two-job person, you know.” Mattie knelt, placing her hands together as she knelt on the floor.

“Apologies for the dirt.

As the cameras swung toward the street, Karen sprinted, using Mattie’s back as leverage. With Mattie’s push, she vaulted up and over the fence, landing gracefully on the other side.

She turned around to see Mattie clapping a hand over her back, trying to get rid of whatever mark Karen left.

“I see you remember your gym lessons.”

Karen grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re still angry Ms. Cortez gave you a ‘C’?” Then, feeling bolder, she touched the fence.

It wasn’t electrified. And there weren’t any spikes or barbed wires. Either Harrison Wells was supremely overconfident or assumed no one would dare to test his security.

“You’ve got your phone?” Mattie asked.

She waved her cell. “I’ll call you when I’m in.”

Karen started to jog but heard her friend call after her, “In the building, or a holding cell?”

Inside S.T.A.R. Labs, a dark room flickered to life, casting a soft, eerie glow over walls etched with Braille patterns. At the far end, a pillar pulsed, projecting a holographic screen that illuminated the shadows.

On the screen, Karen’s figure was tracked as she approached the building. Data bubbles appeared around her image: height, weight, hair color, probable ethnicity, even the brand of her clothing. Yet, each time the system tried to lock onto her face, it stalled, the screen flashing a steady, red ERROR.

A pair of blue eyes watched with sharp interest.

“Shall I activate the facility’s alarms, Dr. Wells?” a calm, synthesized voice asked.

A finger tapped thoughtfully against the armrest of the wheelchair.

“No, Gideon,” he replied. “Let’s see what our uninvited guest has planned.”

Before the particle accelerator explosion, Harrison Wells would occasionally give tours of STAR Labs, though he was known for being choosy about it and often grumbled that the tours raised the CCU board’s hopes of finally luring him into their faculty. Karen had jumped at the chance, spending three months’ worth of her salary on a ticket, which left her savings alarmingly low. But she’d never regretted it; the experience had been worth every cent and even inspired her to pursue a degree in Computer Science over Business Management, the latter eventually working its way back as a minor. Looking back, she was grateful for that decision.

Now, as she made her way into the facility, she regretted not coming back for a second tour. Less than a year had passed, but the place looked drastically different, as if renovations had started the day after her last visit. She could only hope the layout hadn’t changed too much.

Hesitantly, she stepped into the elevator, bracing herself for the possibility of being stopped on her way to see Barry. How many people would she run into? Mattie had mentioned that only Wells and a woman—possibly a doctor—had been present to oversee Barry’s transfer. She might encounter either one of them, or even Iris, for that matter. She tried to steel herself for anything.

As the elevator ascended, she felt a sudden spike of anxiety. Her instincts were screaming at her to turn back, to leave before it was too late. But she pushed the feeling aside. Her instincts had been unreliable lately, fluctuating wildly since she'd woken up.

When the doors opened, she found herself in a circular room with a single corridor leading forward. This must be the Cortex floor, where the scientists mainly operated, if she remembered correctly. She guessed that most of the facility’s specialized labs started on the upper floors. Hopefully, this was where Barry was being kept.

Her hunch was correct. A few steps down the hall, she spotted an opening to her left. Inside the wide, circular room, various medical stations were set up, each with monitors displaying a wealth of information, like the setup she’d had in the hospital, but on a much grander scale.

Beyond the console, among the equipment, Barry lay motionless on a narrow hospital bed. His chest rose and fell slowly, as though even breathing required effort. The heart monitor beside him displayed concerning activity, though his vitals were there—just faster than they should be.

Seeing him like this made her chest tighten. Memories flooded back: late-night conversations, his laughter at her sarcastic remarks, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about science. There was no denying it now: despite everything that had happened between them, she still cared deeply.

She approached cautiously, mindful of any alarms and afraid to disturb him.

There was no chart nearby to check on his status and the data on the monitors was hard to understand. But why were his breathing patterns so erratic? Was there any brain activity? Tissue damage, internal bleeding? And the scar—where had it gone? She ran her finger lightly from his neck down his collarbone, stopping at his chest, where she’d seen the Lichtenberg figure before. It was gone, like it had never been there.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step back, miss.”

She turned sharply, instinctively positioning herself between Barry and the speaker. In the entrance, a man sat in a wheelchair, aiming a gun at her with a calm but disconcerting smile.

“Dr. Wells?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He chuckled, lowering the gun slightly but still pointing it in her direction.

“A precaution,” he said smoothly. “One of my facilities was recently raided by, as my staff described, a man with ‘super strength.’” He let out a short, dry laugh. “Sounds absurd, I know. But it never hurts to be prepared.”

There was amusement in his eyes, but she wasn’t fooled. She shifted slightly, and he tracked her every move.

Her instincts screamed danger. She felt a sudden urge to flee, but her feet remained rooted.

“Now,” he continued, his tone pleasant, “why don’t you tell me who you are and why you’re here? Let’s avoid an unfortunate situation.”

Karen lifted her cap just enough to reveal her face, feigning a hint of embarrassment. “My name’s Ellie Leeds,” she said, slipping in a light Southern drawl. “I’m a friend of Barry’s. When I heard about what happened, I just wanted to see him myself. Joe said I couldn’t, but...” She shrugged, glancing around the room. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t experimenting on him or anything. After the explosion, this place must be radioactive.”

Wells burst into laughter, clutching his stomach as though her story were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. She held her expression neutral, masking her irritation. 

“Miss Leeds,” he finally said, his tone still dripping with amusement, “I assure you, Mr. Allen is in excellent hands. My team and I are doing everything possible to provide him with the best care. Unfortunately, S.T.A.R. Labs hasn’t yet cracked the code for curing comas.” His sarcasm was unmistakable.

She knew he didn’t believe her story, but she didn’t care. “Better get working on that,” she replied coolly. “The city might even forgive you if you did.”

His flat smile returned, his eyes glinting as he raised the gun slightly again.

“I think it’s time you left,” he said. “Don’t worry—I won’t mention your little visit to Detective West.”

Karen threw one last glance at Barry, cursing him silently for sleeping through her standoff with Wells. She turned to leave... a chill running down her spine.

Wells again. His eyes, she believed. There was something about him that set every nerve on edge. Was it gut instinct, or just the strain catching up with her?

She walked out, back straight, never looking back.

Wells opened the gates for her. Karen could see Mattie looking at her nervously, but she smoothly linked her arm through hers and said, from the corner of her mouth, “Don’t talk. We’re going to Bobbie’s.”

Mattie didn’t argue. She let Karen drive them around the city in silence, making occasional comments about pedestrians but saying nothing about Wells—not until they finally returned the car to Jax.

While the teenager checked it, Mattie turned to Karen expectantly.

“It’s been a while since we pulled that stunt.” She meant the fact that Karen went in circles around certain blocks and took the long way back. “What’s going on?”

“Who authorized Barry’s release?”

Mattie frowned. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Mattie.”

She sighed. “His foster dad did.”

“And he just handed him over to Wells?” That couldn’t be right. Joe West was just as paranoid as Karen—he didn’t trust anyone.

Mattie leaned against the car, arms crossed. “Well, I can’t blame him. Allen kept flatlining all the time, so when Dr. Wells told him he had the machinery to keep him breathing right, he signed right away.”

“Did he offer his help to anyone else?”

“He did. Even to you, but David was dead set against it. The other patients wouldn’t trust him either.”

Karen rubbed her face, leaving her hand at her mouth. She was quiet for a moment.

“There’s something wrong with that man.”

Mattie shifted. “Wrong how?”

Karen trusted Mattie. Perhaps not as much as she did David, but each of them knew different secrets about her. So she decided to admit this to her rather than her adoptive father; David would’ve heard her out, sure—right before ordering her ass back to Gotham.

Karen didn’t want to step foot on Gotham again, not while she could help it.

“I used to have these feelings before. About people. Whether they were trustworthy or not. And I was never wrong.” Karen exhaled. “I think I’ve gotten back that... ability.”

Mattie nodded slowly. “Alright... so you’re saying you don’t trust Wells?”

“Yeah.”

The woman nodded again. “Alright. And how different is this feeling from the usual gut instinct?”

Karen dared to look at her face. Mattie seemed a little skeptical.

She couldn’t blame her. Karen’s instincts in the last five years had failed her a lot.

No—her instincts hadn’t. She had, for trusting her traitorous heart. For selfishly wanting things that weren’t within her reach. And the consequence was a bullet that nearly undid years of survival.

All for the measly wish to be normal, just once.

The heebie jeebies Wells gave her reminded her she wasn’t.

“Call it my more... animalistic sense. It’s pretty accurate.”

Mattie placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing briefly before retracting it.

“Then we’ll keep an eye on him.” She scowled a little. “And Barry Allen, apparently.”

Karen laughed a little. “Don’t worry, that’ll be my job. Thank you. For trusting me.”

She never forgot to say this. And Mattie never failed to reply with, “Always.”

Leaning back in his chair, Harrison Wells watched the security feed sharply. Very little surprised him these days—history, after all, had a way of rendering events predictable, and people even more so after years of observation. Still, this girl, “Ellie Leeds,” had caught him off guard. He’d anticipated variables in his plan, unique elements in this timeline, but she had never appeared in any of his possible scenarios.

When he’d begun his fifteen-year-long journey, he’d compiled a list of people to monitor. Hal Jordan, for example, had initially been a threat he’d accounted for, yet the man never crossed paths with Barry Allen in this reality. Ralph Dibny had briefly presented a concern, but Barry himself dealt with that problem. Meanwhile, Frank Curtis and Julio Mendez followed paths that diverged from those they had in the original timeline. With the exception of the Green Arrow and Black Canary, not a single known member of the Justice League had made a public appearance, but Harrison still followed the rumors about the others meticulously. 

Then there was Gideon. In the early days, he’d questioned whether hacking the A.I. would even work. But she followed his every command, responding precisely to his whims. Yet now, Gideon’s inability to identify this girl—her systems even threatening to overload with further analysis—worried him. Not much, but enough to unnerve him.

"Gideon," he ordered, "analyze her companion."

The screen flickered as data processed, and a photograph appeared.

"Dr. Mathilda Harcourt, born November 2nd, 1986, in Metropolis, New York, to Peter Harcourt and Griselda Frank. She has one sibling, Paul Harcourt, born in 1993, deceased in 2012. Harcourt married reporter Wendell 'Cutter' Sharpe in 2024. Both died in the Xenon attack of 2033. They had no children."

A new image popped up next to the details: a demonic-looking figure wearing golden armor and a long red cape.

Harrison whistled softly. "That must’ve hurt. Now, what’s her story in the current timeline?”

“In 1999, Matilda Harcourt lost her parents in a car accident. She and Paul Harcourt were placed in the foster care of Suzanne and Gabriel Johnson in 2005. Paul subsequently adopted their surname and is currently enrolled at Metropolis University, pursuing a degree in Arts. Mathilda is completing her medical residency at Central City Hospital.”

“She didn’t stray far, did she? Search through her file—find any relation to Ellie Leeds, starting from face recognition in pictures.”

"Unable to identify. Facial recognition software is unable to match her to any known individual in the database. All attempts result in error."

He frowned. "That's impossible. Cross-reference with global records, birth certificates, social media, everything."

"All records yield no match, Dr. Wells."

He tapped his fingers against the armrest, deep in thought. An anomaly. He didn't like anomalies.

"Begin monitoring Dr. Harcourt closely. If her friend shows up again, alert me immediately."

"Understood."

Gideon’s physical projection faded, leaving him alone in darkness.

“Well,” he muttered, wheeling himself out of the room, “this just complicates things.”

He needed to know who this woman was and why she was so interested in Barry Allen. More importantly, why couldn't Gideon identify her?

A new variable in his carefully constructed plan could spell disaster. He would have to keep a close eye on her, perhaps even manipulate circumstances to learn more.

After all, knowledge was power, and Harrison Wells intended to remain the most powerful player on the board.

Chapter Text

CENTRAL CITY

JUNE 2014

"Good morning, Dr. Wells," said Gideon.

Harrison Wells, not for the first time, wondered if the A.I. was humoring him. Though her tone suggested nothing of the sort, there was an inexplicable sentience about her, something almost... self-aware. As the years wore on, he'd often forgotten who she was and where she came from, but in moments like these, he was reminded that he could trust no one but himself.

Everything he knew—the foundation upon which his plans had taken root—had come from archives in the Flash Museum and his one-time miracle: hacking the Justice League’s Watchtower Network. To young Eobard Thawne, it had been child's play, though newspapers called it the greatest triumph any villain had achieved so far. As revealing as that data had been, it held no clue about Gideon’s origins. In fact, at first, Eobard believed her to be a person, given how often her name came up in the League’s communications.

But no, Gideon was not human. She was Barry Allen’s secret project, her existence guarded as closely as the speedster’s identity. Everything about her was a mystery, and Eobard had been eager to steal her from under Allen’s nose. It had taken time to hack her systems, but it paid off handsomely.

Then, the Justice League turned on their own Gideon, disbanding the Secret Society of Super-Villains with her. Eventually, her technology went public, and soon the world’s greatest institutions had one of their own. It had been a huge blow to his ego, yet he did not regret his actions.

This Gideon—his now—was the original. Of that, he was certain. And Barry Allen never did or created anything without emotional drive; there was more to Gideon than met the eye.

“Good morning, Gideon. How far along are our subjects?”

Gideon’s face disappeared, replaced by a series of files. Each folder displayed surveillance images of its subject and, underneath, the project name: The Flash, Green Arrow, Black Canary, Killer Frost. Then, the lower threats to his success: Batman, Vibe, and his most recent inclusion—Ms. Ellie Leeds.

“The immediate threats show no unusual developments. Dr. Snow and Mr. Ramon are en route from Starling City.” The files shifted as a live feed appeared: a woman with auburn hair and a young man with shoulder-length hair walked side by side, the latter carrying a metal briefcase labeled S.T.A.R. Labs. “The Arrow is preparing for his encounter with Deathstroke and the future siege of his city. He’ll likely be joined by the Lances.

"As for Dr. Snow and Mr. Ramon's dossiers, neither has manifested the metagene. Likewise, Mr. Allen’s condition progresses as expected.”

“What about Mr. Wayne? Last I heard, he was mentoring his... third protégé, if I’m not mistaken.”

“There was a slight delay in the timeline, Doctor. Mr. Wayne’s grief postponed training for a month, but Mr. Drake began his regimen last Monday.”

Harrison sighed, removing his glasses to clean them with his sleeve.

"Classic Bat. Always pulling surprises when you least expect it. But don’t worry, Gideon—as long as he stays on track, we won’t need to worry about him in the long run." He smiled. "Now, what about our new... complication, hmm?”

A slight pause followed. A non-metahuman might not have noticed, but Harrison was different. To him, time was malleable: minutes could stretch to hours, hours to days, and days to years. He knew Gideon was aware of her hesitation, yet he let it pass when she continued.

“Your theory was correct: there are no records of Ms. Leeds—her identity was fabricated at the moment. Evidence suggests she may have used the same tactic in similar situations before. I would surmise her entire persona, from quirks to appearance, was prepared well in advance.”

“A clever intruder, then. What about facial recognition?”

“I’m afraid we’re at an impasse: no digital system has been able to identify Ellie Leeds.”

His smile faded. “None?”

“None,” Gideon confirmed.

Harrison tapped his fingers on the armrest. He knew Gideon was capable of withholding information if it posed a threat to the Allen family or the integrity of the timeline. He had modified her programming, but some core directives remained untouchable.

"Gideon," he said slowly, "is there any possibility that Miss Leeds is connected to the Allen family?"

Another pause, almost imperceptible.

"That information is classified, Doctor."

He clenched his jaw. "Classified? Under whose authority?"

"Under Directive Alpha-One, established by Barry Allen."

Of course. Barry had anticipated contingencies like this.

"Very well, Gideon. Pull up everything on Dr. Mathilda Harcourt from the current timeline."

A new screen appeared with various tabs: Educational Records, Medical Files, Family History, Orphanage Records, Acquaintances. He tapped Orphanage Records and Acquaintances, sifting through them at his own pace, scrolling back and forth until one photo caught his eye.

A blonde woman in office attire, with an unremarkable face but an intense posture. Her eyes, her stance—something in her defiance reminded him of other women who’d looked at the world with a similar fire. Women from the pages of old comics, women who weren’t supposed to exist just yet.

Despite her differences from Ellie Leeds, Harrison hesitated to dismiss the similarities. After all, he was a master of disguise.

“Identify her.”

“I am unable to do so, Dr. Wells.”

He gritted his teeth. “Pull up any picture that remotely resembles her, Gideon.”

Mathilda’s records vanished, replaced by a cascade of police reports with photos and videos. In nearly all, Dr. Harcourt appeared accompanied by Leeds.

“There. Identify this woman through her wardrobe, she has a pattern of wearing white and black office wear.”

Gideon pulled up a different sleuth of pictures. Bingo.

Except they featured a lot of people familiar to him. The Wests. Detective Thawne. And Barry Allen.

“Impossible,” he spat.

Keeping an eye on Barry throughout the years had been his chore. Harrison knew everything there was to know about the young man, from his personal experiences to his idiosyncrasies. Sometimes Harrison forgot he should treat him like a stranger rather than the object of his obsession. And he had never seen this woman at Barry’s side before.

But there she was. Smiling with him, sharing laughs, scowling, even arguing. Countless moments in countless places. An entire experience Harrison had never accounted for.

At last, he found a name, buried beneath the dozens of police reports. Karen Starr.

“Gideon, why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“The data was not relevant to your orders.”

The lights flickered, and Harrison heard his old voice over the speakers, a recording from earlier days.

“Gideon, report all possible threats that could prevent Barry Allen from becoming the Flash. Deliver these immediately, regardless of where I am or what I’m doing.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Harrison narrowed his eyes. "Gideon, are you withholding information about Karen Starr?"

Silence. Then, "I am unable to comply with that request."

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Unable, or unwilling?"

"Directive Alpha-One prohibits disclosure of certain information that could compromise the integrity of the timeline and the safety of the Allen family."

Harrison scoffed. “How is this woman related to the Allen family?”

“I am unable to answer that question, Dr. Wells.”

"Very well," he said, forcing a calm tone. "Then perhaps we can infer some things. Show me all public records of Karen Starr."

Gideon complied, displaying employment records, addresses, social media profiles—all the usual traces a person would leave. Yet, as he delved deeper, inconsistencies began to emerge. Gaps in her history, documents that seemed perfectly in order but lacked depth.

"She's a ghost," he murmured. "A constructed identity." He should know—he was an expert at it.

Karen knew life wasn’t going to slot itself neatly back into place—things rarely did. Still, a tiny, stubborn part of her wished the universe would occasionally throw her a bone. Even a chew toy would’ve been nice.

Adjusting to the new normal wasn’t exactly fun. Better than last time, definitely—she’d at least remembered her name, address, and social security number on the first try—but the sensation of something being fundamentally off was like noticing a growing spot of mold on your favorite painting. Sure, you might panic for a second, but your next thought was inevitably: How do I fix it?

Unfortunately, dead people didn’t have the decency to be fixable.

Her first jolt of awareness hit her during a quick, unofficial stop at the CCPD, mostly to drop off paperwork for her leave of absence. It was a week after she’d been discharged, and by now she’d become depressingly adept at it—Gotham University had at least prepared her for the avalanche of red tape. Thankfully, CCPD’s version involved fewer lectures and no homework.

Kristen had tackled her with a sob that echoed throughout the precinct, smearing makeup and probably a little snot on Karen’s jacket, but the distraction had been welcome. It was a vivid contrast to the drawn, muted expressions that had become standard issue around the bullpen.

But even Kristen’s mascara-streaked performance couldn’t shield Karen from noticing the wall of photographs that had expanded ominously since her last visit. Previously, it had displayed three somber portraits, two belonging to veteran cops who’d passed naturally. Now, five fresh faces joined the memorial. Officers whose names Karen recognized in passing but whose conversations she’d rarely joined. Yet, amidst them was one face she actually knew well—Detective Fred Chyre.

“The Mardons got him,” Kristen whispered, her voice trembling as she wiped her eyes. “The funeral took ages to organize. All the funeral homes were booked solid.”

Karen didn’t respond. Instead, she let the silence do the talking... and Kristen fill it with her sniffles.

After that visit, it felt like the city itself was intent on haunting her with lost faces. They appeared at random, everyday places. The overly cheerful florist near her apartment—gone. That sullen teenager always loitering by the arcade, counting pennies—missing. The friendly barista at Jitters, who Karen always secretly preferred over Iris West, had been replaced by a jittery high-schooler who couldn’t foam milk to save her life.

And it wasn’t just people. Certain landmarks—statues, murals—had been reduced to rubble. Now, angry banners draped across the broken sites screamed accusations at STAR Labs and Harrison Wells, as if the city’s wounds needed a tangible villain. Yet other spots had people quietly banding together, patching things up as best they could. Central City’s attempt at morale was admirable, but Karen found it easier to focus on the goodwill than confront the ghosts lingering in her peripheral vision.

These phantom faces, thankfully, never spoke. They just stood there, eyes empty, silent reminders of guilt she could only piece together from sterile reports rather than actual memories. She wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. Probably both.

At least that day wasn’t entirely awful. Sure, she’d noticed the old panhandler who used to ask for pennies was conspicuously absent, but no spectral shadows pursued her as she headed to Central City Hospital to meet Mattie.

As the bus slowed near City Center, Karen caught sight of a makeshift memorial that stole her breath—candles, photographs, stuffed animals, and handwritten notes spread like a sea of grief. She’d never seen Central City so united in mourning. The sight tightened something painful in her chest.

Stepping off the bus, she was immediately bombarded by sound—sirens, whispers, distant chatter—all blending into a roar that echoed inside her head. Grimacing, she pressed her palms against her temples, willing the noise back.

“Are you alright, miss?” The bus driver’s voice sounded muffled, distant.

Karen nodded vaguely, pushing herself forward. The air was thick, tinged with the strange mingling scent of burned ozone and lilies. As she moved among the tributes, her fingers grazed the edges of photographs, notes, small mementos of lives abruptly cut short. Each face belonged to a stranger—until her eyes snagged on one painfully familiar smile, frozen forever in mid-laugh.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, the realization striking her as vividly as the lightning had struck Barry.

“Ralph,” she breathed.

Memory washed over her in a sudden wave. Late-night stakeouts filled with caffeine-fueled banter, his constant stream of terrible jokes, his stubborn optimism that had made him impossible to dislike—even when she’d actively tried. How could she have forgotten him? Especially him, the one person whose sacrifices had kept her secrets hidden, whose career and reputation had taken hit after hit because of her?

Her throat tightened painfully, guilt and grief tangling into a knot she wasn’t ready to unravel. She stepped back, blinking rapidly.

As if summoned by memory alone, another face rose in her mind—not Ralph’s this time, but Sue’s.

Sue, who had sat beside Karen in that awful hospital room, her manicured fingers clenched so tightly they’d gone white. Who had laughed too brightly at Karen’s sarcasm, and later wept in the hallway when she thought no one was watching after Ralph’s call.

Sue, who had never once blamed Karen for getting her husband thrown out of the police force.

Theorizing wasn’t part of Gideon’s original programming. Harrison had added that functionality, born out of loneliness, and she only hypothesized when prompted. This situation was no different. Still, he extracted an answer from her. Vague, yes. But useful all the same.

Karen Starr and Barry Allen met by coincidence. But a shared acquaintance ensured the relationship continued: that person was Ralph Dibny.

And apparently, he was also the cause of their separation.

Harrison couldn’t believe a man like Dibny, self-righteous and honorable, would drive Barry away from Starr. No, it had to be Barry himself. But what exactly had transpired between the three of them?

It was a pity Dibny died. Harrison would’ve loved to interrogate him, to exploit his vulnerabilities. But as another casualty of the particle accelerator explosion, Ralph was beyond his reach. He shifted his focus to Dibny’s widow, Sue.

Sue Dibny was memorable. Sharp as a tack, with Lois Lane’s tenacity and Barbara Gordon’s cunning. In a former timeline, she’d even served as Watchtower’s administrator, until tragedy struck and Ralph spent his remaining years trying to communicate with her spirit. In this timeline, the Dibnys’ story was similar: they’d married young, faced struggles, and were devoted to each other.

Now, however, Sue was alone.

Harrison tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Gideon, compile all interactions between Karen Starr and Sue Dibny."

"Compiling now."

Moments later, images and videos filled the screen. Karen and Sue sharing coffee at a quaint café, attending a charity event together, standing side by side at the Police Ball.

"Interesting," Harrison mused. "They seem close."

"Affirmative. Karen Starr and Sue Dibny have maintained a close friendship over the past three years."

"Perhaps Sue holds the key to understanding Karen Starr. Let’s pay a visit to Mrs. Dibny’s offices."

Karen could count the people she trusted on one hand. David Singh. Mattie Harcourt. It had been only those two names for a long time, with another coming and going as she reached her twenties. She'd thought Barry would be part of that list one day—until he went and betrayed her trust.

Somehow, Ralph took his place.

When Karen started, Ralph had been a beat cop in the CCPD. But he’d earned himself a reputation that eventually led to getting him a detective badge. When Barry joined, Ralph was easily the poster boy of the entire police station. People clamored to have him at their service; those in high power threatened him on a daily basis.

Barry had idolized him. Karen had grudgingly respected him.

And then Judy Gimlin's murder happened and changed everything.

But she hadn’t expected it from Ralph.

Not Ralph, the guy she bickered with, brushed off, joked about behind his back. The guy she always sidelined for Barry, because Ralph was too nosy, too stubborn, too much. And yet—he’d taken the metaphorical bullet for her. No questions, no hesitation. Just... shielded her. Because of that, her secrets were still intact. But his career wasn’t. His life wasn’t. Whatever future he’d been chasing had crumpled under the weight of her lies.

Irreparably broken. Because of her.

And even after everything, they still showed up.

Ralph never missed a week—always found time to call and pester her about her questionable takeout habits. And Sue, sharp-eyed and warm in a way Karen never quite understood, always made sure to invite her to brunch when they weren’t off chasing a case. Like they’d decided long ago that she was family, no matter how many walls she kept up.

And Karen… Karen had let herself believe there would be time to make it up to them.

She took a deep breath and knocked. The door in front of her was exquisite—the one expense Ralph and Sue could agree on. Made of mahogany and with the business's lettering printed in gold, it was certain to make an impression. We are respectable, we are unblemished, we will solve your case effortlessly. Or at least, that had been what Sue told her when she'd asked.

Shadows danced behind the crystal pane before the door opened. Baby blue eyes stared up at her, empty of recognition. Then life sparked in them, and Karen found herself being crushed by a tiny body. The sobs that racked Sue's chest in that moment rattled Karen, but she pushed the other woman gently inside the office and closed the door behind her with her foot.

The space was a shell of its former self. Empty, except for the rented furniture and a box lying on the desk. The curtains, she noted absently, had made all the difference; they had given the office a noir feeling, but now that they were gone, the sunlight filtered in and lit the dark crevices of the room. It ruined the effect the couple had been going for when they opened their agency. They'd been at the very bottom then, rising only through sheer stubbornness and disregard for public opinion. All that, gone in the space of four months.

"I'm so sorry, Sue," Karen said sincerely.

The brunette drew back, silently accepting the hanky Karen offered. She wiped the snot under her nose before giving a quaking smile.

"Don't be. I'm glad you are okay—he would be too."

Would. Was. Karen tried to turn this new concept over, but the more she thought about it, the more her brain resisted. Ralph was dead, but it didn't feel real. Not when he'd always been larger than life. Out of the two, it should've been Karen who died...

"What happened?" She leaned against the desk, and Sue, matching her pace, hopped onto it to make herself comfortable.

"What didn't happen." The woman gave a high-pitched laugh. Then tears gathered in her eyes again, but they didn't fall. "He was just being him. He just did what he thought was right. And I can't blame him for that."

It sounded to Karen like Sue had had to repeat this to herself too many times.

Sue then told her how it happened. Like with Karen, the Dibnys' day had started normally: they were tailing a crook who was supposedly behind the recent rise of taxes of a specific real estate company that sold faulty buildings. Karen had heard about it briefly, but Sue launched into a story worthy of a James Bond novel, bringing up armed thieves and scared families.

"We were inside Building 54 when the accelerator exploded. If it hadn't been for those bastards' avarice, it wouldn't have crumbled so easily. I was lucky to get out alive," said Sue bitterly. "The rest... some of them got out with grave injuries. Ralph didn't make it to the hospital."

Karen felt her eyes sting. It was poetic, how she, Barry, and Ralph had fought for their lives the same night and for the same reason. But it was just her now.

She told Sue about her own night. The woman’s eyes darkened when she heard Barry's name but didn't say anything out of respect for his current situation.

"And are you sure you are fine?" Sue asked. "Really?"

Karen sighed. "David thinks the... procedures saved me. You know—"

"Yeah," Sue nodded quickly. "I do. Not all details, but Ralph made sure I understood... well, everything. I hope you're not mad."

"I'm not." Karen smiled weakly. "I hope you aren't. I destroyed his future. And yours too."

Sue shook her head. "Ralph made his choices. He cared about you. We both do. It's not your fault. I like to think that he just wasn't meant to go down that path. That fate had other plans for him." Sue's lip trembled. "God, I don't know how I will live without him."

It felt strangely like an echo of Karen’s own words, or at least a version of her that no longer existed. So she said the thing she would have told herself back then.   

"Not easily. But one day at a time.”

Karen hugged Sue when the woman started crying again.

Harrison's eyes narrowed. So—something occurred between the three of them.

He wouldn't be forgetting any of this anytime soon. Karen Starr was the reason Barry Allen and Ralph Dibny hadn't stayed friends. The Yoko Ono, per se. But why? What did Starr have anything to do with Dibny's breaking of the rules? What had played behind Judy Gimlin's murder?

Another puzzle to solve. That was fine—Harrison had time. All the time in the world.

"Gideon, initiate a deeper investigation into Karen Starr's background. Cross-reference any anomalies with known temporal events."

"Directive Alpha-One prohibits further inquiry into Karen Starr's personal history."

"Of course it does," he muttered. "Perhaps there are other ways."

He considered his options. If Gideon was restricted, he would need to rely on other resources. Dr. Wells' reputation used to open doors, but not these days. A direct approach would be necessary.

Except, he didn’t want to burn that bridge too soon. The timing wasn’t right.

He needed to flush Starr out somehow.

Chapter Text

CENTRAL CITY

SEPTEMBER 3^RD, 2014

Karen Starr was… awfully mundane.

Or perhaps she was an exceptional actress. Harrison’s pride balked at that idea. No one could outwit him. Not when he possessed knowledge of the past, present, and future, a privilege few could fathom.

Yet Ms. Starr was proving to be a more significant inconvenience than he’d anticipated.

It all began, oddly enough, with her return to the CCPD. There were tears, naturally, as Captain David Singh’s protégé had ingratiated herself with many of the senior officers—except Joe West, curiously enough. The detective ignored her, and she returned the favor, offering him only polite smiles during obligatory interactions, usually when handing him files or relaying phone tips.

Even from a distance, through the lens of his advanced surveillance camera, it was almost painful to watch. But it helped him piece together the puzzle that was Barry Allen’s and Karen Starr’s relationship. Whatever conflict they shared had subtly influenced those around them.

(And really, it was irritating that this—out of all the wonders of time—was the only thing that had managed to entertain him in the past fifteen years.)

Aside from that, Karen (he had started to think of her on a first-name basis, finding it easier to investigate her that way) did nothing extraordinary. She was the public face of the station, greeting visitors with a warm yet detached smile. She answered phones with the efficiency of a seasoned operator, one hand gripping the corded receiver, the other scribbling shorthand notes. She even ran coffee errands from Jitters without complaint, gliding back and forth in heels almost effortlessly.

It was all part of her disguise, Wells knew. But he was grudgingly impressed.

(And it would be some time before he noticed, but this distraction would cost him—not significantly, but enough.

Enough to teach him that Karen Starr was not to be taken lightly.)

Returning to the station felt like being thrown into a dimly lit cave. There was enough positivity to keep things running (Central City’s way of moving forward, Karen supposed) but too many familiar faces were gone, and too many criminals had used the city’s chaos to their advantage.

The crime rate had skyrocketed so sharply that the news now referred to Central City as the next Starling City, a comparison Karen found chilling. After all, their neighbors had recently faced an army of drugged super-soldiers. That kind of reputation didn’t bode well.

The CCPD had its hands full with both rising crime and public opinion. On one side, many sided with the WHO, but not everyone was ready to give up their ideal lives. Some, like Joe West and his daughter, had deeply personal reasons for feeling conflicted. After all, Harrison Wells, now the city’s pariah, had saved Barry’s life—and his technology had saved countless others in Central City hospitals. Even Captain David Singh couldn’t deny the impact; Karen herself owed her life to Wells’s intervention.

But Karen had her own doubts. Couldn’t their aid have been a little… miraculous? She felt like she was losing her sanity day by day. Hearing “things” in her head couldn’t be a good sign, could it? History had shown that strange occurrences rarely brought anything positive. More often, they served as excuses for humanity to march into war without question.

(Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re still safe.)

Then there was the constant buzzing. It was like an annoying bee, hovering around her head; soft and quick, she could never pinpoint its location. Unlike the voices, the buzzing never stopped; it was always there, a quiet sort of “elevator music” in the back of her mind. She almost forgot about it, until a clear voice would suddenly cut through, sharp and distinct, as if someone were speaking directly to her.

She’d nearly been caught responding to a question no one had asked her. David had given her a strange look when she’d accidentally replied to a conversation meant for someone else’s ears—like the time he had a tense call with Senate candidate Anthony Bellows, or when she overheard Iris West and Eddie Thawne going at it in a supply closet. Ever since, she’d been doubling her efforts to tune out the voices.

All Karen ever wanted was to be left alone. Now, her own mind was no longer a safe place either.

And neither was the CCPD, because the buzzing only ever occurred inside the station. No matter where else she went, it was there, following her in the background persistently.

After seventeen days of filing reports, fetching coffee, and wandering the precinct with growing agitation, she finally—finally—located the source.

The sources, actually. Plural. They were tiny, nearly invisible, but unmistakable once she’d pinpointed one. The first camera she found, she’d broken accidentally in her shock.

The second one was close by.

In all her years of studying, of visiting advanced labs, Karen had never seen anything like this. After a thorough inspection, she determined that it was, indeed… a camera.

A dozen mini cameras, buried around the station not-so-discreetly. But they were so delicate and small Karen couldn’t blame anyone for not noticing them—she hadn’t.  And when she brought a detector, it didn’t register its presence either. Military-grade, maybe? But who would leave technology this sophisticated around? It was like dropping a couple million cheques without care.

So, the real questions remained: Who in their right mind would go to such lengths just to monitor a police station?

And more importantly… what exactly was that person watching?

CENTRAL CITY

OCTOBER 7^TH, 2014

Karen’s mornings usually started with some absurd story blasting in her ears and absolutely no follow-through, so, really, the robbery had been a refreshing change of pace. Briefly. Because two days later, the sketch artist handed over a portrait that looked unmistakably like Clyde Mardon.

“That can’t be,” said Joe West, holding it with two fingers like it was something dirty. “The Mardons are dead. I saw it myself. Nobody survives a plane explosion, let alone the fall.”

“We didn’t recover the bodies,” Eddie Thawne offered tentatively.

But they’d recovered Chyre’s. Despite the chaos that night, a paramedic team had been dispatched to retrieve him and Joe. They’d searched for the Mardons too, but all they found was the wreckage of the plane.

“That’s because they blew up.”

“But it’s not impossible one of them survived,” Eddie persisted. “It’s been nine months. That’s enough time for someone to recover.”

“This isn’t Gotham—no offense, but the dead don’t return here.” Joe turned to David, and by extension, to Karen, who stood behind him.

David dropped a file onto the desk. “Thawne’s right, we can’t ignore this. Once is a coincidence, but twice?” He tapped the folder pointedly.

As Joe picked it up, Karen spoke up. “Three weeks ago, there was a burglary at Sapphire Jewels. The owner was asleep and only saw the damage the next morning.” She handed her tablet to Eddie. “Luckily, she’s got a modern mind for an older lady. She had cameras installed everywhere.”

“But no anti-theft system?”

Karen smiled. “It was scheduled to be installed three days later. But the cameras were ready, and…” She forwarded the footage. “Here. We got a good look at the intruder.”

The image wasn’t perfect. The burglar turned toward the camera for only a brief moment, and then the screen blurred. Mrs. Ferris had spent the morning not only clearing broken glass but also airing out the thick mist that had crept in during the night.

Still, anyone with a little skill could extract enough frames to get a clear image. Karen hesitated only when she saw the all-too-familiar face of a supposedly dead man.

Joe compared the image to the sketch, his brow furrowing. “So the system matched him with Mardon.”

“But there was no DNA?” Eddie asked.

Karen sighed. “No.”

Joe shook his head. “Then it’s just a coincidence.” Karen noticed the careful look he gave her. He’d been one of the first to argue against her active presence, then her aid, when Chief Frye got a hold of her profile about a month after her return and ordered she become their research specialist. It chaffed at many egos, but no one could deny her efficiency or her disturbing accuracy.

“You think it’s just coincidence?” Eddie said. “If Clyde survived, maybe his brother did too. Central City can’t handle them and Leonard Snart at the same time.”

Everyone shuddered. Leonard Snart, a calculated and meticulous criminal, had been ramping up his operations since the particle accelerator explosion. With CCPD stretched thin, they’d been reduced to tracking Snart’s moves on a calendar.

“Not to mention the other weirdos who’ve been showing up,” Karen muttered under her breath.

The men turned to her with raised eyebrows. She gave a quick, awkward shrug.

Joe sighed. “Alright. Let’s keep tabs on this… wannabe.”

Eddie stifled a chuckle, as did Karen. But her smile faded as the noise outside the captain’s office suddenly rose, slamming into her like a mallet to the head.

“Hey, isn’t that Baby Face?”

“Welcome back, Allen!”

“Thought he was dead!”

“Baby Face!”

“—ren! Karen, are you okay?”

She blinked, feeling a steady hand on her shoulder. “He’s back,” she murmured.

David frowned, his hand steadying her. “Who?”

“Barry.” Her gaze drifted past the blinds, beyond the crowd gathering around a tall figure, just visible above the throng.

For a second, it felt like he was looking right at her.

Joe West pushed past, his eyes wide and glassy, his foster son’s name barely a whisper on his lips.

(Foolish girl. He’s not looking at you like that.)

“That’s Barry,” Eddie said, his grin widening. The energy in the room seemed to lift him—not that Detective Pretty Boy needed it. “That’s really him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” David replied, his gaze lingering on Karen. “You sure you’re okay?”

The ringing in her head persisted, but she forced herself to nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… surprised to see him.”

Eddie patted her shoulder, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Last time you saw him, he was practically dead.” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth.

Karen shot him a look that was part irritation, part disbelief.

Outside, Joe’s voice boomed, “Let’s go, partner!”

“That’s my cue,” Eddie said, practically sprinting out, only to rush back for his jacket. Karen followed his trail, watching as he paused just long enough to give Iris a look of pure adoration—only to get distracted by Barry’s return once more.

Barry Allen. Bartholomew Henry Allen, alive and awake. He looked so infuriatingly well that Karen was actually angry she’d spent so much time worrying. Where was the pallor, the dehydration? Instead of looking like someone just out of a coma, he looked as if he’d come back from a vacation.

(Don’t lie to yourself; you’re relieved. He’s alive, he’s okay, you can breathe again.)

“Are you sure you’re okay?” David’s voice cut through her thoughts.

She looked at him, seeing the worry etched on his face.

David Singh was, in every way that counted, her father. He hadn’t raised her, hadn’t given her a proper home, per se, but he’d been there when she needed him most—just like Mattie had been. But unlike Mattie, David had seen her at her worst, a time when she’d barely known right from wrong. Through patience and guidance, he’d helped her forge a path, a code of honesty and trust they both valued deeply. He knew almost everything about her—her dreams, her struggles, her doubts.

And then, there was Barry. She never had the courage to tell him how things went downhill for them, let alone how much cutting him off had hurt her. But he was a cop, and he felt intuitively that things hadn’t gone well at all.

“I’m glad he’s okay,” she said after a beat.

David nodded the only way a father could. With the disbelieving glint that said yeah right.

Chapter Text

CENTRAL CITY

DECEMBER 4^TH, 2012

Karen's phone rang. But it wasn't her phone—it was the station's. She picked it up and, as natural as she could, lifted her voice into a welcoming tone.

"Central City Police Department, how can we help you?"

She glanced around, hoping nobody heard the subtle modulation. She'd been trying out different voices during the week, sometimes lowering her voice to a rasp (as if she were emulating the sexy but mysterious character of a black novel) or making it so high she sounded like Bubbles from The Powerpuff Girls. Her accent, due to her whereabouts, was decidedly American, but she was well-versed in faking her French inflection.

She was caught red-handed in all attempts. Human Resources soon called her to request she stop making jokes, even if that hadn't been her intention. And it really wasn't.

She needed a voice. She wasn't mute, obviously, but she needed a certain inflection, a certain tone that set Karen Starr apart. A voice that didn't draw much attention, but still gave "Karen" life.

Well, it was that or remaining passive. She'd already scared too many people with her usual timbre; the lack of inflection, of accent, was apparently unsettling for Americans.

"This is an emergency!" screeched a woman through the line, her high voice making Karen wince. "Someone's stealing across the street and I think my house is next!"

Karen hadn't been trained for this. She was a receptionist, not a nine-one-one dispatcher. But she knew how to deal with hysterical people. This time, she changed her voice into "command" and spoke in short sentences.

"Ma'am, I need you to calm down." The assertiveness threw the woman for a loop; she fell quiet abruptly. "Everything will be fine. What is your address?"

Then, as she gathered as much information as she could, Karen waved her pen at one of the officers to approach. To her disconcert, they ignored her.

No matter how many times she waved, all looked at her—through her—and moved on.

Long fingers touched hers as they drew the pad from her hold. The young man lifted it close to his face and called, "10-91 at Leawood area! 10-63!"

At last, a couple of officers moved. Some shifted past Karen's desk, clapping the young man's shoulder, others to the Emergency Command in the corner of the bullpen.

"Ma'am, I'm still here," Karen said, eyes fixed on the green ones looking down at her. A nervous smile crossed the young man's face.

"Hi," he whispered. "I'm here for the CSI Assistant's position interview with Director Mendez?"

CENTRAL CITY

OCTOBER 7^TH, 2014

Karen didn't see Barry Allen again for the rest of the day—small mercies. The Gold City Bank robbery had spiraled exactly as they'd guessed, but this time the witnesses insisted the perp had conjured an actual hurricane inside. Karen would have dismissed it as trauma-induced hysteria if it weren't for the annoyingly real smartphone videos flooding in.

"The sky went black, and then boom!" said one particularly jittery witness, wrapped in a red blanket and clutching his coffee cup like a lifeline. He swung it wildly, sloshing coffee dangerously close to Karen's paperwork. "Outside was on the inside, man. A full-blown thunderstorm—right there in the lobby!"

Detective West hovered over her shoulder as Karen toggled between three blurry tabs. The footage was horrible quality thanks to what could only be described as a freaking indoor blizzard. And then—just like the witnesses said—it morphed seamlessly into a hurricane, wreaking havoc inside the bank.

"There." West pointed sharply at the screen.

Karen narrowed her focus, minimizing distractions. She adjusted the resolution, but the perp was stubbornly indistinct. Still, she caught enough—a casual stroll, a leather bag, blond hair slipping out from beneath his cap.

West's voice was firm. "Vukovich, suspect driving a black Mustang, partial plate six-kilo-Charlie-three. Put out an APB."

"Copy that."

"Can you zoom in any further?" West asked hopefully.

Karen clicked futilely. "Sorry. Unless you want to identify him by pixels, we're stuck." She captured a profile shot before the perp vanished into a blur of motion. "If this turns into another Snart scenario, we're screwed."

"God help us," Joe muttered, rubbing his face. "Print those out, please."

"Yes, sir.”

Joe lingered, his weight shifting into that all-too-familiar Dad-Mode stance: one hand propped on his hip, the other leaning on the desk. It felt strangely personal having it directed at her, as though she’d stumbled into a parental conference by mistake.

"How are you holding up?"

Karen shot him a sidelong glance. "Well, considering my savings didn’t vanish into thin air thanks to a freak indoor hurricane, I’d say I'm fantastic. You?"

He exhaled heavily. "I'm tired. Ecstatic, but exhausted. And worried."

Karen hummed knowingly. "About Barry." Who else.

"He looks fine," Joe began hesitantly, "but nine months in a coma after a lightning strike? There’s supposed to be—"

"—Confusion, hearing loss, seizures, muscle pain, behavioral changes," Karen rattled off clinically, then abruptly silenced herself at Joe's stare. "He’s okay. No Lichtenberg scar left or anything."

She immediately tensed. But Joe didn’t seem to notice her slip-up. He was still locked in Dad-Mode. "Right. You were the one who found him. Never thanked you for that."

"I kind of fell into a coma myself afterward, so not much chance," Karen attempted humor, but her smile felt wooden.

Joe’s voice softened, making Karen dread his next words. "I didn't like how things ended between you two. I still don't. But I'm glad you moved past it."

Karen knew she should bristle or at least feign offense, but honesty was easier this time. "It was the right thing to do," she admitted.

Joe patted her shoulder reassuringly, leaving her to deal with a chorus of impatient witnesses demanding their phones back—ASAP.

In a twisted stroke of fate, all those wild theories about Clyde Mardon’s resurrection were right. He’d been the perp all along. What no one could explain—because apparently Central City had given up on logic—was the small, wildly inconvenient detail that the weather seemed to bend to his will. Karen suggested looking into that; David told her to drop it. Detective West had stopped Mardon in the end, even if it took the man’s death to do it.

To his credit, West didn’t complain about the mountain of paperwork that followed. But Karen couldn’t help noting the glaring holes no one seemed eager to fill. The case faded quietly, conveniently, into the background—buried under reports, half-truths, and the sudden resurgence of local mob activity.

Organized crime in Central City was a badly kept secret. Ever since the Hood appeared in Starling City, organized crime families had quietly relocated, turning Central City into their new playground. The Bertinellis had fallen, the Chinese Triad rose, and the rest—Odessa Mob, Falcones, Maronis—started causing a stir right under the oblivious noses of the general public.

And then, of course, there was Intergang. Karen muttered a prayer nightly that those maniacs wouldn’t set foot in Central; between mafia dramas and inexplicable phenomena, the city had enough weirdness on its plate already.

And if all that wasn't enough, Leonard Snart had the entire department on edge again. The idiot had swiped a tank-like monstrosity from the Santinis, and no one wanted to see their retaliation play out.

It was against this chaotic backdrop that Karen dragged herself into Jitters, looking distinctly sour. Mattie, already waiting, had her chin in her hand, eyes half-lidded and unimpressed. "So," she drawled, "how was your day, honey? Please don't spare a single thrilling detail."

Karen shot her a look that could curdle milk. And then, just to be mean, she did exactly that. Karen dioubled her efforts once she noticed Mattie had ordered her a hot drink. By the time she was done, her friend seemed moments away from dozing off entirely.

The blonde snapped her fingers close to her ear. “Mattie!”

The other woman startled. And glared. “Did you really spend”—she checked her phone—“ten minutes rambling about dead criminals and mob wars? That takes a real special talent, Blondie.” She yawned again, freezing halfway. "Wait, how did we even get to mobsters from weather-controlling robbers?"

"We didn’t," Karen admitted. "I got sidetracked."

Mattie snatched Karen’s phone away when she reached for it again, pointedly closing the article titled MYSTERIOUS TORNADO WRECKS FARM. "I’ll keep this hostage until our date is over."

"It's not a date—it's Me Day," Karen corrected.

"Oh, right," Mattie said sarcastically. "Only you could hijack Me Day and make it about someone else's tragedy."

Mattie sighed, visibly reluctant to bring it up, but Singh had practically begged her, and favors had to be repaid. "So…Allen’s back."

Karen's face immediately twisted. "Not you too."

"Captain’s orders, honey," Mattie shrugged. "Trust me, I’m suffering more than you are. You know I hate Barry Allen with every fiber of my tiny, shriveled heart, so kindly spare me the details."

Karen tried, unsuccessfully, to remain neutral, her hands folding neatly atop the table. "Nothing much to report. He's awake, seemingly fine, and we mutually despise each other again. Balance restored."

Mattie raised a skeptical eyebrow. "But...?"

“That reminds me—look.” She searched in her blazer pocket and pulled out her closed fist. “Can you hear anything?”

"Absolutely nothing," Mattie replied flatly. "Now kindly connect the dots from Allen to this."

Karen revealed an earbud resting in her palm. "Not your average listening device. It’s far too advanced. Works both ways—speaker and microphone."

"Great, you found some rich jerk's earpiece. What’s that got to do with Allen?”

"Not exactly." Without warning, Karen crushed it effortlessly. Mattie jumped back, startled. Karen quickly yanked her back into place, grateful they’d chosen the more private upstairs booth.

"Are you insane?" Mattie hissed, eyes wide. "That was private property. Creepy, sure, but still property."

"Found it on the counter downstairs," Karen countered mildly. She reached into her bag, producing another identical device. "And this one’s from the station. Hardly private."

Mattie grimaced, reluctantly intrigued, and examined the tech. "Sleek yet grimy. High-tech but oddly dated. In other words… weird."

"Exactly," Karen nodded gravely. "I sent four of them to Lucius Fox."

Mattie dropped the device in shock. "You did what? Jesus, Karen, no wonder we only meet once a week—any more often, and I'd have a permanent migraine."

"Found most of them in Barry’s lab," Karen added, almost hesitantly, "and one at Joe West’s desk."

"Great," Mattie groaned dramatically, her annoyance with Barry Allen barely concealed. "Someone's spying on him. It was bound to happen, you had your laptop hacked that one time, didn’t ya? Karen, repeat after me: 'This is not my circus.' Seriously, stay away." But Karen’s guilty expression said it all. "What did you do?"

Karen gulped her coffee theatrically—a stall tactic, Mattie noted bitterly, since Karen despised hot drinks. "Maybe discovered a few hacking attempts on his computer?"

Mattie buried her face in her hands. "Karen, please. Your weird big sister fixation on Allen needs to stop. Report it to Singh and let the proper authorities handle it. Not your responsibility."

But Mattie knew her words fell on deaf ears. She stared at Karen—the poised, composed woman in expensive clothing who had replaced the terrified, traumatized girl Mattie's brother had found years ago. This Karen Starr, relentless and fearless, scared her the most.

And what infuriated Mattie even more was how Barry Allen of all people brought out yet another side of Karen—a side Mattie had never fully understood and privately envied. Why Allen? What had that oblivious idiot ever done to deserve such loyalty? All he’d managed was to leave Karen another bitter lesson.

Mattie looked away sharply, the unspoken question echoing silently between them.

Why not her?

Before David came along, Karen spent about a month in a Midvale orphanage. It wasn’t exactly a time she wanted to dwell on. The place was memorable—mostly for its bizarre fixation on wealth. The rich bought happiness, supposedly: better homes, better jobs, better everything. Karen had never bought into the fantasy; money hardly mattered when your main concern was avoiding attention and staying invisible.

When she and David moved to Gotham, however, wealth disparity slapped her in the face daily. David’s cop salary was decent, which made sense since Gotham PD went through officers faster than a toddler with a box of crayons—breaking them, losing them, never replacing them. Their apartment was modest and cozy, sure, but it came with frequent break-ins and noisy neighbors as a free bonus.

Still, they managed. David worked endless shifts, and Karen juggled GED night classes and mornings waiting tables at a local diner. That job taught her crucial lessons on blending in and fading into the background, becoming just another face in a city that consumed dreams like fast food.

Not that Gotham fully broke her—it didn’t. But Karen still couldn't talk openly about what she’d seen there, not yet anyway.

Then, without warning, their fortunes flipped.

First, David received an offer out of nowhere to become Captain of Central City’s Police Department. It was so unexpected he initially suspected a practical joke. A couple of verifying phone calls later, though, reality set in: the offer was genuine. Accepting meant uprooting their lives once more, forcing Karen to abandon her classes and start again from scratch in a new city.

She’d barely started processing that when another surprise came—a call from Bruce Wayne’s personal assistant. Yes, that Bruce Wayne. Billionaire playboy, philanthropist, Gotham’s own golden boy who moonlit as a shrewd businessman. For reasons Karen still didn’t fully understand, Wayne Enterprises—specifically Wayne himself—had noticed her. Beneath his carefully maintained airheaded persona, Bruce Wayne clearly saw potential in her sharp tongue and sharper mind. Offering Karen Starr, literal nobody, a full scholarship at Gotham University had somehow fit neatly into his grand strategic plan.

It wasn’t until days later that Karen finally understood the specifics behind his offer. And once she did, she grabbed the opportunity without a second thought. The internship at Wayne Enterprises soon followed, and now, in a twist of fate she still sometimes couldn’t wrap her head around, Karen was one of the standout minds in the Applied Sciences Department, poised to graduate from Gotham U with honors.

Lucius Fox had been that PA. Nowadays, he was Wayne Enterprises' acting CFO, yet he still took Karen's calls with genuine warmth. It was precisely Fox’s consistent reliability and discreet nature that convinced Karen she could trust him with the strange devices. Though he'd promised to get back to her, he'd cautioned that the analysis would take time. Patience, unfortunately, had never been Karen’s strongest trait.

Her mounting impatience translated directly into aggressive productivity—she tackled her tasks with barely-contained irritation, undoubtedly scaring off anyone who considered approaching her. She could only imagine how fierce she must've looked, given the way officers practically leaped out of her path as she stormed up to Barry Allen’s lab.

As she’d expected, the lab was deserted. The echoing click-click of her heels was the only noise in the empty space, reinforcing her suspicion that Barry was nowhere nearby. With a frustrated sigh, she raised the phone to her ear.

“He’s not here,” she informed Joe West bluntly.

Joe didn't even try to hide his lack of surprise. “Really? Give him a call for me, would you? Tell him Captain Singh isn’t happy.” He rattled off Barry’s current supposed location before abruptly disconnecting.

Karen stared incredulously at the phone in her hand. Her, call Barry Allen? Had everyone suddenly developed selective amnesia about Iris West’s not-so-subtle accusations that Karen was practically a spawn of Satan? She rolled her eyes, dialing the number with pointed reluctance.

Barry picked up after a few rings, sounding cautious—and annoyingly breathless. "Hello? Karen? Is everything alright?"

“Oh, fantastic,” Karen replied dryly. “But according to Detective West, there's an armed robbery happening, and shockingly, you're not on site.”

Barry sighed, a familiar resignation in his voice. “Right, got it. Address?”

She rattled off the location quickly, hanging up before she could say anything she’d regret. She nearly dropped the phone in surprise when Iris West burst dramatically through the door, breathless and urgent.

“Was that Barry? Remind him about the Simon Stagg event—”

Karen’s lips twisted into a sharp, brittle smile, her fingers interlacing primly atop her lap. “You'll have to remind him yourself—if he ever bothers to show up again.”

The rest of Karen’s day devolved into a bureaucratic nightmare: fielding the Mayor’s angry calls about the Stagg Gala shooting, tidying up David’s chaotic public statements, and wrestling with paperwork on Simon Stagg’s ever-shifting accounts of events. Each fresh headache seemed somehow tied directly to Barry Allen’s peculiar ability to attract trouble.

By the following night, utterly drained and at the limits of her patience, Karen stole away from her desk, desperate for just ten minutes of peace. She hurried past Barry’s empty lab, determinedly ignoring the tangled mess of thoughts he usually inspired, when suddenly, that same irritating buzzing sound—one she’d spent months actively avoiding—stopped her dead in her tracks.

Stay away from him, echoed Mattie's voice, a caution Karen knew she should heed.

She hesitated at the threshold, caught between self-preservation and something deeper she refused to name. It would be so easy—so incredibly easy—to just walk away, let Barry deal with whatever trouble was brewing on his own. Yet, Barry had once been her friend, even if they’d done their best to burn that bridge spectacularly. Whoever was stalking him now had clearly crossed a line.

With an exasperated sigh, Karen steeled herself, ignoring her better judgment, and stepped into the lab.

Maybe it was her traitorous heart, but the second Karen saw Barry Allen standing silhouetted against the glow of Central City’s lights, the persistent buzzing seemed to fade to the background. It wasn't gone entirely, just muted. Drowned out by a flood of memories she’d been trying hard to forget. Memories of the particle accelerator explosion, of lightning cracking the sky open, shattering glass, and rain cutting like ice against her skin.

Her heels clicked sharply against the lab’s sterile tiles, each step resonating through her body, grounding her to reality. But the phantom sensations lingered: rain, glass shards, the terrifying surge of adrenaline as she’d watched Barry collapse. The closer she got, the more she felt that strange fever returning, threatening to numb her limbs.

She glanced at the wall clock, using its ticking as an anchor. It took just a few seconds—only seconds—to gather herself. Karen exhaled, annoyance flickering briefly when she realized Barry hadn't even noticed her presence yet. But that irritation quickly faded when she saw exactly where his focus was locked: the corkboard displaying every painstaking detail of his father's case.

A pang of guilt hit her. She should walk away. Leave Barry with his ghosts. But avoiding him for self-preservation was different from completely abandoning him.

To speak, or to retreat?

Oh, dammit.

“I figured you’d want that put back up.”

Barry blinked as if waking from a dream, startled by her voice. "Hey—you did what?"

She stepped further into the lab, waving absently with a pencil she'd somehow grabbed. The sudden, sharp clink of her cuff against her wristwatch startled her, nearly causing her to poke herself in the eye. Smooth. "When the lightning struck you, it knocked down pretty much everything in here. I salvaged what I could—reprinted the damaged clips and pinned them back up. Hope it’s roughly in the right place.”

Barry squinted, scanning the board. "Yeah... it is. I didn’t realize—thank you." His gaze flickered uncertainly between Karen and the corkboard.

Seeing his discomfort eased hers slightly. She reached out, grasping the chain dangling from the city's map, and gently pulled. The evidence, newspaper clips, and the haunting photos of Henry and Nora Allen disappeared from view.

Barry had never really talked about his parents. He’d shared fragments—small memories—but always pulled back, like saying too much might break something. Still, Karen knew the story. Everyone at CCPD did: Nora Allen, murdered. Henry Allen, locked away in Iron Heights.

She also knew Barry clung to his father’s innocence like a shield—a belief so strong it had sparked years of conflict with Joe West. That same conviction had cost Ralph his badge, put Karen in a hospital bed, and carved deep, unspoken scars between them all.

Still, Karen respected his silence. If Barry wanted to talk, he'd have to do so on his terms.

"All these recent shootings," he said abruptly, gesturing toward the hidden board. "The attacks on Simon Stagg were carried out by Danton Black, an ex-employee Stagg screwed over. Stagg stole his research, cost Black his grant, and his wife died because of it."

Barry’s shoulders sagged heavily, and Karen mirrored the movement instinctively, curious but confused.

"His wife?" she asked tentatively.

Barry nodded grimly. "She had a degenerative coronary disease. Black's research was her only hope, and Stagg destroyed it. And now Black wants revenge."

Karen hummed softly, crossing her arms. It was tragic, yes, but it didn’t fully explain Barry’s misery. She gave him a knowing look. "But that's not really what's bothering you, is it? Is this about your argument with Detective West?"

Barry burst into restless pacing, his agitation tangible. "He won't let me help—treats me like a child. Like he doesn't trust me. Like he never has." He stopped abruptly, eyes accusing. "You didn’t trust me either."

The pencil snapped sharply in Karen’s grip. She scowled, tossing the broken pieces onto his desk. "Now, that’s out of line. "Because you know as well as I do that I believed in you when no one else did. Me. Not your beloved Iris or Joe but me. I was right there with you when you started and everyone called you 'Baby Face' cause they didn't think you would amount to much. Dammit, Barry, I believed in you so much I didn't argue when you got Ralph kicked out of the force! And what happened after? No, don't you dare, look at me—what happened after?"

Bright lights. The flare of pain in her stomach, a burning sensation that didn't stop for days. The absence of Barry when she looked for him in the hospital halls, hoping he would tell her everything would be fine. It had been the most terrifying moment in her life and he hadn't been there, he'd been with Iris West instead of his freaking girlfriend—

Her cuff clanged. It broke through the rage.

She sighed shakily, running a hand over her bangs and tucking them behind her ear.

Barry looked stricken. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

“I should just leave.”

Karen should’ve known. No conversation with him was ever civil. But when she turned around to leave, Barry cut into her way.

She blinked, glancing back, then at him.

“How—?”

“Please. I’m not… I know we aren’t ready to talk about us just yet, but… I need you. I mean…” He sighed exasperatedly. He rubbed his neck, eyes down. “You know what I mean.”

She did. Barry had a habit of ranting in circles—but if someone asked the right question mid-rant, his brain would start connecting the dots. The more questions thrown at him, the sharper his logic became. He just needed a soundboard. And for a while, Karen had been the perfect one.

“Fine,” she said shortly. Barry sighed again, relieved. “Danton Black. What does he have to do with you and Joe?”

"I'm gonna sound crazy... but I think something happened because of the particle accelerator explosion." His gaze was heavy on her, inscrutable. "What if I told you there are people out there with special abilities—let's call them metahumans—and Danton Black is one of them."

Karen tilted her head, testing the term aloud. "Metahuman. Meta for 'beyond', 'transcending'. A human with capabilities beyond man." She pursued her lips. "Figures. Assuming that’s true, what abilities do you think Black has?"

Barry stared at her in mild disbelief. "Just like that?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm from Gotham, Barry. This isn't exactly shocking. Ever since the explosion, crime’s surged. Organized crime families are even nervous. The rules have changed, and nobody knows how to play the game yet."

"I know. The Falcones left."

"And good riddance. But what about the rest? How will the city react when things get stranger? Joe’s probably terrified of exactly that." She sighed, frustrated. "We'll end up just like Starling City at this rate."

"And there's no one to stop it," Barry muttered bleakly.

Karen studied him, careful. "If your argument with Joe was about this, I understand his caution. These metahumans need more than a match.”

(Cruel eyes staring her down.

Why?

To fight the battles we cannot. To defend the United States of America and show the world who is in charge—)

Barry had an odd look on his face.

"Like another meta?"

Karen thought about it. "Maybe. Don't forget I said team, too. These people not only need to be stopped—they need help. Professional help. Psychological help. Imagine waking up, only to find that your life has irrevocably changed and that nothing will ever the same. The ones that aren't like Mardon, they must be very scared and scared people—"

"—make stupid decisions," Barry finished. He was now leaning forward, his hands behind his neck. "I'm familiar with that."

His phone rang suddenly. Barry almost jumped from how fast he answered. To Karen's surprise, he scowled.

"Look, I told you. I'm through."

She didn't mean to listen. She really didn't. But the voice on the other end was sharp and Karen couldn't help but zone on it.

"I know, but you need to get to S.T.A.R. Labs right now!"

A sharp ring deafened her. She clasped her hand to her ear with a grimace and almost didn't catch what Barry said as he backed out of the lab.

"Sorry," he muttered hurriedly, backing out of the lab. "Emergency. We'll talk later, okay?"

He vanished quickly, leaving Karen standing alone with the persistent buzzing returning.

Determined, Karen pinpointed its source—a blinking camera hidden high above the door. With a resigned sigh, she grabbed Barry’s ladder, kicked off her heels, and climbed to meet the surveillance device head-on.

"Listen up," she warned coldly. "I don’t care who you are. Frankly, I’ve looked the other way on the multiple times you’ve hacked our servers. But if you so much as knock this station out of sync, I will find you, and I will take you down. You’re just one click away from me."

She crushed the device decisively.

Chapter Text

CENTRAL CITY

OCTOBER 28^TH, 2014

“The time has come,” Karen announced solemnly, eyes locked on her monitor.

Behind her, Captain Singh, Detective West, and Detective Thawne loomed. The bullpen was packed with the usual chaos, officers hovering with coffee cups and bets in hand. Only Barry Allen was conspicuously absent—which was ironic, considering he’d somehow managed to miss every single meeting about Snart’s annual escapade. He hadn’t even been around when the tradition started.

Honestly, it was a miracle to see Barry at all these days. If she did catch a glimpse, it was usually of his back as he ran off to who-knew-where. Certainly not a crime scene; if he had, David might finally stop complaining about him over dinner. For some reason, her boss was under the delusion that Karen could talk some sense into Barry.

Spoiler alert: she couldn’t.

Even back when they'd been barely-acquainted coworkers—him, the overeager new CSI; her, the overlooked secretary. Barry had been the king of rogue operations. Seedy bar stakeouts? He was there before the ink dried on the warrant. Cold case with no leads? He'd spin a ten-minute theory and somehow be right. If Director Mendez couldn’t rein him in, if David’s icy glare didn’t work, why would Barry start listening now?

Especially when he flinched like a startled cat every time she so much as glanced at him.

(Not that she blamed him. She had been doing her best Vengeful Fury impression lately.)

Whatever. Time waited for no one.

Karen cracked her knuckles and set her fingers on the keyboard. “Ready.”

The room erupted into chaos as bets were shouted over her head. Karen typed like a machine, rapid-fire keystrokes matching each name and number thrown at her. No errors, no hesitations. Officers peeled away one by one after she confirmed their entries, until finally all that was left was the title field.

With a flourish, she typed: Snart’s Next Attack Day.

“That’s got no ring to it,” Eddie Thawne said, peering over her shoulder. Karen briefly considered putting a “DO NOT LEAN” plaque where his elbow rested.

“If you’ve got a better name, be my guest.”

He leaned in obnoxiously slow, pecking at the keyboard like it might bite him. Snart Attack.

Karen squinted. “That sounds like a cheap cologne.”

“It’s witty,” Eddie argued, trying to reclaim the keyboard.

She deleted it. He reached back in. They bickered silently over the keys until the text box looked like: fjrhfjcjjcjrhgrtxtwyaiowokfnvn lwppqslkkdjfjbfb.

“Um. Hi?”

They both froze.

Standing at the front desk was a woman, finger poised on the call bell. Glasses, ponytail, bright lipstick. She had a definite nerd vibe, but her outfit was just dramatic enough to give Karen pause. Maybe not a nerd. Maybe an overachiever. Maybe both.

At their silence, the woman pushed the bell slowly. Ding.

“I’m looking for a Barry Allen?” she asked, bouncing slightly on her heels, eyes already scanning the second floor.

Karen’s stomach twisted. Great. That reaction again. It was annoying how automatic it had become when Barry Allen’s name came up. But that wasn’t the only thing setting off alarms. Her senses (the ones that had gone haywire since the particle accelerator) were flaring. The way this woman scanned exits, how she looked toward the forensics lab without being told... too casual. Too precise.

Or maybe it was just Karen’s paranoia acting up. She did work at CCPD. She might’ve finally absorbed a cop’s instincts.

“Do you have an appointment, Miss?” Karen asked coolly.

“Felicity Smoak,” the woman said, brightly. “No, I don’t—do I need one? I didn’t think Barry was that busy, but maybe the lightning changed that? Should I leave and come back? Or make an appointment now? Do I stay? Is it weird if I stay?”

Karen blinked once. Twice.

“My God, there’s two of them,” Eddie whispered.

She elbowed him hard enough to startle a laugh out of him. “Miss Smoak, Barry’s not in right now,” he said with his most charming voice. “But if you’d like, you can go wait for him in his lab upstairs.”

Karen stepped on his foot. Hard.

Eddie winced, still smiling. “Karen,” he hissed, “ow.”

Felicity beamed and practically skipped toward the stairs.

Karen watched her go, eyes narrowed. Eddie gasped when she finally lifted her heel.

“She’s not allowed up,” Karen snapped.

“Why not?” Eddie shrugged, rubbing his foot. “Iris goes up all the time.”

Karen scowled. “Iris goes up because the entire department tiptoes around her. Now go bring Ms. Smoak back down.”

Eddie eyed her. “You sure this isn’t about her asking for Barry?”

Karen’s glare deepened. He flinched. He’d worked beside her long enough to know when he’d pushed too far... but not long enough to stop his mouth from digging the grave deeper.

“She’s the second woman he’s brought by this month.”

Karen didn’t need the reminder. She’d already made a mess of things when she’d denied access to one Dr. Caitlin Snow, Barry’s alleged personal physician (which sounded like something made up by someone with commitment issues). Worse, David had witnessed the whole thing and had judged her silently until he was called to the ER for Joe West’s emergency.

“I don’t know where you’re going with this,” Karen said tightly, shoving a pile of folders into his arms, “but if you keep talking, I won’t tell you what Bobby Bigmouth said about your latest inquiry.”

Eddie grunted under the weight, managing a pathetic “oof” before dropping the folders back on the desk. “What’s all this?”

“Everything you asked for.” She smirked. “Nine months of major cases. You want to find your ‘red streak’? Knock yourself out.”

He frowned. Iris had been obsessing over the ‘streak’ sightings for weeks now, even turning them into a blog. She’d also started snooping into Joe’s cases—which always ended with Eddie stammering after she kissed the info out of him.

Ah, yes. Love: the ultimate truth serum.

“He’s not real,” Eddie muttered stubbornly. “And I’m going to prove it.”

Karen thought of Barry’s theories. The ones he hadn’t finished telling her. The ones that came with chaos and lightning and surveillance cameras watching from the shadows.

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “You go do that.”

“ID, please,” said the man at the counter.

Mattie withheld a sigh and handed over her hospital badge. Her eyes wandered across the museum’s entrance hall, sleek and glassy. Too sterile for a place that claimed to preserve the intersecting histories of Central and Starling City. Minimalist architecture, cool lighting, and a lobby that felt more like a corporate showroom than a cultural monument. It was all too... curated.

Likely the influence of their top donor. He always did have a flair for merging medieval grandeur with contemporary edge.

"Why do we always do this, Matt?"

The short, graying man, dressed very much like a history professor, smiled professionally. "Because it's my job, ma'am." He wrote her name on the desk computer into the Visitors' Log and pushed the fingerprint scanner across the counter. "Your fingerprint, please."

She pressed her thumb to the scanner. The red light blinked green. Her ID photo and hospital credentials appeared onscreen.

“He’s on the second floor, Dr. Harcourt,” the receptionist said. “But... he’s asked that you wait for the tour first.”

Mattie had already started walking. She paused mid-step and turned slowly, brows raised. “What tour?”

The man she was meeting was her mentor. A master of words, his knowledge had earned him prestige, and the freedom to play many roles. He was a chameleon, always shifting, always adapting. Mattie often saw him surrounded by people from all walks of life: military officials, journalists, scientists. She figured it had something to do with his flair for theatrics, that larger-than-life presence he carried into every room.

But it also reminded her of the hold he had over Karen. The power he could wield if he ever decided to turn on her. And if that day came, Mattie knew exactly where she'd stand: guilty by association.

When that day came, Mattie knew she’d have to come clean with Karen about a lot of things. About how her studies had been funded by the man Karen loathed. About the secrets Mattie kept to stay one step ahead of him. About the quiet terror that Karen might one day pay the price for her protection.

Mathilda Harcourt’s life changed when she was thirteen. Her parents died, and she was left with an eight-year-old brother who couldn't walk. A Black orphan with a disabled sibling in Midvale's system? The odds were grim, and she’d known it.

Then came Karen.

Not “Karen Starr”. Not yet. Just a strange, wiry girl who threw herself in front of a drunk driver to protect Paul. Mattie hadn’t known what to make of her, bleeding and furious and trying to be brave. But when she held out her hand, Mattie took it.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was fate. Either way, her life shifted that day.

She hadn’t been swept into Karen’s orbit blindly. She became a doctor on her own terms. She studied medicine for Paul. She chose Metropolis over Gotham because the program was better. And years later, she chose to learn from the man who helped create the version of Karen she now watched over.

Keep your enemies close. She hated how well that advice had served her.

The tour began at seven sharp. A small group—business suits, a young family, a man in casual slacks. Mattie stood out in her running shoes and cropped lab coat. The guide, a chipper woman in a blue vest and thick glasses, did roll call with military efficiency before launching into her patter. Halfway through the tour, Mattie began to wonder if her history classes had ever been as mind-numbing as this woman’s cheerful rambling. If they had, she owed herself a long-overdue pat on the back. She couldn’t imagine anyone—child or adult—being genuinely interested in a historical figure who went by the name Bovine.

It wasn’t until they reached the Middle East wing that she understood why her mentor had chosen this museum for their meeting. Her breath caught when the guide, practically buzzing with excitement, announced, “And now, the exhibit I know you’ve all been waiting for—the legendary Kahndaq Dynasty diamond!”

The crowd erupted in awe, eyes drawn to the gemstone displayed in a pyramid-shaped glass case. It was stunning. Its surface shimmered in shifting shades of blue, so vivid it seemed to breathe. Visitors swayed from side to side, trying to count the changing hues.

Mattie didn’t move. She was rooted to the spot.

“Careful! Get too close and you’ll set off the proximity alarms.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” murmured a voice beside her.

The other visitors chuckled. Mattie didn’t. She was too stunned to make a sound.

“Today, Kahndaq is a small nation tucked in the Sinai Peninsula, bridging Africa and Asia,” the guide explained, her voice bright and practiced. “But in ancient times, it rivaled Egypt in power and influence. Sadly, Kahndaq was also struck by the same meteor showers that nearly ended Egypt’s New Kingdom.”

She stepped closer to the glass case. “According to legend, this diamond is one of the many tears the gods wept after the death of Ramesses II’s firstborn, Prince Khufu—though scholars still debate whether he ever truly existed. That ‘tear’ passed from king to king, until it reached the hands of Kahndaq’s monarch, Teth-Adam.”

The guide’s voice dropped theatrically. “Teth-Adam was a great leader. But once the diamond came into his possession, it’s said his mind began to unravel. Madness followed. His kingdom crumbled… until the diamond was finally taken from him. You’ll find many tales like this in our curator’s book, The History of Ancient Kingdoms: Legends of the Gods, available in our gift shop.”

She smiled brightly and moved on, the group trailing behind—except for Mattie.

And the man from before.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?”

She turned. “Excuse me?”

“The diamond,” he said, tilting his head toward the glass case. His voice was calm, his icy eyes locked on hers. “So much history tied to such a frivolous object. How much blood must’ve been spilled, all for a brief illusion of power. It makes one wonder if shame is the price of being human.”

Mattie stared at the gem, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah,” she muttered. “That about sums it up. It’s not even a diamond,” she added.

“Ah, but its price tag says otherwise.”

She smirked. “Exactly. That’s human nature for you—assigning value to the wrong things. Hence the phrase ‘diamond in the rough.’”

“Indeed,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps this was the one that started it all.” He smiled, gave a courteous nod, and walked off, leaving Mattie alone with the legend.

She waited until the tour had fully moved on. The security guards loitered at the edges, hands on radios. Then came the familiar scent of high-end cologne and the muffled tread of shoes on thick carpet.

“I’m not buying your book,” she said flatly, watching his reflection in the glass.

Her mentor chuckled behind her. “My dearest Mathilda, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

She didn’t turn.

“Tell me,” he said, stepping beside her, “what do you think of my newest acquisition?”

“I think you’re a liar. That stone isn’t from Kahndaq.”

He placed a hand over his heart in mock pain. “You wound me. But you’re not entirely wrong. It was recovered from the ruins of a temple—sealed inside a coffin marked with Coptic script.”

“And you didn’t disclose that because...?”

“Because public knowledge complicates private arrangements. And we both know our mutual friend would be... displeased.”

Karen.

Mattie bit the inside of her cheek.

Her gaze slid back to the gem, to its impossible color. That same impossible color.

“Is this what I think it is?” she asked.

He stepped close—too close—and leaned down, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. Not the same one, perhaps. But born of the same source that saved your friend fourteen years ago.”

“Meteor rock,” she whispered.

Her whole body recoiled. She stepped back—and into him.

Midvale High had taught her enough to recognize what she was looking at. The country hadn’t stopped talking for years about the meteor shower that nearly leveled an entire town. Official teams had been sent in for cleanup, safety assessments, and environmental checks. The town was eventually declared safe to live in.

Unofficially, one of those teams left with souvenirs—meteor rocks in strange, unnatural colors: red, black, green.

And blue.

The same blue that had stained Karen’s skin in the weeks after the particle accelerator exploded. The same shade that had seeped from her pores in fever-drenched nights. Mattie had collected it, studied it, sent it away.

And now here it was again, under glass, humming with dread.

She’d made a grave mistake. A massive one.

“If my calculations are correct,” he said, “this is the substance that has lived in Karen’s system all this time. And perhaps… the same one that led to young Clark Kent’s slow, unfortunate demise.”

Only then did Mattie turn to face him.

And see the smirk on the face of Lex Luthor.

She knew she shouldn't have done it. It was a serious, serious violation of the trust she shared with Barry and the S. T. A. R. Labs team, not to mention that she'd broken more laws than she'd had since she'd started working with Oliver, but she couldn't help it. The moment she saw the blonde bombshell at the reception, she knew that there was something wrong with her.

It wasn't jealousy. No. Nooo, not at all. She liked Barry, but not to the extent she loved Oliver. Barry was like a soulmate, except for the romantic strings. They had so much in common, they could have had so much fun as a couple, but she didn't see that relationship going anywhere.

But Felicity Smoak loved Barry as a friend. Yeah, she kind of had to sort her priorities. Damn her heart. But, again, they were fellow science nerds! People like them needed to watch the other's backs. And the only thing she was good at was tech. And the only way she could watch his back was through hacking.

Yeah. She wasn't proud that she had to resort to hacking her friends' (were they friends? It seemed so, but Dr. Wells' presence blotted that) awesome satellite (like really, the thing was just as good as Palmer Tech's, only the lesser because of lack of funding), but no one had bothered to call her when Barry finally woke up (even when she'd been checking in with both Cisco and Caitlin, the latter informing her that she was not family, which, rude). And if she'd continued with that trend, also hacking the CCPD's servers, no one, absolutely no one, could fault her, not when the station seemed overwhelmed with criminals much worse than Starling City's.

It was a good thing she had a good eye though. Or bad. Maybe it was bad. Because she didn't know what to make of her findings.

Seven months ago, a strange woman had infiltrated STAR Labs. Felicity couldn't find anything on her; even her best facial recognition software suffered from glitches—and ow, Felicity mourned them like she would a dead dog until she swiftly swore retribution. And she remembered.

The woman had worn nondescript clothes, the ones anyone would wear on the street. She was very much like Oliver in that sense. But there had been something else: a cuff. A silver cuff that looked entirely made of silver and the strange carving of an S inside a diamond shape. She hadn't thought of it much, simply cataloging the data in the depts of her brain—until she spotted it again at the CCPD. Being worn by one Karen Starr.

So on she went. She asked Ray Palmer—her boss who may or may not have been flirting with her after reeling from Oliver's twisted love declaration—for a break and made sure to have at least 3 Km between her and the Arrow Cave before she made contact with anyone. And then she arrived at the CCPD and saw, to her disbelief, the very same piece of jewelry on the receptionist's wrist.

It took everything—absolutely everything in her because she'd nearly become constipated and asked for the restroom instead (and why were restroom locations so hard to read in architectural schemes?)—to not freak out. Her hand nearly flung over to accuse the blonde and say, "You!" like they did in soap operas. Because, a) what had she been doing at STAR Labs, and b) what was her relationship with Barry Allen?

Her name, she would find later—like, way later, when Barry was nearly killed by this master criminal with an ice gun and he'd run off in anger after finding out Cisco had built it for him—was Karen Louise Starr. Born September 22, 1987, in Midvale, NY. She had a high school certificate from night school and only recently she'd begun her studies in a college and was currently finishing a BA in Computer Sciences through Gotham University's online services. One Captain David Singh of the CCPD was appointed her legal guardian by the Metropolis Courthouse.

Keywords legal guardian. Because Karen, apparently, had her records sealed by child services. Huh.

She didn't know it then. Oh, she would learn that her curiosity almost got her killed (again), but it wouldn't be until much, much later that she would concede that Karen Starr may be right. She shouldn't have stuck her nose where it didn't belong, let alone ruffle the feathers of certain government organizations.

The man standing before the massive monitor was every bit as intimidating as his reputation suggested. Corporal Sasha Bordeaux had spent over three years under General Wade Eiling’s command, watching him closely as she climbed the ranks—well aware that one day, his post might become hers.

But Eiling was a true American soldier, through and through. He played his cards close to the chest, revealing nothing until it suited him. All for the good of the country, he’d say with that smug grin that drove his superiors mad.

That was the problem, Sasha thought as she watched the soldiers scramble behind him. They’d given him too much power, and now they didn’t know whether to be afraid of him—or impressed.

“This is no time for naps, Bordeaux.” His lip curled as he turned toward her. She resisted the urge to return the expression. “Did you get the information?”

“The Asset is en route to Central City, just as you predicted.” She handed him the tablet, the screen showing Bette Sans Souci’s slow path from Los Angeles to Central. Sasha couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pity—Sans Souci had made her choices long before Sasha had joined Eiling’s team.

“And the other?”

Without a word, Sasha tapped the screen, swapping files.

“Felicity Meghan Smoak. Twenty-five. MIT graduate. A.R.G.U.S. flagged her for activity connected to the vigilante known as the Arrow—”

“I don’t care about some preppy blonde, Corporal,” he cut in, voice sharp. “Let me make it easier: I know who she is and what she found. What I want is a list of anyone else who accessed those files in the last fourteen years.”

“Officially, no one, sir. But we’ve traced ghost activity out of Metropolis and Gotham. Likely the same person,” she added with a grimace, “someone with full access to top-level servers.”

“Or someone with very powerful friends,” Eiling murmured, handing the tablet back. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and Sasha stiffened. That expression never meant anything good.

“Do you have a suspect in mind, sir?”

“Just one.” His smile widened. “Unfortunately, our politicians adore him. Keep eyes on Luthor. Round the clock. Let’s see what hole he crawls into this time.”

She saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

MIDVALE

SEPTEMBER 19^TH, 2003

Paul thrashed against her grip. Her pale hand stood out starkly against his dark skin—a contrast that made her recoil instinctively, dragging them deeper into the shadows of the warehouse. She ducked behind a stack of crates, her steps light, swallowed by the rhythm of marching boots echoing outside.

“No!” he cried, kicking at her with his good leg. She caught it before it landed. When he hissed in pain, she loosened her grip—but he didn’t stop.

“We can’t leave her! Go back—go back!”

“They won’t hurt her.”

“They shot at us!”

“They fired at movement,” she whispered sharply. “A rat scurrying through the dark.”

“They thought we were the rat! Why do they even have guns? We’re just kids!”

Her heart twisted.

“They think I’m dangerous,” she admitted. “They think I’ll hurt them.”

“You can’t even catch a fly!”

Were all eight-year-olds this mouthy? She didn’t want to knock him out—but if he kept talking, kept making noise, the soldiers would find them. Mathilda had clearly seen that risk too; in a rare flash of trust, she’d shoved Paul into her arms, explained the plan, and bolted in the opposite direction.

It was a good plan. A smart one. But if Paul didn’t shut up, none of it would matter.

The soldiers wouldn’t just find them.

They’d end them.

Or worse—take them.

Make them like me.

She was starting to understand what Dr. Luthor meant. Allies are expendable. Friends make you weak. Survival is a solo mission. Paul and Mathilda Harcourt were a threat to her survival. If she got caught now, everything she’d endured—every needle, every nightmare, every memory she’d clawed her way back from—would be for nothing.

Leave them.

I can’t.

You’ll be caged. You know what they’ll do to you.

She did. She didn’t know her real name, or where she came from. Didn’t remember her parents. But she remembered that. The icy fear of the glass chamber they locked her in, the click of digital locks sealing her fate. She didn’t just remember the pain of glowing needles breaking skin—she relived it. In her arms, her legs, her face.

And she never forgot the scar that wasn’t there anymore. Just a faint wrinkle on her sternum now, where her new heart had been placed. The gift given by an extraordinary boy.

The Harcourts wouldn’t survive what she had.

But you did.

A flashlight beam swept in their direction. Paul went still at last, his breath held tight behind the crook of his elbow. She pulled him close, her chin pressed into his shoulder, eyes fixed on the movement beyond the crate.

A soldier passed into view, head-to-toe camo, no helmet. Arrogance or stupidity, she couldn’t tell. Light brown hair, a Roman nose, square jaw clenched so tight she expected his teeth to crack like metal under pressure. His rifle dangled lazily from one arm.

Then he stopped.

In one fluid motion, the rifle snapped into position. The barrel turned—light flaring—locking onto a spot just left of her.

A shot cracked the air.

Paul trembled violently, burying his mouth in his arm to muffle the sound. She held him tighter, watching the crate splinter apart in front of them.

(Karen Starr wouldn’t forget that man’s steel eyes for years to come.)

CENTRAL CITY

NOVEMBER 14^TH, 2014

Karen never understood the appeal of bars. Sure, they were gold mines for intel the CCPD couldn’t legally dig up, but as entertainment? Pass. There were quieter corners of the city where a woman could drink without fending off creeps and dodging spilled beer.

Mattie, however, believed that a post-shift cocktail—well, several—was the perfect pre-vacation ritual. Unfortunately, drunk-Mattie came in only two flavors: wide-eyed child or tragic poet. Tonight she’d chosen broody statue, answering every question with a grunt and letting empty shot-glasses march across the bar like defeated soldiers.

Karen sighed and pushed her untouched drink aside. Its rim was stuffed with paper scraps—phone numbers from patrons who didn’t understand the word no. The bartender had merely raised an eyebrow; she suspected he’d seen stranger things than a tipsy doctor and a blonde doing her best wallflower impression.

But Karen could never hide for long. PJ called it her “comfort aura”—apparently people just drifted toward her. Mattie called it “death-by-glare” when Karen was annoyed. Either way, a creep always materialized, like the tall blond swaggering toward her now.

He braced one arm on the bar, the other on the back of her stool, pinning her between him and Mattie. “Hey,” he purred. “Noticed you were alone—”

“I’m not,” Karen said flatly, nodding at her unconscious friend.

“—with your friend,” he amended, unbothered. “Thought you two might like to join my buddies.”

She glanced at said buddies: thugs in designer knock-offs. “No.”

He chuckled, as if she’d mis-pronounced yes. “We don’t bite.”

“I do,” Karen replied, examining her crimson nails. “And I have claws.”

“Cute.” His fingers clamped around her forearm—hard. “Look, fattie, you might be good for a roll, but you’d only get a pity—”

“Hey, dude, she said no,” someone interrupted.

Karen beat him to it. She pivoted, locked his wrist, and torqued the joint the way CCPD self-defense instructors loved to demonstrate. Something in his arm gave a nasty grind. He yelped, trying and failing to punch free.

“Holy Wonder Woman!” the newcomer blurted—a compact guy with shaggy hair and a T-shirt that made her grin despite herself. “Pretty sure you just broke his wrist.”

“Is that Hot Topic’s limited-edition Adventure Time tee?” Karen asked, still holding the man in a painful angle.

“You bitch!” the creep barked, cradling his arm when she finally released him.

“Oh, hush,” Mattie muttered, suddenly lucid enough to glare. “It’s a sprain.”

“You haven’t even checked,” Karen whispered.

“Karen, no human breaks bone with that sloppy move,” Mattie replied, snorting.

“Which was dope,” the stranger added. Then, to the thug: “Dude, you’re an ass. Wait ten minutes and my detective best friend will be here to remind you that assaulting women is illegal—well, he’s sort of my friend’s friend’s co-worker who stole—okay, I’ll stop talking now.”

Two hulking buddies hauled the injured man upright. “She’s just a tiny girl,” one scoffed. “Quit whining.”

They slunk off. The chatter in the bar resumed.

“Thank God they left,” the shaggy-haired guy exhaled. “I was bluffing about the detective. I mean, I know a detective—kind of.”

Mattie, now a dead weight against Karen’s back, slurred, “That’s a lot of kind-ofs,” then slid off her stool—straight onto Karen.

Karen stared at the ceiling. “Need help?” the stranger asked.

“No, but thanks for earlier.” She hefted Mattie back onto the bar with one arm.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I didn’t do much.”

She made a show of looking around, at the throng that had returned to casual conversations and the bartender, who had his back to them but held himself stiff. Karen would make sure their common acquaintance knew of his 'performance'.

“You did more than anyone.” She offered her hand. “Karen Starr. Also, I love your shirt.”

He brightened. “Cisco Ramon. And you—wow—you floored that guy. Well, technically you knelt him.”

Karen’s smile twitched. She hadn’t meant to wrench that hard. CCPD’s class hadn’t taught her that, and the Gotham instructor who’d tutored her in fear tactics definitely hadn’t either.

Mattie groaned. Duty called. “Drinks are on me tonight,” Karen told Cisco. She turned to the bartender. “Roger, anything Cisco and his friends order goes on my tab.”

Cisco’s eyes widened. “Whoa—that’s… generous.”

“Just gratitude.” Karen crouched, and Mattie draped herself over her shoulders like a limp scarf. With practiced ease, Karen stood, securing her friend’s legs.

Cisco watched, jaw hanging. Other patrons barely looked up—regulars were used to the blonde exiting with her overserved companion. They hadn’t witnessed the early learning curve that included several accidental drops.

Karen offered Cisco a final nod and carried Mattie out, her friend giggling and kicking at imaginary clouds.

Barely a minute later Barry Allen breezed in, spotting Cisco by the bar. “Hey, man—you okay?”

Cisco was still staring at the door, star-struck. “Dude… I just met the most beautiful, badass woman ever.”

Barry laughed. “After hearing that four times, it kinda loses impact.”

Cisco pouted. “Yeah, but this time I really mean it.”

MIDVALE

SEPTEMBER 19^TH, 2003

Mattie felt like an idiot. She should have tossed the scrappy runaway to the wolves instead of shadowing this abandoned warehouse—but Paul’s words echoed in her head:

Nobody helped us. Who’s gonna help her?

No one, that’s who. And Buzz Aldrin’s gang had already marked the girl for “collection.” The moment Mattie saw that, she knew she couldn’t walk away—no matter how weird the stranger was.

What she hadn’t counted on were soldiers. If she’d known she’d be playing hide-and-seek with a squad of trigger-happy mercs, she might’ve thought twice. Paul was her responsibility. Yes, the stranger had yanked him out of a speeding truck’s path, but now they were all in deeper trouble.

A gunshot cracked. Mattie jerked reflexively, knocking over a stack of dusty boxes. Flashlights snapped her way; hard beams sliced through the dark.

Rough hands wrenched her arms behind her back and shoved her face-first to the concrete. “Found a suspect!” someone barked inches from her ear.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked, pain flaring in her knees as a knee pinched down on her legs—far too much weight for a “suspect.”

Her forehead hit the floor. Stars exploded across her vision.

“Silence!” another voice growled.

Footsteps pounded. A different silhouette sprinted toward them, dress shoes—not military boots—skidding to a halt. “Hey! What do you think you are doing? She’s a kid!”

There was a chilling metallic click.

The man froze.

“Easy there, Officer Singh,” the squad leader said smoothly. “We wouldn’t want you to provoke an accident, do we?”

CENTRAL CITY

NOVEMBER 15^TH, 2014

The sight of so many soldiers gathered in the reception petrified Karen.

A man barked orders. There was a chorused yes, sir! and soon soldiers broke formation and strutted in different directions, their weapons swinging over their shoulders and helmets gleaming in the low light of the station. The cops, Karen saw, had stuck close to the windows or their desks; like her, they were frozen.

"Ma'am," snapped a harsh voice, "you're in the way."

(You’re in the way, kid. Hand her over and this doesn’t get ugly.)

The ancient memory rattled her enough that she shuffled sideways without a word, sliding in behind Kristen at the front counter.

The red-haired clerk didn’t look up. “Nosy morning, right?”

“What’s the military doing here?” Karen hissed, dropping onto her chair.

“Rogue asset in the city,” Kristen murmured, fingers flying over the visitor log. “Our beloved forces decided Central City is the perfect place to beta-test new hardware—shift moved here from Starling overnight. Rumor says some shiny new billionaire twisted arms.”

“Great. Just great.”

A beef-necked private stopped to glare. Both women answered with bright, empty smiles until he stalked off. Kristen immediately shoved a notepad at her. “List of files the general wants. Captain says not to step in his office—he’s got it handled.”

“General? What general?” But Kristen was already walking toward the elevators.

Karen scanned the list—David’s handwriting. At the bottom, penciled in block letters: STAY LOW.

She emailed the requested files to Singh from her desktop, fingers steady even though the rest of her felt like gelatin. No soldier bothered her corner, no cop dared cross the camo tide—

—until Joe West barreled through reception.

Conversation died as he made a beeline for Singh’s office. Eddie Thawne paused at Karen’s counter, eyes round as dinner plates.

“What’s going on?”

She shrugged; Officer Vukovich answered while passing, “Who knows? They barged in like they own us. Been talking with the Captain half an hour.”

“This can’t be good,” Eddie muttered—just as Singh’s door opened.

David emerged, face locked down. Beside him towered a broad-shouldered man easily six-foot-plus, uniform immaculate. Resignation flashed in David’s eyes the moment Joe intercepted them.

“General Eiling, this is Detective West.”

The general’s smile was all teeth. He extended a hand; Joe took it, but his gaze tracked the two soldiers carrying cardboard evidence boxes out of the office.

“What’s this all about?”

“The Army’s taking over the bombing investigation,” Eiling said, voice gravel-smooth. A smug twist curled his lips. “I’ll need everything you have—physical evidence, photographs, witness interviews, all your personal notes.”

Joe kept his tone even. “I’ve been on the job nearly twenty years. Never heard of the Army investigating anything civilian.”

Silence knifed through the bullpen.

“Well, it’s not civilian,” Eiling replied, smile sharpening. “She’s one of ours.”

“We’ll send over everything we’ve got,” Joe said.

Eiling stepped closer, menace dialed just shy of open threat. “Very kind of you. I think we’ll take it now, though.”

Karen felt the tension coil; fight-or-flight roared in her ears. David eased between the two men. “Give them what they want, Joe.”

Eiling chuckled. “You heard him, Joe.” He turned on his heel toward the elevators. “Give me what I want.”

Halfway there he paused—head swiveling just enough to let cold eyes lock onto the reception desk.

She averted her gaze, focusing on the computer before her. His footsteps sounded too loud now that she knew she was the object of his interest.

His shadow fell over her. She kept working, pushing one key at a time, dumbing herself down at that moment. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me…

The elevator's ping brought many things: a distraction in the form of Barry Allen, the presence of Joe West to her corner, a soldier to General Eiling's side. Karen seized the window, slipped from her chair, and ghosted toward Records before the general’s gaze could settle on her again.

David stood at his office window, rigid as marble, watching the last Humvee rattle away from the precinct.

“You need to get out of Central,” he said without turning. “Eiling recognized you.”

Karen folded her arms. “He barely looked at me.”

Hardly true, a voice in her head muttered. One flick of those ice-blue eyes and every alarm in her nervous system had gone off. It rattled Karen that she hadn’t recognized General Wade Eiling immediately. Except for a dusting of silver at his temples and a few new worry-lines, the man looked exactly the same. She’d tracked every promotion and rumor in his career, comforted by the fact that he’d always stayed penned to the opposite coast. Now he was on her doorstep.

David finally faced her, expression bland enough to fool a polygraph. “Let’s not give him a second look. I booked you on the evening train to Starling.”

She cocked a brow. “A sudden one-way ticket? That’s not suspicious at all.”

“Starling University invited you to its Computer Science symposium.” A hint of amusement tugged at his mouth. “Courtesy of Wayne Enterprises.”

She sputtered. “You called Bruce?”

“He owed me a favor,” David said, as if billionaire favors were soda-can pull tabs. “And I only learned yesterday that our esteemed General was rolling east with a convoy.”

“So I’m already on the guest list?”

“Naturally.”

Karen blew out a breath, half exasperation, half relief. “Fine. Extra credit never hurts, right?”
Inside, her pulse was doing sprints—Starling, Wayne sponsorships, Eiling on the hunt—but outwardly she just smoothed her blazer and began planning the quickest, stealthiest route to the station.

Karen boarded the evening train to Starling wearing her “run-for-your-life” uniform—loose hoodie, sneakers, and an emergency backpack packed to bursting. No tails, no suspicious shadows. She even scored an empty carriage. Perfect… which, of course, made her twice as jumpy.

She kept her phone pocketed, earbuds untouched, eyes fixed on the window glass—but only for the reflection. Every flicker, every corridor echo, logged. Paranoia, 1. Complacency, 0.

The train hissed into Starling’s central station. Karen rose—

—and was slammed back into her seat as the entire carriage lurched. Lights died, engine whined down to silence. A beat later the screaming started, passengers outside her car stampeding in blind terror.

Panic, Karen never understood. Fight-or-flight, sure. But mindless shrieking? Useless. She stayed still, scanning.

The carriage monitors flickered to life, filling the dark with red cascading code and a single symbol: a cat-slit iris haloed by circuitry.

A metallic voice rolled through the speakers:

“We are Brother Eye. Judgment is rendered against this city. An earthquake, a siege—life on your knees awaits, at the push of a button. We are in control. And this is only the beginning.
Let there be light.”

The screens snapped off. Power surged; fluorescents snapped back; the panicked roar outside fell to stunned silence.

Starling welcome committees, Karen thought, shouldering her bag. David is never going to hear the end of this.

Karen glanced up into the glare, shielding her eyes with one hand and pinning her phone to her ear with the other.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Mattie huffed on the line.

“It’s not like I planned this trip,” Karen answered, rolling her eyes. “David handled everything. You should’ve seen his face when his perfect plan back-fired.” She grinned, remembering the security-feed clips she’d quietly converted to GIFs for future blackmail material.

Mattie sighed. “He could’ve shipped you anywhere—but Starling City? That place collects murderers: Dark Archer, Clock King, Huntress—”

“Oh please. Gotham’s rogues have goofier names: Penguin, Mr. Freeze.”

“Yeah, but Gotham isn’t hit with a terrorist plot every season! You should get the first flight home—”

“Can’t.” Karen kicked a pebble, studying its bounce across the plaza outside Starling University. “The guy on TV put the city under siege. No transport out unless you fancy ‘a fate worse than death’—his words.”

“Where exactly are you?” Mattie demanded.

“At the university, by the fountain facing Weisinger Hall.” Karen scanned the massive neo-Greek façade; the tech building tucked behind it looked like a dolled-up janitor’s closet by comparison.

“How’d the conference go?”

Karen winced, turning away so passersby couldn’t read her expression. She cleared her throat before answering. “Good. Really good. One presenter—Mr. Nygma—had some…interesting comments. Fellow Gothamite, you know.”

Mattie laughed. “Let me guess—he opened with a Gotham-versus-Starling joke?”

“Exactly,” Karen lied quickly. In truth Nygma had practically romanticized the previous day’s cyber-attack, and Karen’s “comment” had spiraled into a full-blown shouting match that ended with both of them escorted off campus. Nygma was still pacing outside the gates, ranting at security.

“Don’t worry,” she added, forcing a breezy tone. “I’ve got everything under control. Consider this a study break.”

“Crap—ER triage just paged me,” Mattie blurted. “Call you later, Kara!” The line clicked dead.

Phone stowed, Karen surveyed the quad. Despite the citywide lockdown, students milled around like nothing was wrong—pure Gothamite attitude: wait for a vigilante to fix it while you grab coffee. Shrugging her bag higher, she took a stone-paved shortcut between buildings. The narrow path was deserted, and the uneven stones wobbled her thin heels until she finally slipped them off.

That was when she heard it—a sharp, amplified inhale.

Instinct kicked in. She flattened, and a green-fletched dart whizzed past her ear, embedding itself in the wall. Rolling right, she scanned upward.

A figure in a green hood stared down from the roofline, hand to his mouth. She didn’t hear the second dart—just felt its sting at her throat. Liquid fire raced up her nose and down her airway; she gagged, vision tunneling.

Desperate, Karen crawled forward until her fingers closed around a boot. She tried to crush the ankle—if she could just squeeze hard enough—but the tranquilizer dragged her under.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Water dripped somewhere in the dark. Karen kept her breathing slow… let her brain replay those last seconds: a green hood, a dart, the taste of fire in her throat.

Don’t move yet.

Cold metal under her shoulders, cold air everywhere. A morgue? No. There was no rot, only damp concrete and the faint smell of greenery.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

She listened harder. Beneath the water and the hum of machinery were voices.

“You said she was the only one who could stop it!”

“I was kidding, Oliver! I said Starr could give them a run for their money. Nobody’s better than me—okay, yes, some people are smarter, but me saying she could beat me was sarcasm. I needed to blow off steam. I can’t exactly fire arrows for stress relief.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was not happening.

“You kinda did jump the gun,” another man rumbled—deep, bedtime-story voice that annoyingly soothed her nerves.

“Do you realize who she is?” the woman snapped, heels clicking closer. “She works for CCPD—her dad is the captain—and she’s Barry’s ex!”

A breeze fluttered over Karen’s face.

She lashed out. One hand clamped the newcomer’s wrist; the other locked around her throat in a textbook restraining hold. Felicity Smoak squeaked as Karen hauled herself upright onto the slab—definitely not a morgue table but a training bench in a cavernous basement. One half was all tech: servers, monitors, glowing screens. The other half was weapons and mats—arrows everywhere. And right now, one emerald-fletched shaft was aimed directly at her by the Arrow himself.

“You’re shorter than I expected,” she blurted.

Green Hood did not appreciate the observation. “Put her down,” the archer growled—and, credit where it’s due, that voice modulator could terrify a poltergeist.

Please. She’d survived Batman’s interrogation once; everything since ranked as kids’ karaoke night.

“Why am I here?” Karen shot back, tightening her arm around Smoak’s neck. The bowstring inched farther. “Careful—I’ve still got the high ground.”

“Can’t argue,” the teen in crimson leather chirped from behind Green Hood—superhero chic by way of runway model.

Click.

Karen’s eyes slid sideways. The baritone belonged to a mountain-tall man, dark-skinned, pistol steady on her.

Felicity Smoak attempted a nervous swallow. The sound came out as a squeak.

“Starr—Karen—my friend didn’t mean to kidnap you. He misread my sarcasm. We…really need your help.”

“You just mocked my abilities.”

“I—okay, yes, I did, and I’m sorry, but look where you work—can you blame me?”

“Just because hacking top-secret servers is your hobby and not mine doesn’t make me obsolete.” Karen released her, Smoak rubbing her neck theatrically. “Answer’s no.”

“You haven’t even heard the problem!”

Karen gestured at the bank of monitors. “Vigilante partner, city-wide blackout, smug megalomaniac on every screen—easy puzzle. And I still hold the high ground.”

Felicity finally registered the standoff. “John—Arrow—down.” She jabbed a finger at each of them. “We are not heathens.”

The pistol lowered instantly. The arrow remained—until Felicity’s glare forced the hooded archer to ease the bowstring, though he kept it nocked.

“The super-virus—the X-axis bionumeric algorithm—” she rushed on, voice shaking, “it’s mine. A dumb college project meant to stick it to the ‘Big Man.’ I never built a kill-switch, and now I can’t stop it."

"Felicity," the Arrow called softly, but Smoak wasn't done.

“Nine injured, two in critical care. I can’t let this keep happening.” She drew a breath, eyes flicking to Karen. “I saw your work at Gotham-U. You’re… almost as good as I am. Please.”

Karen’s sigh filled the basement. One monitor dissected the malware’s code; two more were already tunneling through SCPD servers, chasing its source.

She hopped off the bench. “Tell me you were smart enough to abduct me with my laptop.”

Chapter Text

Karen learned many things during her short stay at the Arrow Cave.

First—Oliver Queen was the Arrow. Or the Arrow was Oliver Queen. Karen didn’t care for gossip, but Central City lacked its own celebrities, so attention often drifted to Starling’s elite. Queen had once been the classic spoiled rich kid until he vanished at sea, only to return five years later. Since then, he’d been arrested twice for allegedly being the hooded vigilante. The charges never stuck, but in Karen’s opinion, that should’ve been the biggest red flag in the world.

The second thing was that Queen was stupidly in love with Smoak. The kind of head-over-heels that made him emotionally compromised. Which didn’t bode well for anyone.  

Three—side-hack confirmed the rest of the roster: John Diggle, ex-military; and Roy Harper, reformed street punk. Two unlikely men to be caught with Oliver Queen, except Karen saw something in their eyes that gave her pause. People often described others to have a glint in their eye, but these men had the opposite—a shadow that screamed back away, I’ve got ghosts to carry.  

Fact number four—Felicity Smoak had a distinct coding style. Not surprising, given her personality. If Karen had a "Big Sister" complex, Smoak took it to Orwellian levels. Which brought her to fact number five, the most important of all: Smoak had hacked into the CCPD’s servers.

It should've been an aha! moment. But Smoak's signature code was completely different from the mysterious surveillance stalker. The guy—or girl—was a master at not leaving traces. Smoak was good, but not that good. And Karen knew this because her digital prints were all over Karen Starr’s child services records. Files that were supposedly under lock, forever away from prying eyes—

—unless you were one of the three people who could access them... Luthor, Eiling, or Karen herself. And all three of them kept tabs.

She. Was. Furious. Karen wasn’t the explosive type, but her anger rose with each passing minute, with each thwack made by the wooden escrima sticks the Arrow and Harper used as they trained, with each second that she could feel Mr. Diggle’s eyes digging into the back of her skull—

All of that had to take a backseat when her computer started beeping.

“What’s that?” Mr. Diggle asked, confused, but Karen pressed a button.

“Uh oh.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Harper murmured.

“It’s...” Karen took a deep breath. “My tracer.”

The escrima sticks stopped. Then, without making a sound, Queen materialized in front of her, behind their computer setup. His eyes were flinty behind his half mask.

“What tracer?”

Did he ever take off the voice synthesizer? “The one I dropped about two hours ago,” she revealed reluctantly. “Smoak stepped on it, and now it’s active because it’s sensed some advanced tech.” Was it stupid? Maybe. But it was a special chip made with Wayne Tech, so it was very unlikely any of them would’ve found it in months. Smoak wouldn’t have even been able to detect it.

The comment did not please Queen. The grip on his bow tightened so hard the leather of his gloves creaked.

“Why did you do that?”

It was her turn to give him a dirty look. “You guys kidnapped me. In public, during daylight. Me throwing a tracker on your floor should be the least of your worries!”

The Arrow slammed his hand on top of the monitor. Diggle warned, “Don’t!”

But Karen stood up, and slammed both hands on the desk, ignoring the fatal sound the metal made.

“What? You gonna kill me? Do it.”

It was the anger speaking. It had to be. Karen couldn’t recognize the voice that came out of her or the way her muscles twitched. She’d never reacted like that before. But if Queen wanted a fight, she was going to give him one, damn him if he was an expert assassin or not.

A cellphone rang. Without looking away from the two blondes, Diggle picked up.

“Yeah? What? Okay, keep me updated.” He threw a scolding look at them. “Man, you’ll have to push this for later. Felicity’s place was attacked.”

Karen’s attention snapped towards him, but not as fast as Queen’s.

“That’s why she hasn’t come back. Felicity’s never been MIA over an hour.”

He dialed her up. But the phone didn’t ring. Instead, the usual machine voice said, “The number you’ve dialed is unavailable.”

Karen rolled her shoulders before turning to her laptop to press a few keys.

“Huh. So that’s what turned it on.” Her chip had been made to locate Barry’s stalker’s special microphones. Tech like that gave off serious electromagnetic waves. But whoever had kidnapped Smoak had the right amount of technology to equal it. “I can find her.”

The Arrow pointed a finger at her, mouth open into a snarl, but she snapped, “Look, I don’t give a damn about what happens to Smoak, but time’s ticking. Either let me do what you wanted me to or let her die.”

Playing with his heartstrings did the trick. Queen was still tense, but his coiled fury wasn’t being directed at her anymore. Instead, he paced in front of her like a caged tiger waiting to be let out while she worked.

Karen’s fury was still there, but like Queen, she could redirect it. Her laptop was custom-built, a Frankenstein’s monster of Wayne Tech parts and her own brilliant handiwork, and it usually did all tasks by itself, though it was slow going now and, at some point, the tracker got jammed.

It hurt her pride to the point that she actually cracked her knuckles and set to work. Then, at last, there was a matching beep from the laptop and the Arrow’s computers.

“There!” Karen's satisfied smile slipped into a frown. “Huh. Someone used the same algorithm that pinged her location to re-route two armored Treasury trucks. Guess where they’re headed?”

“Where?” Diggle asked.

“A warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Northeast sector.” She hesitated. “Slade Wilson’s last known base.”

She’d read the papers: the sociopath who’d unleashed an army of Mirakuru-enhanced soldiers on Starling’s Glades. Who’d executed Moira Queen on live TV. Officially MIA—but Karen had a strong hunch Team Arrow knew more than the records did.

“The SCPD cordoned off the site after the Deathstroke raid,” Harper said. “Mayor declared it a hazard zone.”

“Step inside, you’re cashing in your one-way ticket to hell,” Karen muttered, reading the many, many articles requesting to destroy it, and the greater quantity of police reports about those who tried.

Arsenal raised an eyebrow. “You’re… bleak. I thought Central City people were, you know—cheerier?”

Karen gave him a look. “I’m from Gotham.”

Understanding dawned. Harper's eyes lit up suddenly.

“Wait, does that mean you’ve seen the Batman?”

Karen was so surprised by the question she didn’t see Queen manifesting between them like a wraith, wearing the most irritated look she’d seen so far.

"Batman's an urban legend concocted by the GCPD to scare away the lunatics," he said. "Let's go."

In the monitor’s reflection Karen saw the Arrow tip his head toward Diggle. Then his piercing gaze was on her. She should've looked away, but she didn't; like him, she wasn't ashamed of being caught. She understood his hesitance to trust her—Karen didn't trust him either, after all. She was a stranger in their operation, a threat. She would treat him the same way if tables were turned.

Diggle (“Call me Dig”) stayed behind when the others moved out, choosing to stand beside her rather than hover at her back. He moved deliberately, never slipping from her peripheral vision. It was the kindest thing anyone had done for her in weeks—second only to David’s spur-of-the-moment road trip.

“Felicity seriously undersold your skills,” he said, watching the team’s progress on-screen.

Karen weighed her reply. No sense antagonizing the one person who seemed to like her.

“I’m kind of new at this,” she admitted. “Hacking isn’t my specialty, but with the right tech, anything's possible. And my tech's nothing short of miraculous."

He chuckled. Then: "Don't mind Oliver." He smiled at the look she shot him. "If you heard Felicity, then you certainly heard her say his name. He's worried about her stake in this.”

“He’s in love with her.” Diggle’s shrug confirmed it. “And speaking of personal stakes—doesn’t it feel like this whole mess is aimed at her?”

His brow furrowed. After a moment he asked, “Can you pull up a name—Cooper Seldon?”

Karen snorted. “Bet he blames his parents for that one.” She ran the search.  A file popped up with his information, including a photograph of a young man who was the epitome of repressed anger and greed. His list of crimes followed, making Karen's brow rise. "Wow. They threw the book at him, didn't they?" The FBI had captured him and sent him straight to Iron Heights with a life sentence. What you got for betraying the good old U.S. of A. It probably explained his pitiable death: suicide just after lunch.

"Can you bring up his death certificate?"

She did. Diggle studied it.

“You think he’s still alive?”

"Like you said: too many coincidences,” he said.

She nodded slowly. Suspicion arose, and she compared Smoak’s coding signature to the patterns in Seldon’s old hacks. As she expected, he had his own trademark in coding, less conspicuous than Felicity's and, in Karen's opinion, very telling about his character.

“What are you doing?”

“Hackers have egos,” Karen said, fingers flying. “Most slip a little signature into their code—subtle, but traceable as a pattern. I’m checking if Seldon’s mark matches Brother Eye’s.”

“But the code we found is Felicity’s.”

“Yeah, and Felicity wouldn’t recycle the same wrapper every time.” The terminal pinged. “Ha—match. Seldon’s not dead. If he’s anywhere near her skill level, some black-ops outfit scooped him up. Happens more often than you’d think where I’m from.”

Diggle exhaled through his nose, half-impressed, half-worried. “Oliver’s going to love this.” He leaned closer to the monitors. "Arrow, Arsenal—Starr's found out Brother Eye's identity. It's Cooper Seldon."

"The ex?" called Arsenal in surprise. "I thought Felicity said he died?"

Karen's computer and the basement's pinged at the same time.

“What’s that ping?” Diggle asked.

“S.O.S. Felicity’s piggy-backed onto a stray Wi-Fi signal and pushed her GPS. I’m sending coordinates now.” Her fingers flew. “And—great—she says the place is laced with automated guns. Give me one minute and I can shut them down.”

“Don’t have a minute,” Arrow snapped. “Arsenal, cover the perimeter—I’m going in.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Karen shot back. “You’ll be Swiss cheese before you reach her!”

Diggle stayed calm. “If Oliver says go, he’s already worked the angles.”

“Angles still bleed,” she muttered. The firewall crawled. Too slow. She smacked the desk. “Think, Karen—” Then it hit her. “If Felicity found outside Wi-Fi, I can ride the same signal and open an audio feed. We’ll hear everything inside.”

"... Who would've thought that I'd become the grue?"

"Hey! Hey!" a woman yelled. "You wanna wave that gun at me, fine, but don't you dare threaten my daughter."

Seldon, she assumed, laughed.

"Here I thought you were all nails and hair."

"Try single mom who's worked 60-hour weeks for tips to raise that genius child you see right there. I mean, I don't understand all this cyber-whatever, but I know without that gun you wouldn't last 10 seconds against my girl."

"Too bad she doesn't have 10 seconds."

"I disagree," cut the Arrow. Karen held her breath. "Put the gun down."

"You were always good, Felicity. So good. But so am I."

Karen's computer pinged once more. She grinned.

"What?!"

"Nailed him!" Karen yelled, clasping her hands. Diggle threw her a look.

"It's over, Seldon!"

Arsenal's voice came through, accompanied by the sound of gunshots. "Guys? I've got a guy with a bazooka!"

"Redirect him!" Diggle said, standing up from his chair. He pulled out his phone and started typing a message.

Karen's hands went to her hair. "Is this the time to be sending a message?"

"I'm calling backup."

"Arsenal, distract him! I'm on my way."

"It's too late—"

Harper's comm cut off completely, replaced by static. From Oliver's end, Karen heard a loud explosion echoing in the distance.

"Arsenal! Roy!"

A pause.

Diggle said, "Oliver?"

"I don't... he's gone."

Karen covered her mouth with one hand, eyes wide in disbelief. Had Roy Harper died?

Lightning crackled behind her. She jumped a foot in the air, Diggle's hand shooting to steady her as every sheet of paper in the vicinity floated around them.

They had two new companions in the Arrow Cave: a shaken but still alive Arsenal, and a man clad in a dark red full-body suit made of leather—quite literally as, unlike the archers, he wore a helmet that seemed woven into it. The only openings were for his eyes and mouth, which blurred the moment she set eyes on him.

"Oh, my Rao," Karen breathed. "Who the hell is that?"

Diggle was no better. The phone fell from his hand, his pleasant face undecided to express itself as he took in their second guest of the day. It was the first time he looked... shocked.

"Unbelievable," he muttered.

"Dig! Starr! What's going on?"

"Arsenal's alive. He's... standing right in front of us." Karen shook her head, eyes stuck on the blurring stranger. "With another dude in red. Who is blurring his face.” She sat down heavily. “I've just hit my quota of the weird for today."

"That's impossi—right. Of course. Starr, I need you to self-detonate the place."

She wanted to keep looking at that stranger. It was one thing to read about ‘metahumans’ and a completely different thing to be looking at one with your own eyes. But her hand couldn’t reach that far, so she turned the chair around.

She sought the scarlet man’s reflection on the monitors. He’d stopped blurring.

"Are the Smoaks in the clear?"

"Yes. On my word: three, two, one—"

She clicked F while the other went to cover her ear. Still, her sensitivity allowed her to catch the sound of the explosion—the suctioning of air before everything went boom.

"Arrow?" she called.

"We're fine. We all are."

She exhaled her relief. "You did it."

Diggle clasped her shoulder.

"You did it," he repeated with a smile. She returned it, eyes going to him and back to Arsenal—

—who was now maskless and alone.

Karen would’ve bolted the moment the mission ended, but no such luck. Queen’s sister—Thea, according to Roy—showed up to check on Verdant, the club hiding the Arrow Cave. She poked around the basement entrance, so Karen, Diggle, and Harper had to hang back while Oliver steered Thea upstairs.

Felicity never returned, which irked Karen, though Donna Smoak’s panic earlier took the edge off her anger. If spending time with her daughter would help her, then so be it.

When Harper finally limped over to the training mats, Karen turned to Diggle. "Who was the guy? The one with—with the lightning." She couldn't believe she was saying that in a hushed tone. It wasn't like he was going to return. And Karen knew, she fucking knew, that people with extraordinary abilities had existed long before the particle accelerator blew up.

Then again, nothing good ever came when Karen got involved in those cases.

“A friend,” Diggle said.

“A super friend?”

He only smiled.

A moment later he had another favor: track an A.R.G.U.S. armored van that spirited Cooper Seldon out of town. It took Karen an hour to hop city cameras and evade counter-surveillance, but they nailed the route.

Nearly twenty-four hours later, Diggle finally dropped her at her hotel. The front-desk clerk passed over a thick stack of Post-its—voicemails from Mattie and David. Great.

Up in her room, Karen kicked the door shut and was surprised to feel genuine exhaustion. Since waking from that three-month coma she’d been a perpetual motion machine, running on four hours of sleep and never slowing down. Tonight her limbs felt heavy, her eyelids gritty—proof she might actually get the full night’s rest she’d been chasing.

Or at least she thought so, until she saw the shadow in the corner of her room, the moonlight highlighting the outline of the Arrow's bow.

"I just want to sleep," she groaned from the bed, lying face down. "It's all I wanna do. I helped your girlfriend erase her mistake. What more do you want?"

Queen—rather, the Arrow (it was like he refused to shed that persona aside, like that was all of him there was when he had no allies at his side)—stepped into the light. To her surprise, he reached for his neck, and the background noise she'd been steadily ignoring throughout the day vanished.

“What are you?” His voice was soft. Incredible for a man who spoke in guttural tones. He just had to keep surprising her.

“I’m Karen Starr—”

“You’re lying. And that’s not my question. Are you a metahuman?”

Her eyes shot to him. As far as she was aware, only Barry Allen and STAR Labs knew about that term—they had conned it, for Rao's sake. Karen and those in the know called these beings 'enhanced'. Had Queen heard the term from Barry himself? If so, how? What was their relationship?

“I’m not,” she said evenly.

"The first tranq I used on you was supposed to knock you out for four hours, but it didn't land. The second was for animals of great size—it literally should've knocked you out for a day. But you woke up one hour past."

Her hand flew to her neck. "You used an elephant tranquilizer on me?"

Queen continued as if she hadn't spoken. "It barely had any effect on you. I'm thankful for your help, but that was a one-time thing. So I have to ask: what kind of trouble have you brought to my city?"

Karen stood up, offended. “Me? Your girlfriend dragged the U.S. military to Central by poking around classified files! I had to run for my life.”

“Felicity didn’t—”

“She hit national-security dossiers tagged by A.R.G.U.S., H.I.V.E., and a certain General who showed up at my job. All to see who Barry Allen dated.” She threw her hands up. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked to stay invisible?”

Do you know how long the people I care about have? Do you know how much danger she has placed on everyone?

Oliver exhaled, eyes shuttering for a beat. “Will they come here?”

“No. Eiling pulled back after his latest stunt.” She folded her arms. “Can’t say the same for A.R.G.U.S.—and rumor says that’s on you.”

"You're very aware of your enemies. That's good—we happen to share."

He zipped his jacket down and pulled out a manila folder, gently settling it on the bed. Karen made no move toward it.

"It doesn't bite," he said, amused.

"It could always explode."

His eyes narrowed.

"Fine!" She opened it and gazed down at the pictures. Her brow rose. "Why am I looking at pictures of a corpse?"

"Her name’s Sara. She was murdered last month by an unknown assailant." He hesitated. "She is—was—a member of the League of Assassins."

Her breath caught.

“No. Absolutely not.”

The League of Assassins. That wasn’t a name she had heard in a long time. She shouldn’t have known about them, but once upon a time, the League had tried to destroy Gotham by detonating the whole city, not unlike Malcolm Merlyn's Undertaking. Fear toxin spread throughout Gotham, raising chaos—and allowing the leader to step in and continue his nefarious plans.

The Batman had stopped him. Everybody knew that. But it took many years for the information on that case to trickle into the light, and Karen... she was forbidden to investigate them.

The military had sent her scurrying like a rat. The League? Karen wasn’t sure what to make of them. Only that, if they could, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. And dying wasn’t the plan.

"No. Whatever you want me to do, I won't. I won't. You can't threaten me into this."

"I'm asking," said Queen, and damn him for that slight quiver in his voice. That little tidbit of humanity lay between them. She preferred him to be the heartless archer that struck her down. "Sara was my friend. And the League has come looking for her assassin. Starling City's time is coming near as we speak."

"What can I do that Smoak can't?" It hurt to admit the other blonde was better at something. But Karen knew her limits.

"For one, you don't have my heart."

It was a dangerous call to trust Karen Starr, but time, like everything else in Starling lately, was slipping through Oliver’s fingers. But once Oliver matched the face, he couldn’t look away.

Years ago at A.R.G.U.S. he’d skimmed a “wanted” file for a fifteen-year-old runaway. It had a detailed description of her that did not match the blurry photograph attached, and the rest of the dossier was even thicker. The confidential information was blacked out, but one line had been repeated over and over: High threat—do not engage alone. No name had been written.

He’d laughed it off then. What kind of danger could a lost teenager really pose?

“Don’t underestimate her,” Maseo Yamashiro had warned. “A.R.G.U.S. has good reason to keep tabs on that girl.”

“Missing?” Oliver asked.

“Vanished. Nothing we have can track her for long.”

Oliver’s instincts had traced a faint digital trail toward Gotham, but Tommy’s surprise arrival in China pulled him away, and the file faded from memory.

That was five years ago. Yet Oliver recognized the woman Felicity had shown him on her monitors as the girl in A.R.G.U.S.'s database. His mind had wavered, refusing to make the connection at first, but when he saw her in person, he knew.

Seven hard years had taught him caution, yet desperation over Felicity’s kidnapping forced his hand. Once the Smoaks were safe and Roy was stitched up, Oliver kept replaying the choice: handing Sara Lance’s murder over to Karen Starr. Would it be a terrible lapse of judgment?

Still, the feeling in his gut matched what he’d sensed with Barry Allen—the rare spark of hope. Somehow, Barry and Karen made him believe, just for a moment, that things might finally break his way.

He figured that trusting Starr would inevitably bring the other half of that duo straight to him. So Oliver wasn’t surprised when a flash of red skidded into the bunker right after Dig, Roy, and Alicia cleared out. One look at Barry Allen’s suit and Oliver burst out laughing, nearly dropping the arrow he’d been sharpening.

“What are you wearing?”

When Oliver told him to follow his own advice, he hadn’t expected this. Barry wore a full burgundy bodysuit—head-to-toe leather, a gold lightning bolt stamped on the chest and small bolt-shaped accents where ears should be on the cowl.

Barry touched the emblem defensively. “You said I needed a mask.”

"My friend, you look like you went to a nerdy convention and stole a costume."

“Fine, fine—save the fashion critique, Mr. ‘Green Works in a City.’” Barry’s grin faded, replaced by the same sober look Oliver had seen when he’d talked about his mother. “Why was Karen here?”

“Your ex?”

Barry flushed beneath the cowl. “She’s my—that’s not—we had a few dates—dude, don’t change the subject, that’s not cool.”

The look on Barry’s face reminded Oliver of two very different moments: the nerves from asking Laurel out for the first time and the cold dread when Dr. Ivo aimed a gun at Sara. Hard to say which memory fit better, but through the Arrow’s lens one thing was clear—Barry was rattled.

Karen Starr seemed to do that to everyone.

“Felicity needed backup, Karen’s skill set fit, a terrorist hit the city—everything else snowballed from there.”

“‘Felicity needed help,’ huh?” Barry echoed, skeptical. “So you had my—my coworker blow up one of your villain’s old lairs. Was that the initiation? Is Karen on Team Arrow now?” His eyes went wide. “Tell me you didn’t tranq her.”

What can I do that Smoak can't?

You don't have my heart. And when the time comes, I fear Felicity won't make the right call.

"No."

"No? 'No, she's not the Arrow's newest sidekick', or 'No, I didn't shoot her'?"

"Nope." Oliver dropped the arrow into his collection, ignoring the younger man behind him literally vibrating from nervousness. He pointed in his direction vaguely. "That's new."

“Oliver, I really don’t want Karen mixed up in your missions,” Barry said. “You barely let me help, and I heal at superspeed. This is the first time you’ve even asked, and technically it wasn’t you who called. Karen’s different—she can get hurt!”

“Give her some credit,” Oliver replied. “She’s not exactly what she looks like. . . unless you know that firsthand?”

Barry swallowed. Oliver waited.

“Before the lightning, I never made the big calls.” Barry gave a rueful smile. “Still getting used to it. And the one time I did, people got hurt—Karen most of all. I don’t want her in the crossfire again. She’s … impulsive.”

“I have some experience with impulsive,” Oliver said dryly, studying him.

Barry frowned back. “What?”

Oliver sighed. “Oh, Barry. Tell me you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

But Oliver just shook his head. He didn't want to get involved in Barry's love life—he had enough problems with his own as it was.

It was her fifth night in Starling City and finally, she was where she should: a rundown train station, ticket in hand, waiting to head back to Central City. The place was nearly deserted—just a bored clerk behind the counter and a homeless man sleeping in the far corner. Her duffel sat at her feet.

Karen kept her gaze on the tracks, nerves stretched tight. When the train rolled in, she picked a rear compartment, settling where she could watch the entire car. Eyes back on the rails, she pushed her hearing outward, filtering familiar sounds: the vagrant’s soft snore, the buzz of a faulty light over the ticket booth… everything else faded to static.

Then she felt it—a low crackle, like a distant drum you felt more than heard, shaking the air, the floor, her bones.

She went statue-still as a flash of orange lightning flickered at the edge of her vision. A second later he was there: the scarlet blur, body vibrating so fast his features were impossible to pin down.

Nice trick, she thought, a little envious. Disappearing at will would be useful.

"Karen Starr, " he said, and that vibrated too, his voice warping high.

She raised an eyebrow. “Took you long enough, Barry.”