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The snow falls thick and fast down on Keystone. Most of its citizens have taken shelter, safe inside in the light and the warm. Most, but not all.
Heavy boots trudge through the snow that shines ghost-white and spectral orange in the late-night lamplight. Behind the shadow in the dark, two more flank, keeping perfect step despite the depths they must wade through. Their target is dead ahead: the neon sign loops in the dark, a beacon in the night.
The one in lead pushes open the door to O'Shaughnessy's. The two behind fall in step behind and, after a brief, shadowed look over their leader's shoulder, break away and move to the opposite end of the bar to watch and wait.
The leader, now alone, pulls down the hood of their thick, furred parka and flips out her long, dark hair. Her eyes scan the bar, past the sparse patrons to the--
Bartender.
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. Perfect.
She steps walks up to the bar with an irresistable swing in her hips, unaffected by the holster at her thigh, and, at the bar, asks the bartender with his back to her--
"Buy me a drink?"
The bartender doesn't turn, just continues cleaning the glass in his hand. He does, however, scoff out a soft laugh. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says, reaching up to put the glass away, "but I only pour drinks for cold hard cash and no amount of pretty privilege is going to change that. Hound someone else for a handout, miss--" He turns, at last, and understanding dawns. Mark Blaine laughs to himself and leans his hands on the bar.
"Snart. Lisa Snart," he breathes. "I should have known." He gives her a once-over, and finds himself disappointed at the presence of the bulky parka that hides her no doubt impressive figure. "'Of all the gin joints in all the world, and she walks into mine'."
Lisa slides onto a barstool and props her chin on her linked fingers. "So. You've heard of me."
His eyes meet hers again, intrigued. "I'd have a hard time not placing your face. Everyone smart knows a Snart." Mark leans back and folds his arms. "So, what happened to your usual haunt? I heard you were a Central girl. Did Saints run out of sinners?"
Lisa flicks her eyes away dismissively. "Who doesn't like a change of scenery?"
Mark accepts this - after all, here he is part of the scenery, and he's yet to meet a woman here who didn't appreciate that. He unhooks a glass from under the bar and takes a bottle from the top shelf. He makes a show of preparing the shot - drawing the bottle upwards as pure liquor pours out in an elegant stream - before sliding it across the bar to her. She catches it and gives a slow blink of thanks before she knocks it back.
"So," Mark asks, satisfied by the look of satisfaction on her face at the quality of the liquor, "what can I do for you? Are you here for business..." he lingers meaningfully on the word, "...or pleasure?"
Lisa places the shot glass rim down on the bar. "Business is my pleasure. That's why I'm here today."
"You must've come especially, despite the snow."
Lisa's gives him a coy smile and leans in conspiratorially. Mark matches her. "Oh, snow and I," she says quietly, "have something of an understanding."
Mark grins, giving a flash of teeth. "That so? I could say the same."
Lisa indulges him in lingering forwards for a moment, before she pulls back and goes cold. "I'm looking for someone."
Mark adapts and leans back as though he's not disappointed by the lack of proximity. "Oh yeah? This part of that pleasure-business you're here on?"
"Business, pleasure..." She locks eyes with him. "Pest control."
Oh, he thinks. She knows. "I guess there's no point playing pretend with you, is there, Golden Girl?" he asks. Everything about him is relaxed, cocksure and smug. Why wouldn't it be?
"When I got wind of a new ice Meta so close to home, I thought, there must be some mistake," Lisa said, all playfulness gone. "Surely no one would be stupid enough to make moves on my turf."
"'Your' turf?" Mark scoffs. "Keystone isn't your city. And this isn't your bar, and I'm not your lackey. You have no power here."
Lisa blinks, mock-offended. "No?"
"No."
"Oh..." She pouts, then says, not particularly loudly, "Everyone out."
The bar falls silent. Drinks are put down. Looks are exchanged. Then, as one, everyone gets up and makes their way to the door.
Mark huffs out a noise of disbelief as he watches his patrons leave. "So," he says, "that's how it is?"
Golden Glider flutters her long lashes. "That's how it is," she says, sugary sweet.
Mark nods to himself. "Okay. Okay." He slides out from behind the bar; Golden Glider pivots on her stool to follow him as he makes his way to the door. He shuts it, and, to make a point, locks it. He leans his back against it.
"You can save the speech I'm sure you've got prepared," he says dismissively. "I'm not interested in playing for a team."
"Good. This isn't a recruitment drive, Mark." It's the first time she's said his name. He kinda likes it. "You're not Rogue material."
He puts his hand to his heart, mock-hurt. "Ouch," he says, thick with sarcasm. His hands go to his wrists, tightening the cuffs and flexing his arms in a double show of strength. "You," he says, "do not want to fight me."
Golden Glider gives him coy surprise. "I don't think you have any idea what a girl wants."
There's a snigger from further down the bar. Mark frowns in its direction - and finds two people who hadn't left with the crowd behind the bar pouring themselves drinks. "Peek-A-Boo and Trickster Two. Oh, sure. Help yourselves."
Trickster Two knocks back a handful of peanuts. "Thanks."
Mark gives him a withering glare. The Trickster just grins and chews.
"Three against one," Mark notes, turning his attention back to Glider. "I'm flattered."
"Oh, they're not backup," Glider tells him, as if it's obvious.
"Yeah, we're not even the glamorous assistants," Trickster Two calls over.
"Then what are you, Turn-Tricker?"
"Oh, us?" The Trickster's smile is quick and vicious. "We just wanted to watch."
And that's when Glider pulls out the gun.
Mark dives sideways as a blast of brilliantly white light shoots past him, crackling and whining. When he looks at the door, there is a thick, compacted crust of ice. He follows the line of the shot back up to the gun in Glider's hand, and it is not the golden toy she was known for. Instead, trained on him, is the bulky, chrome gun of her long-gone brother. He grins. Oh, this just got so much more fun.
"You like an audience?" he says. "I can work with that."
The cuffs at his wrists tesselate into gauntlets and he's firing back a blast that she dodges. "So," she calls - and she's wearing the goggles now, the ones she'd had tucked in the collar of her coat, to ward off the glare of the gun - "not a Meta. You covered your tracks well."
"Not well enough." Mark blasts at her feet but Lisa avoids the trap with a dancer's grace. It is only now that he realises she's not in heels. Smart girl. "What gave me away?"
"Chillblaine, Kill-blaine," came the nasal whine of the Trickster from across the bar. "You broke the ru-ules-! Just like you broke that driver into little icy pieces. I'd congratulate you on your creativity, but I'd get in trouble and I'm trying so hard to be good."
"No killing? That's what this is about?" Mark appears from his shelter of the pool table just long enough to throw Glider a quizical look and fire a volley of icicles her way. She drops behind a table then is up again, gun in hand, braced and ready to fire. Mark raises his hands as if in surrender. They circle one another.
"There'll be no killing. Not while I'm in charge." Lisa gives a casual shrug. "I have standards."
"That so?" Mark leans back against the pool table and taps his finger to his lips. "Pretty sure I remember you and your lap dog have a body count each, Golden Girl. Peek-A-Boo might be sitting pretty, but you and he are ugly as sin."
"You wish you had this beautiful face!" the Trickster shoots back. Mark ignores him in favour of the true prize in front of him, and the woman who was holding it.
"I don't have to explain my terms of my territory to you, Meta-faker."
"You're one to talk," Mark says, eyes on the Cold Gun.
"'I'm not trying to be something I'm not. I know what I am. I'm a criminal, and a liar, and I hurt people, and I rob them'," Lisa says smoothly.
Mark snorts. "Save the spiel. Where'd you find the gun? I've been trying to track that down for years."
"I stole it, of course," Lisa's tone is playful, but she's not smiling. "It was mine by rights, anyway. I just took back what belonged to my family. People have trouble keeping me out of places I want to be in. Case in point."
But Mark's attention is elsewhere, even if his eyes are on her. "'No killing'," he says, as if trying the words out for size. "That means..." he grins, slow and indulgent, "you won't kill me. I guess that makes one of us." He fires a bolt of ice at her head, but she blasts it out of the air, a solid rock of ice that crashes to the floor and smashes into a thousand wet shards. He runs at her, using the blast as cover, jumping and kicking off of a table, sending it careening sideways as he punches hard and connects with Glider's jaw. There's a shout of alarm from the sidelines; Mark winks at Trickster Two who looks ready to step in, but has Peek-A-Boo's hand on his chest. He just hears a "You know the rules," from her, as he turns back to Glider.
He realises too late he should never have taken his eyes off of her. The Cold Gun swings up and collides with his jaw, sending a shockwave right through his skull that sets the world spinning. Mark stumbles back and fires blind - and from the shout of pain that follows, his ice must have found its mark. Blinking hard and flexing his jaw, Mark rounds on Lisa - and fires down. The result is a thick cloud of mist that froths in the air that hides him and Glider, or so it seems. To him, he has her pinned down, thanks to the blue-white light of the Cold Gun's muzzle that sparkles like a beacon in the fog. The perfect target.
He raises his hands.
And something glitters at his feet.
"What--?"
The world explodes. Mark is sent flying backwards, crashing into the pool table that crunches and falls under the impact of his weight. He lies, dazed, his ears ringing, the world spinning above him as the Golden Glider steps into his swimming view.
"Diamonds are a girl's best friend," she says by way of explanation, flipping back her hair to reveal a missing earring. "Exploding jewellery. Curtesy of one of my very best friends."
Mark tries to struggle into sitting, but he's pushed down by Glider's boot on his chest and the Cold Gun in his face. Slowly, reluctantly, Mark raises his hands. The gauntlets click and shatter back into the cuffs at his wrists. "Alright. You win. What do you want?"
"I want a lot of things. Gold. Jewels. Fame. Fortune."
"Fame is less than infamy," Mark points out.
Golden Glider removes her goggles and smiles slyly down at him. "Don't I know it."
Mark eyes the Cold Gun, far more wary now. "So, what are you now? Gold or cold?"
"Oh, I am gold, and I am cold," she says, deadly serious. "But you, 'Chillblaine'? You can call me 'Captain'."