Chapter 14 : Rumor Mill
The cortex hummed with unusual tension.
I noticed it the moment I walked in—Cisco hunched over a holographic display, Barry pacing near the central console, Caitlin reviewing data with her "bad news" expression firmly in place. Even the equipment seemed to buzz at a higher frequency.
"What happened?"
Barry turned at my voice. His face held the particular frustration of someone confronting a problem he couldn't outrun.
"We might have a situation."
"Define 'situation.'"
"Someone's hunting metahumans." Cisco pulled up a series of files on the main display. Incident reports. Crime scene photos. Medical records. "Three confirmed cases in the past month. Powered individuals reporting sudden loss of abilities."
My stomach tightened. I kept my expression curious, concerned, appropriately confused.
"Loss of abilities? That's possible?"
"Apparently." Caitlin stepped closer to the display, highlighting a medical scan. "The victims' meta-gene signatures are still present, but... diminished. Like something drained the power out of them without touching the underlying genetics."
"All three were criminals," Barry added. "Minor offenders, street-level stuff. Two of them were running protection rackets. The third was a thief specializing in bypassing security systems."
Tank. Ghost. And someone else I hadn't touched—the system probably detected a pattern even without evidence.
"Joe thinks it's another meta," Barry continued. "Someone who can steal powers from other metahumans."
"Is that even possible?"
The question hung in the air. Cisco exchanged glances with Caitlin. Neither answered immediately.
"We don't know," Caitlin finally said. "The science of meta-gene expression is still largely theoretical. If someone's power specifically targeted that expression, interfering with it, disrupting the connection between genetics and ability..." She trailed off, lost in theoretical implications.
"It would explain why the victims are all criminals," Cisco added. "Whoever's doing this isn't targeting innocent people. They're going after powered individuals who won't be missed. Who can't go to the police without admitting their own crimes."
Exactly the profile I'd been cultivating. They'd mapped my methodology without knowing they were looking at me.
"That's almost strategic," I said, injecting just enough admiration into my voice. "Predatory, but strategic."
"That's what worries me." Barry's pacing increased. "This person is smart. Careful. Targeting criminals means the investigation gets deprioritized. No one's going to put resources into finding who attacked a bunch of metahuman thugs."
"Except you."
"Except us." He stopped pacing, met my eyes directly. "These people might be criminals, but they're still people. Someone's stripping away part of who they are. That's not justice—that's violation."
The conviction in his voice was absolute. This was who Barry Allen was at his core—someone who believed in redemption, in second chances, in the fundamental humanity of even the worst offenders.
It made him a hero.
It also made him my biggest threat.
I volunteered to help with the analysis. "Security perspective," I offered. "Attack patterns, target selection, operational methodology."
The team accepted without question. I was a consultant—this was exactly what consultants did.
For the next two hours, I reviewed my own crime scenes through fresh eyes. The incident reports were frustratingly thorough. Barry's forensic training showed in the detailed observations, and Cisco's technical analysis had identified several patterns I hadn't realized I'd left.
The attacks occur between midnight and 3 AM.
True. I preferred late-night operations.
All victims report similar experiences—physical contact followed by intense pain, then unconsciousness.
Also true. I'd need to vary my methodology if I wanted to avoid a consistent signature.
The locations share characteristics: isolated areas with limited surveillance, multiple escape routes, low foot traffic.
I'd chosen those locations deliberately. Of course they formed a pattern.
The good news was that nothing pointed specifically at me. No witnesses. No physical evidence. No connection to Harry Griffin, security consultant.
The bad news was that they were getting closer with every data point.
"What about the Diamond District?" I suggested, pointing at the city map Cisco had populated with incident markers. "There's been metahuman activity there—that light manipulator you mentioned before. Could be related."
Cisco considered the suggestion. "Shimmer? She's been quiet lately, but..." He added a notation to the map. "Worth investigating."
Misdirection planted. If they followed the Diamond District lead, they'd find Shimmer—a D-tier meta with complex phasing abilities who had nothing to do with my operations. Dead end at best, wild goose chase at worst.
"Good catch, Harry." Barry clapped me on the shoulder as he passed. "Fresh perspective helps."
The contact lasted less than a second. Long enough for guilt to flash through me—hot and unexpected and completely unwelcome.
I squashed it down. I couldn't afford sentiment.
Lunch happened organically.
Cisco ordered Big Belly Burger for the group, and suddenly I was sitting around the cortex console sharing fries with people I was actively deceiving. The normalcy of it felt surreal—office lunch with coworkers, complete with arguments about movie preferences and complaints about parking.
"I'm just saying," Cisco insisted through a mouthful of burger, "practical effects are always better than CGI. There's a weight to them that computers can't replicate."
"That's objectively wrong," Barry countered. "The advances in digital rendering have—"
"Have made everything look like a video game cutscene. Name one CGI creature that has the same impact as the original Xenomorph."
Caitlin reached across and stole one of my fries without asking. I pretended not to notice, but something warm spread through my chest at the casual intimacy.
This is dangerous, I reminded myself. You're infiltrating them. They're targets. Assets. Don't get comfortable.
The warning felt hollow.
Because the truth was, I enjoyed this. The camaraderie. The belonging. The feeling of being part of something larger than myself.
In my old life, I'd had coworkers but not friends. Acquaintances but not connections. I'd built walls so thick that nothing got through—no genuine attachment, no real vulnerability, no risk of being hurt.
These people were breaking down those walls without even knowing they were doing it.
The meeting ended around 3 PM. Barry received a call from Joe—Flash business masquerading as CCPD consultation—and disappeared with another string of apologies. Cisco returned to his modifications. Caitlin retreated to her medical lab to review the victim profiles.
I lingered near the exit, checking my phone, waiting for an opportunity that arrived faster than expected.
"Harry." Barry's voice came from behind me, phone still in hand. "Joe wants to meet you."
"The detective?"
"Standard vetting process. Anyone who works closely with the team, he likes to run a background check." Barry's expression was apologetic. "It's not personal. He's protective."
"Understandable, given what you're dealing with here." I pocketed my phone, projecting calm acceptance. "When?"
"Tomorrow work? He's at the precinct most afternoons."
"I'll make time."
We shook hands. Barry's grip was firm, genuine, the handshake of someone who wanted to trust me.
I walked to my car thinking about Joe West.
Twenty years as a detective. Twenty years of reading people, catching lies, following instincts that other cops dismissed as paranoia. The man had raised Barry Allen and watched him become a superhero. His standards for "trustworthy" were probably impossibly high.
And I was about to sit across from him and lie to his face.
Should be interesting.
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