archimedes |b. allen|

we fucked up.

we fucked up.

Being of sound mind and able body, participant SR117 agrees to drugs both experimental and not, minimally invasive and external monitoring, and all side effects thereafter in the ********** *******. Participant SR117 agrees to contact with Hera Biosciences until 05/31/2020 regarding any and all changes in health conditions, genetic or not, changes in employment status, changes in marital—

"It's Buster Keaton, c'mon Wells!" Cisco huffs, throwing a piece of popcorn at the man next to him as I highlight the line with the follow up date and blacked out information.

The two men across the room were watching an adorable black and white film together and had been for the last hour while I was scouring through the only few pieces of documentation Hera Biosciences had on record of my experimental trial (so they claimed).

Apparently Dr. Wells had borderline strong armed them into even faxing us this much, so it was all—he claimed—we were going to get.

I was still hoping he wasn't above thievery.

For the most part, this was just a contract. There was quite literally nothing descript or even close enough to give us any insight on what they were injecting me with to possibly get a reversal agent. But all I could do was read through the damn thing thoroughly to find any sort of special identifiers.

Caitlin had a working theory that they had injected with me some kind of hydrogen serum that had been altered to become more like a vaccine. But the process of even turning hydrogen into something like that was so drawn out that she rarely worked on this working theory.

I'm almost relieved as I hear the alarms coming from the computers in front of me. Slapping the highlighter down, I rush to the med bay and start changing into my suit, not even reading where this was, just knowing I needed the hell away from those documents.

"Silent alarm has been tripped at Central City Morgue," Cisco calls out to me as I zip up the suit.

"Why would anyone want to rob a morgue?" Dr. Wells asks, a finger on his chin.

When they both turn to look at me, Cisco tells me that he's already texted Barry and told him to pick me up.

I hover over the computers, trying not to feel so out of place standing bound in spandex and leather next to the two men in their comfy normal boy clothes.

But we all share furrowed brows when we see Barry's location on the screens blow right past S.T.A.R. Labs and go straight for the morgue. But halfway there he comes to a screeching halt.

"Hey, buddy, you forgetting something?" I press my hand into the comms button so Barry can hear me.

But something's not right. His voice sounds funny? Like he's unsure, or worried. "Oh, yeah, I—I guess I forgot. I'll get you next time, Sam, I'm sorry."

And then the little dot of his tracker resumes its path to the morgue.

When he arrives, Cisco is hot on him, nudging me playfully out of the way. "What's going on? What do you see?"

"A dead body..."

I shake my head tightly, a minute movement. "Something's wrong..." I whisper more to myself but Cisco's eyes flick to me and then back to the screen.

"Barry, you're in a morgue," he deadpans. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."

Barry responds almost immediately. "The coroner, he's dead."

Cisco, Dr. Wells, and I all share a concerned look before we hear sirens in the background, signaling that the CCPD wasn't far behind Barry.

⚡︎