Chapter Text
Six months from now
“Mr Evans, someone’s in your office.”
He couldn’t recall any appointments offhand. Then again, it wasn’t unheard of for major stories to be broken to him personally. Whistleblowers, celebrities…
If someone had been let in, he trusted it was for a good reason. Scott Evans nodded: the CCPN journalists and assistants knew their priorities. He hurried to his office.
The workplace was generally an open one: few walls, few opaque doors. Whoever was in his room, however, had kicked their chair back so that they were out of view of the rest of the office.
Again, not unheard of. Scott stepped inside.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said, by rote, “Miss…”
She was sitting, cross-legged, and leaning back casually in her chair. Her skin was pale, worryingly so, as was her hair. She was fairly young, yet it was almost completely white.
Her lips were tinged blue, as though she’d been caught in a blizzard: and her eyes were the colour of ice.
Interesting fashion statement, especially in recent days.
“Frost,” she said.
“Miss Frost,” Scott said, halfway to his chair. Bad choice of name. “I understand you want to talk?”
“I don’t want anything,” she said. “I’m here because I have to be. And it’s just Frost. You named me.”
There was something in her tone that made Scott freeze on the spot. He frowned for a moment.
Her features were familiar, though it was hard to say why. And she was holding a mug: tea, it looked like. It was still full.
You named me. It couldn’t be…
“Do you like your drink?” he said, nodding to it.
“It’s cold,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Scott said, “Would you like another?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Tea or coffee?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Scott took the mug from her. Their fingertips brushed for a moment: he suppressed a gasp. Her skin was cool.
He waved an assistant over: “Two coffees,” and handed the mug.
Scott turned back, again, this time making it all the way to his chair. The woman regarded him, her patience almost disquieting.
“So, Frost,” he said, after a moment.
It was only saying it, and looking at her, that he realized. Frost. They’d run a few stories on a new meta-human, dubbed Killer Frost. He knew about her, of course. He really should have recognized her; he just hadn’t expected her to be sitting in his office.
Scott straightened in his chair, slightly afraid.
You named me, she’d said. She hadn’t seemed entirely happy about that.
“What can I do for you?” he said.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Then why are you here?”
“As a favour to you,” Frost said. “I’ve heard of you. You don’t believe in heroes.”
“I wouldn’t say-”
“I agree,” she said. “Heroes are only human. They fall, they make mistakes, they act like hypocrites. Righteousness is only a step away from self-righteous. Confidence a touch away from arrogance. Everyone has secrets they don’t want aired, even the best of us.”
Frost paused. Scott waited, uncertainly.
He wouldn’t say he didn’t believe in heroes. He was more cynical than most, without question, though apparently that could look the same to a lot of people. It had to Iris.
And this was Killer Frost. Scott didn’t know what to make of that. If the stories were true, he should be dead.
“I know the Flash,” Frost said. “You wanted to show the city that he was only human, I can help you.”
Really?
“I’m listening,” Scott said.
He kept his expression guarded: controlled. There was no need to look overexcited.
It was a trick he’d learnt. A lot of sources liked the idea of feeding information drip by drip: getting several issues out of it, having their name in print over a space of weeks rather than days.
It was all very well for them, but it was bad news for the paper, and print was dying enough as it was. If he looked uninterested, sources tended to share more. They wanted a reaction.
That was normally true, at least. Frost seemed as unconcerned as he pretended to be.
“I can tell you about him,” Frost said. “His mistakes, his flaws. His selfishness.”
Scott leaned forwards, picking up a pad of paper, and a pen. After a moment of thought, he pulled a tape recorder out of his desk drawer, and set it to record: he liked the old school cliché. This had potential.
“May I ask why?” he said. “The early reports we have, the two of you seemed to be friends.”
For the first time, Frost faltered.
“We were,” she said, shortly. “Things change.”
“May I ask why?”
A paused. Frost shifted in her chair, and straightened.
“You want to know why?” she said. She didn’t raise her voice. “I am tired. We’re the same, he and I, but I’m the one branded Killer. He makes mistakes, but he hides them, and no one would ever dare call out their idol: and he’s bought his own press. The hero of Central City, saving people from fires and monsters and helping little kittens stuck up trees. That’s how he sees himself.”
“You disagree?”
“I know him,” Frost said.
She paused. An assistant came in, with two cups of coffee. One was given to Scott, the other Frost took. As the assistant left, Frost tapped her finger on the top of the cup. Already, the liquid was frozen solid.
She put the frozen coffee on the desk. She continued, voice calmer.
“He was a good person,” Frost said. “Was. But he grew… distracted, and thrilled. Fascinated by heroism, and the reputation he’d gained. His intentions were good, but he became obsessed with his concept of heroism, rather than being a hero.”
Scott had barely written a line on his pad. There wasn’t much to build a story on.
Frost’s gaze flicked down: evidently she surmised the same. Her personal opinion wouldn’t sell a paper.
“What can you tell me, then?” Scott said.
“Leonard Snart,” she said. “Thief, murderer, discovered the Flash’s identity. Rather than risk it becoming public, the Flash allowed him to stay free. Banks have been robbed and people have been killed as a result.”
Scott’s eyes flicked up. He noted the gist down quickly, marking it with a star. It’d take some effort to verify details there: but that was an undeniable story.
“There is more,” Frost said. “The Flash puts his own interests first, because he isn’t accountable. No one knows what he does, not really: they hear of a streak of light saving people and they cheer, because they don’t know what’s really happened.”
She paused: looked down for a moment.
“Like I said, he was a good person,” Frost said. “Most people would be corrupted far more by that kind of power, with everyone acting as though they could do no wrong. He is better than he could be, but he is not perfect, and people should know that.”
“Do you have more?”
“Much,” Frost said. “Do you remember what happened last Christmas?”
“I read about it,” Scott said, “The Trickster, wasn’t it?”
“He put bombs in countless houses,” Frost said, “Targeting children. They’d all have been killed, for one reason: so that he could get at the Flash.”
“You blame him for that?” Scott said.
He’d been able to sympathize with Frost, until then. They were agreed, after all; both of them looked at beloved popular figures with some degree of wariness.
She ignored him.
“It’s happened before,” Frost said. “From the most common criminal, to supervillains, if they have a grudge against the Flash, they do the same thing: they target the innocent. People have died because of a vendetta against the Flash: one they have no part of.”
“I’m not his defender,” Scott said, “But that doesn’t strike me as his fault.”
“It is if he could stop it.”
“Can he?”
“Easily,” Frost said. “There’s only one reason the innocent are endangered because of him.”
She tensed for a moment: shivered. Frost tapped her fingertips on the arm of her chair, and a thin sheen of ice started to creep across it.
Scott did his best to ignore that display of power. He doubted it was meant as a threat, she didn’t seem particularly confrontational, but it was still unnerving.
She was powerful: there was no doubt about that. While Killer Frost hadn’t been sighted as often as the Flash in recent weeks, glimpses of what she could do implied she had to be around as powerful as he was.
“Why is that?” Scott said.
He had more written on his pad, now. With a little fleshing out, this could be the kind of piece he’d always hoped to write.
“He’s a coward,” Frost said, “And he’s selfish.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“His name,” Frost said. “The only reason villains target the innocent, is because they can’t target him. No one knows who he is: the Flash cannot be held accountable by anyone. And so children, regular people with no connection to him whatsoever, are abducted or threatened or killed. Meanwhile the Flash, the one person who might be able to defend himself from the villains, and the one person who’s their actual target, goes untouched.”
Scott paused. He’d never really thought of it that way.
“I imagine,” Scott said, slowly, “That he would say it’s for his own protection: his, and the people he knows.”
Even so, Scott quickly noted down the topic.
“He does,” Frost said, “Him, and the people close to him. There are two other meta-humans in his social circle, including myself, and one police officer. The rest are close to us: his social circle, when the Flash is included, are quite possibly the best-protected people in Central City.”
“Even so,” Scott said, “It’s… sympathetic.”
“Hypocrisy?” Frost said. “What makes his loved ones more important than yours, or anyone else’s? He favours his friends, over the possible danger to another’s siblings, or children, or spouses. And he chose to become the Flash: no one else chose to be a victim because of him.”
Frost fell silent. Scott finished off the page of notes. There was a definite story there. Maybe not front page, but it was a good overview.
The Flash: revealed. Mistakes made about, say, Snart. Analysis of the effect his position would have on the typical psyche. The inherent selfishness of the secret identity. The accountability problem.
Frost did have a point, there: everyone in Central City was at risk from the villains who wanted to find a way to target the Flash. If the Flash’s friends were in as secure a position as it sounded, then they’d be better poised to defend themselves than most.
And even if they weren’t, at least the Flash would know who to defend.
What was is Frost had said? He became fascinated with his concept of heroism, rather than being a hero. He could quote that.
He allowed himself a smile: there wasn’t much more Frost could say in terms of the story. That was how it felt, at least: and if he’d drained a source dry, they deserved some gratitude.
“Thank you,” he said. “I can certainly write this.”
“You don’t want to hear more?”
“You have more to share?” Scott said. His hand was already on the way to the tape recorder. Still, he paused.
Frost was silent for a moment. She regarded him, speculatively.
“You could talk about how the city survived for six months after the particle accelerator explosion with no Flash,” Frost said, “And you can talk about how Zoom was only a threat because of him. You could talk about recklessness, the potential danger: there was a meta-human who was able to fill the Flash with rage, enough to make him ready to be a killer. No one cares about that, because no one would dare face off against the Flash.”
Her tone became mocking. Still, it turned even again quickly enough. She paused, and looked up, and met Scott’s eyes.
He’d flipped the page and had kept making notes on his pad. Certainly, he had the recording, but it was good to have an idea of what to focus on.
Not front page material, but it could be advertised there. People were interested in the Flash: cynics and supporters alike.
“And,” Frost said, “There is one more thing.”
She pulled out her phone, tapping a few keys. There was a beep from Scott’s computer: an email received, with what looked like several photos attached. They looked, from the thumbnails, to be of the Flash.
“I can tell you that the Flash’s name is Barry Allen,” Frost said.
With that, she stood, nodded once, and left Scott’s office. He sat where he was, staring ahead, barely taking in the ice-covered chair.
Well, maybe it was front page worthy after.