Barry Allen
Jan 19th, 2013, 04:10:48 AM
Red and blue splashed themselves on the dull Gotham concrete. Rancid, oily rainwater oozed at his shoes with every footstep upon the cracked and neglected sidewalk. The state of the buildings wasn't much better: so run down that they practically qualified as derelict. People still lived there though, and not just squatters: people actually paid to live in a dump like this.
Barry's nose curled, and he sniffed at the dank night air. This place was a far cry from home; a world apart from Keystone and Central City. They were broad, sprawling cities, as wide and open to the sky as the midwest itself. This place was dark and closed, any glimpses of the sky above the towering skyscrapers scrubbed out by haze and pollution.
Suck it up, Allen. You're not in Kansas any more.
His gaze settled on Harvey Bullock. When they'd made him at the Brooklyn Detective factory, they'd clearly broken the mould; and then all the raw materials had leaked out into a sort of amorphous blob. That was the only explanation Barry could think of for how a human could manage to become about as wide as they were tall. His expression was twisted into a permanent scowl which might have been intimidating if it had been attached to the face of a more physically intimidating man, but that on Bullock made it look like he was an angry Santa who was pissed off about his beard being stolen.
The scowl deepened as he approached. Barry countered with a smug smile.
"You're late," Bullock growled.
Barry didn't bat an eye. "Swung by the doughnut joint on the way," he tossed back. "If I'd known you were going to be here, big guy, I would've picked you up a crate."
Bullock grunted. Barry wasn't entirely sure whether it was amusement, annoyance, or just gas. "Saunders is lead on this," he muttered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as he fumbled inside his ridiculously cliché trenchcoat for a pack of smokes. "Up the stairs. Third floor. Just follow the sound of the competent forensic investigators who actually showed up on time."
"You mean the on-duty police officers from CSU who are meant to be here, as opposed to the underpaid crime scene consultant who was supposed to have the night off?"
Another maybe-belch, maybe-grunt from the Detective. "What's the matter, Allen? Did we encroach on date-night?"
Dad night, actually.
Barry flashed a tight smile. "I'd tell you to cut back," Barry said, gesturing to the cigarette that Bullock was now fumbling to light. He clapped Bullock on the undulating, jelly-filled arm and stepped past, making a beeline for the doorway into the derelict tenement. "But honestly, now I'm kinda hoping they kill ya."
Barry's nose curled, and he sniffed at the dank night air. This place was a far cry from home; a world apart from Keystone and Central City. They were broad, sprawling cities, as wide and open to the sky as the midwest itself. This place was dark and closed, any glimpses of the sky above the towering skyscrapers scrubbed out by haze and pollution.
Suck it up, Allen. You're not in Kansas any more.
His gaze settled on Harvey Bullock. When they'd made him at the Brooklyn Detective factory, they'd clearly broken the mould; and then all the raw materials had leaked out into a sort of amorphous blob. That was the only explanation Barry could think of for how a human could manage to become about as wide as they were tall. His expression was twisted into a permanent scowl which might have been intimidating if it had been attached to the face of a more physically intimidating man, but that on Bullock made it look like he was an angry Santa who was pissed off about his beard being stolen.
The scowl deepened as he approached. Barry countered with a smug smile.
"You're late," Bullock growled.
Barry didn't bat an eye. "Swung by the doughnut joint on the way," he tossed back. "If I'd known you were going to be here, big guy, I would've picked you up a crate."
Bullock grunted. Barry wasn't entirely sure whether it was amusement, annoyance, or just gas. "Saunders is lead on this," he muttered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as he fumbled inside his ridiculously cliché trenchcoat for a pack of smokes. "Up the stairs. Third floor. Just follow the sound of the competent forensic investigators who actually showed up on time."
"You mean the on-duty police officers from CSU who are meant to be here, as opposed to the underpaid crime scene consultant who was supposed to have the night off?"
Another maybe-belch, maybe-grunt from the Detective. "What's the matter, Allen? Did we encroach on date-night?"
Dad night, actually.
Barry flashed a tight smile. "I'd tell you to cut back," Barry said, gesturing to the cigarette that Bullock was now fumbling to light. He clapped Bullock on the undulating, jelly-filled arm and stepped past, making a beeline for the doorway into the derelict tenement. "But honestly, now I'm kinda hoping they kill ya."