starlaboratories | (no subject)

(no subject)

[ Another day, another breacher. This time, pitching out a battle-worn and torn version of Barry Allen that goes sprawling into the cortex like he's been literally thrown through the breach. And maybe he was. Either way, she scrambles back to feet that are only half supportive, trying to get back to and through the breach before it closes.

He is not even a little successful. ]

No...oh. No.

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Mick doesn't seem to take offense - most people don't want to be touched by him as a rule.

Head tilt.
Her.
Give him a second, he'll put it together.

"Her? Wait. You mean West?"

He's also in pain, so that doesn't help matters. Not that he really cares, he's sort of focused. "Yes!"

A slow breath and shake of his head. This time he's going to get Red over to medical, even if he has to carry him there.

"Relax kid. The girl is fine. Some screw up wound up with you inviting me to the wedding." Because it had to be a screwup. Mick isn't wedding guest material.

"That's not...what?" A dazed Barry Allen is a dazed Barry Allen, time remnant or no. "That's not what happened. They didn't-we're not married."

"Not yet, kid. Time travel is a bitch," he smirks. "I was there. You, her, big stupid dress."

"Me? No. Not me." Being a time remnant and all.

"Yeah you." Because for all his training as Chronos at the Vanishing Point, it hasn't yet occurred to Mick that this is a time remnant and not Barry Allen.

"Ain't like she went and married Ramon."

"No. Not me. Barry, maybe. Not me."

Frown. "So if you ain't Barry, who are you?"

"It's complicated. I have to get back, I can't let anything happen to her."

Scowl.
Mick is never a fan of dismissals like 'it's complicated'. Like he can't follow things.

"I just told you kid. She's fine."

It's more like Barry can't find the words to explain it at the moment. "No she's not. I don't know when you're from or what world or what version of the timeline!"

Something Mick could actually empathize with. His aphasia kicks up when he has to talk about certain aspects of his past or of time travel. So he shakes his head, all but dragging the injured kid over to the boards where a few versions of Barry, Wells and God knows who else have been working out temporal equations.

"Here. 2017," Mick jams a finger at a cluster of numbers and symbols. "You and West got married. I was there. Earth-1 and all. Calm down before you fall down, Red."

He looks these numbers over. Poked hard at anothe cluster. "She dies here. I know, I saw it. Wally saw it. Infantino street."

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