Chapter 16 : The Waiting
The headache started on day three.
Dull at first—the kind of pressure behind the eyes that could be attributed to stress or dehydration or staring at screens too long. I took aspirin, drank water, stepped away from my laptop. The headache remained.
By day five, it had become a persistent throb that pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat.
[POWER GROWTH STAGNANT] [EXTRACTION RECOMMENDED] [5 DAYS SINCE LAST ACQUISITION]
I dismissed the notification. The system responded by increasing the headache's intensity.
Message received.
But I couldn't hunt. Not yet. Joe West's eyes were still fresh in my memory—that penetrating assessment, the instinct that something about me didn't add up. One more incident, one more depowered criminal, and that instinct would crystallize into active investigation.
I needed to let the heat die down.
The system disagreed.
[INACTIVITY PENALTY: -10 PP]
Ten points. Not devastating, but the principle was clear. The system wanted growth. Demanded it. My comfort, my safety, my relationships—none of that factored into its calculations.
I was a tool designed for acquisition. Tools that didn't perform their function got discarded.
Two weeks, I told myself. Just two weeks. Then I'll hunt again.
The headache pulsed its disapproval.
Caitlin's apartment was small but warm.
She'd apologized for the size when she first invited me over—"It's nothing fancy, just efficient"—but I liked it. The space felt lived-in. Books stacked on end tables. A throw blanket draped over the couch in a way that suggested actual use rather than decoration. Photos on the walls that told the story of a life interrupted but continuing.
"You're quiet tonight," she said, settling beside me on the couch. The movie she'd picked—some sci-fi comedy Cisco had recommended—played on the television, but neither of us was watching.
"Thinking."
"About?"
About the system punishing me for being here. About the powers I'm hiding from you. About how much I want this to be real even though I know it started as strategy.
"Work stuff. Client problems."
"You can talk to me about it, you know." Her hand found mine. "I'm a good listener."
"I know you are." I squeezed her fingers gently, careful to keep my strength in check. "It's just... complicated."
"Complicated seems to be your default setting."
The observation was accurate enough to make me laugh. "Fair point."
She shifted closer, tucking herself against my side in a way that felt natural. Practiced, almost—the muscle memory of intimacy that she'd lost when Ronnie died and was slowly rebuilding with me.
"Tell me about him," I said.
Caitlin stiffened slightly. "Ronnie?"
"If you want to. You don't have to."
The silence stretched long enough that I thought she'd declined. Then she started talking.
She told me about meeting him at STAR Labs. About their first date—a disaster involving spilled coffee and a fire alarm that somehow became their favorite story. About the proposal, the wedding plans, the future they'd mapped out together.
About the night the accelerator exploded.
"I saw him go into the chamber," she said, voice steady with the careful control of someone who'd told this story before. "Wells said there was a malfunction. Ronnie went to fix it. And then..."
"You don't have to finish."
"No, I want to." She took a breath. "The explosion happened. The building shook. I tried to get to the chamber, but the security protocols had sealed everything. By the time they opened the doors, there was nothing left. Just... debris. They never found a body."
I knew there was more to the story. Knew that Ronnie hadn't died in that explosion—he'd merged with Martin Stein, become Firestorm, spent months lost and confused before eventually returning to Caitlin's life.
But I couldn't tell her that. Couldn't offer the comfort of knowing her fiancé was alive somewhere, confused but breathing. That knowledge was locked away with all the other secrets I carried.
"I'm sorry," I said instead. The words felt inadequate.
"It was two years ago." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I've made peace with it. Mostly. Some days are harder than others."
"Grief doesn't follow a schedule."
"No. It doesn't." She looked up at me, studying my face. "You've lost people too, haven't you?"
I lost everyone. My entire world. Everyone I ever knew exists only in my memory now.
"Yes."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Someday." The promise was genuine, even if the details would always be fiction. "Not tonight."
She accepted that with a nod, settling back against me. The movie played on, unwatched, while I held her and tried not to think about how much of this was real.
Day ten brought another penalty.
[INACTIVITY PENALTY: -20 PP] [EXTENDED DORMANCY DETECTED] [EXTRACTION STRONGLY RECOMMENDED]
The headaches had become constant companions—not debilitating, but ever-present. A reminder of what the system expected. What it demanded.
I ignored it and went to STAR Labs.
The cortex had become familiar territory over the past weeks. I had my own workstation now—nothing official, just a corner where I'd set up my laptop and spread my notes. Cisco had started sending me technical documents without being asked. Barry consulted me on security protocols for the various metahuman threats he faced.
Even Wells had stopped watching me with quite so much intensity. The predatory assessment had faded into something more like professional acknowledgment—one dangerous person recognizing another's competence.
Dangerous, I reminded myself. This is dangerous. You're getting comfortable.
But comfort was hard to resist.
"Harry!" Cisco waved from the central console. "Come look at this. I finally cracked the frequency modulation problem."
I crossed the room to examine his work. The display showed containment field configurations—technical details that would have been incomprehensible a month ago but now made intuitive sense.
"You shifted the resonance pattern," I observed. "That should reduce the power draw by at least fifteen percent."
"Seventeen point three, actually." Cisco grinned with the satisfaction of someone whose cleverness had been properly appreciated. "But close enough."
"Show-off."
"Says the guy who identified our entire security blind spot in his first week." He pulled up another display. "Speaking of which, I wanted your thoughts on something..."
We worked together for the next two hours. Technical discussion mixed with personal banter—Cisco's endless pop culture references, my dry observations, the easy rhythm of people who'd become genuinely comfortable with each other.
At some point, Caitlin appeared with coffee. She set a cup on my desk without interrupting the conversation, squeezed my shoulder briefly, and retreated to her medical bay.
I caught myself smiling at the gesture. No strategic value. Just warmth.
[EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT DETECTED] [WARNING: ATTACHMENT MAY COMPROMISE OPERATIONAL EFFICIENCY]
The system's clinical assessment felt obscene in the moment. I dismissed it without response.
The two-week mark arrived with a final penalty.
[INACTIVITY PENALTY: -20 PP] [TOTAL PENALTY THIS PERIOD: -50 PP] [POWER POINTS: 330]
Fifty points. A significant loss, but not catastrophic. The headaches had reached a plateau—persistent but manageable. The system had made its displeasure clear; now it was waiting for me to act.
I pulled up my target files that night.
The data was weeks old but still relevant. Criminal metahumans operating in Central City, catalogued by power type and risk level. Shimmer in the Diamond District. The crew with the night-vision lookout. Half a dozen others who'd crossed my surveillance at various points.
The night-vision meta—"Nighteye" in my notes—remained the best option. Low profile, isolated operations, minimal connection to larger criminal networks. His crew would notice his absence, but they wouldn't have the resources to investigate seriously.
Perfect target.
My phone buzzed. A text from Caitlin: Good night. Call tomorrow?
I typed back: Always.
Then I set the phone aside and started planning.
The waiting was over.
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