Falling S.T.A.R.

(Based on the CW television series, The Flash)

When Cisco came to work at S.T.A.R. Labs he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, raring to work with the brilliant Harrison Wells.  As far as that goes, he got his wish.  The labs themselves were cutting-edge; the particle acceler­ator—the main (though not the only) on-going project—was utterly inspired; and Wells himself was the leader of a dream team of colleagues.  Except for Hartley Rathaway, who the bane of Cisco’s young life.

Occasionally, Ronnie Raymond tried to point out the obvious:  he was a decent guy and didn’t like seeing other people getting used, even for good ends.  His fiancée, Dr. Snow, had far less to do with either of them; but her own observations, such as they were, accorded with his.  “It’s really their own business,” she observed.  “One thing you can’t accuse either of them being is stupid.  Idiots, certainly.  But Ronnie, if they won’t hear your hints (and they’ve been pretty open hints), then they’ll just have to figure it out for themselves.”  For one thing was clear to both:  Harrison Wells was not above playing on the rivalry for his own ends.  At its simplest, he got more work out of each of them:  they came early, skipped breaks, snatched food, and worked far into the night; and, as they were paid on salary, he got all that overtime gratis.  The rest of the staff could see that plain as day.

“Still, he is a great scientist,” Ronnie pointed out.  If there was one thing on which all the staff could agree, it was the value of working at S.T.A.R. Labs.  “They’ll have their pick of jobs after this.”

Or not.

“What’s up?” asked Cisco one day in passing.  His nemesis was frowning at a computer screen, which he quickly switched to a swirly rainbow screensaver.  “Oh, deep dark secrets.”

“C’est pas tes oignons,” said Hartley shortly.  He glanced round and added snidely, “Do I have to translate?”

Cisco just grinned.  “Dunno if that’s Greek or Swahili—for sure not Spanish—but I figure it means something along the lines of ‘Mind your own business’.”

Hartley looked at him superciliously before admitting, “French; and more or less it does, yes.  If you didn’t take it at school, how’d you know?”

“By now, I’ve got a First in ‘Hartley’, straight from the University of Rathaway.”

Without responding beyond a raised brow, Hartley switched the screen back to the diagram he’d been examining and leaned back in the chair to give Cisco a clear view.

“Blueprints for the accelerator.”  Even at that distance, with the labels unreadable, the design was recognizable.

“I’ve been double-checking a few calculations, that’s all.”  Hartley swivelled his chair round and looked up at Cisco.  “Festina lente: you know that one?”

“Festival lentil? No idea.”

Hartley laughed.  “You make it sound like some kind of beanfest.  Well, knowing you, I’m not surprised.”

“More of your French, is it?”

“Not exactly.”  Hartley turned back to the computer and closed the window.  “Got a meeting, gotta run.  Words worth remembering, though.”  He shrugged and got up.  “Advice from your better, that’s what that is; don’t expect you’ll take it.”  His teeth flashed.  “You won’t understand any of this, Cisquito.  Bit above your pay grade.”  The smile taunted his rival all the way out of the room.

A week later, when Hartley had been summarily fired, escorted from S.T.A.R. Labs, and declared persona non grata by Harrison Wells, Cisco only vaguely remembered their encounter.  Much later, he made more sense of it.

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