Yeah, slowly scraping by with school, but I hope to get things moving along on my end relatively soon. But yeah. Might as well add onto your question -- how's things for everyone? Anything you guys are keen to see/make happen in the IC?
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Second Batpost is up -- the plot's kind of thickening, I guess. :P
Guest-starring @Nexus Prime as Captain James Gordon...
M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 6 ♦ T H E N A R R O W S ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J
M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 6 ♦ T H E N A R R O W S ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J
Gotham was quiet. It seemed that it always was these days, what spirit it had beaten out of it when the skies filled with mortal gods, its people retreating into silence as they took time to mourn. But that wasn’t anything new. Ever since its establishment, it had been this way. Gotham was always mourning. This time, it just had a greater loss to grieve.
The crime scene was nestled between two run-down apartment blocks in the Narrows. The buildings were arranged in such a way that the alley was tucked into the shadows, away from prying eyes; it was the perfect place for a murder, covered by a pitch-black blanket in the night. The GCPD had cordoned off the area – yellow tape blocked the only entrance, police cruisers and officers stationed in front to usher away any curious passers-by. Remote area lighting was set up around the scene, CSI’s recording evidence in coveralls and masks.
Batman stood near the police barricade, hidden in darkness. Near him was Captain James Gordon. He still looked like the lieutenant the Bat had met six years ago, determined, ever the beacon of good amid the cesspool of corruption that was Gotham. He watched the crime scene from his spot near a cruiser, back straight; he carried himself with military-like discipline, unwilling to let himself slip on the job. But Batman could smell the cigarette smoke on his trench coat, stronger than usual, and the bags under his eyes told the same story: Jim was weary. But unlike most people – unlike Batman – he shouldered that weariness and the stress that came with it, and used it to fuel himself. If anything, Jim was more purposeful than ever.
“Jim,” said Batman.
Any other person would have jumped out of their skin, to be snuck up on like that. But Jim had been at this for six years. He didn’t even turn to look.
“Batman.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Three vics,” Jim began. “No identification yet, but we're working on it. Medical examiner tells me this was a precision job, and judging from the way the bodies were left I'd say this was a professional hit. Multiple contusions from blunt force trauma and several lacerations to the heads and torsos. Each had their throat slit right along the jugular. Someone with serious skill killed these men, and they did it fast enough that no defensive markings were left; these guys didn't stand a chance.”
The captain finally turned slightly to glance back at Batman. “Whoever did this is definitely in your area of expertise, which is why I called you in. That, and one other thing.”
Jim stepped to the side to allow the vigilante room to peer at the back end of the alley, and gestured with his right hand towards the brick wall there. “I think someone left you a message.”
One of the victims had been crucified to the wall, pinned by metal stakes. His throat opened up in a bloody smile, his head hanging low, the blood seeping into his clothing. It dripped onto the ground in steady drops, pooling four feet below him. To his right was a calling card, no doubt left by the killer, drawn in their victims’ blood –
An owl’s head, shining in red, its bloody ink trickling down the wall.
The other two victims lay on the ground below it like nothing more than discarded dolls, thrown away by a bored child who got tired of toying with them.
The owl could have meant any number of things. One was Leland Owlsley. He was a stretch; although he was based relatively close to Gotham in New York City, the crimelord didn’t have any reason to expand his operations, least of all in an underworld already undergoing a power struggle in the shadows of the Kryptonian Invasion. And to announce his presence so boldly, leaving a message for a vigilante that he most likely didn’t think of as anything more than a myth, didn’t fit his M.O.; he prided himself on his intelligence, and despite it, he often relied on his strength in combat – he didn’t showcase the skill required to kill these men so efficiently.
He was off the suspect list, for now.
The other potential culprits were so obscure that they bordered on near impossibility or myth. The White Owl had long been incarcerated, and the Court of Owls was nothing more than a nursery rhyme told to the children of Gotham and Blüdhaven to scare them into behaving. Their Talons were nothing more than words spun into nightmarish thoughts, and although thoughts could kill… it was never this gruesome.
“Pennywise,” said Batman, holding his fingers to the button activating his comm-link. “Are you seeing this?”
The lenses over his eyes were streaming the Batcave everything he saw.
“That I can, sir,” replied Alfred.
“I need you to look for anything that might be linked to this owl symbol. People, organisations – everything. Anyone that might be skilled enough to kill these men without a struggle. Send over what you find.”
“Of course, sir.”
Batman ducked beneath the yellow tape – “CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS” – the crime scene investigators giving him a wide berth as he traversed the alley. He stopped in front of the bodies, taking in every detail. His cowl’s HUD fed him information; their approximate height and weight, the measurements of the lacerations that covered them, estimations made by programs he’d created to aid him in his investigations. The victims were tall, all above six feet; they had muscle to accompany their height, with little fat to it, looking to be around one hundred and ninety pounds in weight. Whoever killed them had to be fast and strong to leave them so defenceless – a common crook would have been faced with a challenge, the victims’ strength and number an advantage against one man with a knife.
The lacerations were long and deep. Exempting the throat cuts, they were about seven inches in length, some cutting through skin, flesh and muscle to the bone – those on the victims’ faces were smaller in comparison, little more than scratches. Weapon likely had a spear-point blade, noted Batman, Lacerations missed any vitals – purposeful. The killer wanted to cause pain. Toyed with them. Angles of the cuts suggest that they’re left-handed.
The victims’ skin broke where the contusions stained it, patches of blue amid drops of red. Blunt force likely exerted through fists. Tissue disruption indicates the use of brass knuckles. Hits were hard – the cause of death. Throats were slit post-mortem.
Jim said that the police were yet to identify the victims. It would take too long to wait for them to get a match, waste too much time – time that the killer could spend finding their next target. That was a risk Batman couldn’t take. Using the screen on his left gauntlet, he ran pictures of the victims through his own facial recognition software, containing data from the GCPD, FBI, CIA, S.H.I.E.L.D. and Interpol. He got a match within seconds.
Happy Ackerman. Dutch Hancock. Koby Hillam. Small-time crooks turned big-time thugs, wanted for multiple counts of assault and battery, grand larceny and armed robbery. Their employer: Edward Nashton. The Riddler.
Currently held within Arkham Asylum.
“Pennywise. Anything?” Batman asked through his comm-link.
“I’m afraid not, sir. But you might want to beware of the Talon. Just look at how it’s left these gentlemen,” deadpanned Alfred.
Batman ducked under the tape once more, coming to stand next to Jim in the shadows. The more he ran the possibilities through his head, the more he was beginning to think that the killer was a new player. Who this new player was, he didn’t know – but the information he gathered from the crime scene should help push him in the right direction. The victims were scum, but the killer was even more so. Innocent or not, they didn’t deserve to die.
“The killer’s left-handed, likely a male,” said Batman. “He used a spear-point blade, probably a knife. All lacerations but their slit throat were made with the intent to hurt, not kill. Whoever he is, he’s skilled enough to toy with his victims.”
“Yeah,” Jim glanced up at the body pinned to the wall, the man's face permanently distorted in pain from the moment of death. "I get the distinct feeling this guy had motives other than simple murder; playing with his victims before finishing them off like some sick predator definitely fits in line with that. A killer with professional talent like this wouldn't have left us so many clues if he didn't want to, or enjoy it.”
Batman nodded, continuing. “The victims died from blunt force trauma. The killer hit hard, with technique. He used some form of brass knuckles. Slit their throats after their deaths.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you coming in on this, Batman. I'm swamped with other cases as it is, and I still have the mayor breathing down my neck about clean up operations in the lower districts...”
The older man stopped, stroking his moustache lightly as he studied Batman's crouched form. James Gordon had spent enough time around and with this particular vigilante to recognise that certain aspects were off; that something had changed ever since that incident with that clown creep last year. Batman could try and hide it behind his cape and cowl, put on a façade of indifference that was to be expected, and most people would buy. Most people thought the caped crusader was some sort of legend far beyond the understanding of mortal men. But Captain Gordon understood what Batman really was, and that even the so-called "Dark Knight" could be affected by horror and tragedy.
“And Barbara will be coming back from university soon, so I've got that to prepare for,” said Jim, changing the subject. “I know she loves being independent and self-reliant these days, but I'll be more than glad when she's home again.”
Hidden from Jim behind his cowl’s lenses, Batman’s eyes rose to meet the captain’s. He hadn’t seen Barbara in a long time. Ever since she decided to lay the Batgirl to rest in pursuit of a better future – one outside of a coffin – she and Batman had maintained contact, although the effort was mostly coming from her. Alfred liked to presume that it was because her departure had hurt Batman, and if the vigilante was to be honest with himself – a rare occurrence – Alfred was right. It was why, when she’d heard of what the… clown… had done, of what he’d forced Batman to see, and called him to give him a shoulder to lean on, he did what he’d done to everyone else, and pushed her away. It was why Dick had left, in part. Batman didn’t blame him.
“She's doing great, though. Really proud of her and the future she's making for herself,” Jim went on. “She still asks about you when we talk on the phone, you know, not that I can ever tell her much. I'm sure she'd want to hear how you're doing, though. Make sure her hero and saviour is as well off as she's been. If you want to give me something I can tell Barbara to put her at ease that you're doing alright, I'll be sure to let her know...”
“Tell her I’m fine, Jim. She has no need to worry about me.”
A giggle, somewhere in the far recesses of his mind. A pale face. An insane smile. They flashed across his vision, replacing Jim for just a split second – ushering a wince that caused the captain to frown.
The shadows grinned at him. “You’re lyyyyy-ing,” they sang.
“Right,” Jim said, dubious. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”
His doubt hung in the air, like a bad smell. After a few seconds, Batman broke the silence, turning away. “Take care of yourself, Jim.”
“You too, Batman.”
Batman withdrew his grapnel gun from his belt, aiming at the roof above him. He pulled the trigger, the wire shooting out with speed, its clawed end clasping onto the edge with an audible impact. Pulled taut, the gun worked to carry Batman up, whirring in the process. He climbed from the edge of the roof with ease, walking west to the corner where he’d parked the Batmobile. The night wasn’t coming to an end; not yet. He had someone he wanted to talk to first. The Riddler was about to get an unexpected visit.
A camera flashed on the neighbouring rooftop. It went unnoticed by Batman, its owner smiling in the evening gloom.
“Perfect.”
The crime scene was nestled between two run-down apartment blocks in the Narrows. The buildings were arranged in such a way that the alley was tucked into the shadows, away from prying eyes; it was the perfect place for a murder, covered by a pitch-black blanket in the night. The GCPD had cordoned off the area – yellow tape blocked the only entrance, police cruisers and officers stationed in front to usher away any curious passers-by. Remote area lighting was set up around the scene, CSI’s recording evidence in coveralls and masks.
Batman stood near the police barricade, hidden in darkness. Near him was Captain James Gordon. He still looked like the lieutenant the Bat had met six years ago, determined, ever the beacon of good amid the cesspool of corruption that was Gotham. He watched the crime scene from his spot near a cruiser, back straight; he carried himself with military-like discipline, unwilling to let himself slip on the job. But Batman could smell the cigarette smoke on his trench coat, stronger than usual, and the bags under his eyes told the same story: Jim was weary. But unlike most people – unlike Batman – he shouldered that weariness and the stress that came with it, and used it to fuel himself. If anything, Jim was more purposeful than ever.
“Jim,” said Batman.
Any other person would have jumped out of their skin, to be snuck up on like that. But Jim had been at this for six years. He didn’t even turn to look.
“Batman.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Three vics,” Jim began. “No identification yet, but we're working on it. Medical examiner tells me this was a precision job, and judging from the way the bodies were left I'd say this was a professional hit. Multiple contusions from blunt force trauma and several lacerations to the heads and torsos. Each had their throat slit right along the jugular. Someone with serious skill killed these men, and they did it fast enough that no defensive markings were left; these guys didn't stand a chance.”
The captain finally turned slightly to glance back at Batman. “Whoever did this is definitely in your area of expertise, which is why I called you in. That, and one other thing.”
Jim stepped to the side to allow the vigilante room to peer at the back end of the alley, and gestured with his right hand towards the brick wall there. “I think someone left you a message.”
One of the victims had been crucified to the wall, pinned by metal stakes. His throat opened up in a bloody smile, his head hanging low, the blood seeping into his clothing. It dripped onto the ground in steady drops, pooling four feet below him. To his right was a calling card, no doubt left by the killer, drawn in their victims’ blood –
An owl’s head, shining in red, its bloody ink trickling down the wall.
The other two victims lay on the ground below it like nothing more than discarded dolls, thrown away by a bored child who got tired of toying with them.
The owl could have meant any number of things. One was Leland Owlsley. He was a stretch; although he was based relatively close to Gotham in New York City, the crimelord didn’t have any reason to expand his operations, least of all in an underworld already undergoing a power struggle in the shadows of the Kryptonian Invasion. And to announce his presence so boldly, leaving a message for a vigilante that he most likely didn’t think of as anything more than a myth, didn’t fit his M.O.; he prided himself on his intelligence, and despite it, he often relied on his strength in combat – he didn’t showcase the skill required to kill these men so efficiently.
He was off the suspect list, for now.
The other potential culprits were so obscure that they bordered on near impossibility or myth. The White Owl had long been incarcerated, and the Court of Owls was nothing more than a nursery rhyme told to the children of Gotham and Blüdhaven to scare them into behaving. Their Talons were nothing more than words spun into nightmarish thoughts, and although thoughts could kill… it was never this gruesome.
“Pennywise,” said Batman, holding his fingers to the button activating his comm-link. “Are you seeing this?”
The lenses over his eyes were streaming the Batcave everything he saw.
“That I can, sir,” replied Alfred.
“I need you to look for anything that might be linked to this owl symbol. People, organisations – everything. Anyone that might be skilled enough to kill these men without a struggle. Send over what you find.”
“Of course, sir.”
Batman ducked beneath the yellow tape – “CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS” – the crime scene investigators giving him a wide berth as he traversed the alley. He stopped in front of the bodies, taking in every detail. His cowl’s HUD fed him information; their approximate height and weight, the measurements of the lacerations that covered them, estimations made by programs he’d created to aid him in his investigations. The victims were tall, all above six feet; they had muscle to accompany their height, with little fat to it, looking to be around one hundred and ninety pounds in weight. Whoever killed them had to be fast and strong to leave them so defenceless – a common crook would have been faced with a challenge, the victims’ strength and number an advantage against one man with a knife.
The lacerations were long and deep. Exempting the throat cuts, they were about seven inches in length, some cutting through skin, flesh and muscle to the bone – those on the victims’ faces were smaller in comparison, little more than scratches. Weapon likely had a spear-point blade, noted Batman, Lacerations missed any vitals – purposeful. The killer wanted to cause pain. Toyed with them. Angles of the cuts suggest that they’re left-handed.
The victims’ skin broke where the contusions stained it, patches of blue amid drops of red. Blunt force likely exerted through fists. Tissue disruption indicates the use of brass knuckles. Hits were hard – the cause of death. Throats were slit post-mortem.
Jim said that the police were yet to identify the victims. It would take too long to wait for them to get a match, waste too much time – time that the killer could spend finding their next target. That was a risk Batman couldn’t take. Using the screen on his left gauntlet, he ran pictures of the victims through his own facial recognition software, containing data from the GCPD, FBI, CIA, S.H.I.E.L.D. and Interpol. He got a match within seconds.
Happy Ackerman. Dutch Hancock. Koby Hillam. Small-time crooks turned big-time thugs, wanted for multiple counts of assault and battery, grand larceny and armed robbery. Their employer: Edward Nashton. The Riddler.
Currently held within Arkham Asylum.
“Pennywise. Anything?” Batman asked through his comm-link.
“I’m afraid not, sir. But you might want to beware of the Talon. Just look at how it’s left these gentlemen,” deadpanned Alfred.
Batman ducked under the tape once more, coming to stand next to Jim in the shadows. The more he ran the possibilities through his head, the more he was beginning to think that the killer was a new player. Who this new player was, he didn’t know – but the information he gathered from the crime scene should help push him in the right direction. The victims were scum, but the killer was even more so. Innocent or not, they didn’t deserve to die.
“The killer’s left-handed, likely a male,” said Batman. “He used a spear-point blade, probably a knife. All lacerations but their slit throat were made with the intent to hurt, not kill. Whoever he is, he’s skilled enough to toy with his victims.”
“Yeah,” Jim glanced up at the body pinned to the wall, the man's face permanently distorted in pain from the moment of death. "I get the distinct feeling this guy had motives other than simple murder; playing with his victims before finishing them off like some sick predator definitely fits in line with that. A killer with professional talent like this wouldn't have left us so many clues if he didn't want to, or enjoy it.”
Batman nodded, continuing. “The victims died from blunt force trauma. The killer hit hard, with technique. He used some form of brass knuckles. Slit their throats after their deaths.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you coming in on this, Batman. I'm swamped with other cases as it is, and I still have the mayor breathing down my neck about clean up operations in the lower districts...”
The older man stopped, stroking his moustache lightly as he studied Batman's crouched form. James Gordon had spent enough time around and with this particular vigilante to recognise that certain aspects were off; that something had changed ever since that incident with that clown creep last year. Batman could try and hide it behind his cape and cowl, put on a façade of indifference that was to be expected, and most people would buy. Most people thought the caped crusader was some sort of legend far beyond the understanding of mortal men. But Captain Gordon understood what Batman really was, and that even the so-called "Dark Knight" could be affected by horror and tragedy.
“And Barbara will be coming back from university soon, so I've got that to prepare for,” said Jim, changing the subject. “I know she loves being independent and self-reliant these days, but I'll be more than glad when she's home again.”
Hidden from Jim behind his cowl’s lenses, Batman’s eyes rose to meet the captain’s. He hadn’t seen Barbara in a long time. Ever since she decided to lay the Batgirl to rest in pursuit of a better future – one outside of a coffin – she and Batman had maintained contact, although the effort was mostly coming from her. Alfred liked to presume that it was because her departure had hurt Batman, and if the vigilante was to be honest with himself – a rare occurrence – Alfred was right. It was why, when she’d heard of what the… clown… had done, of what he’d forced Batman to see, and called him to give him a shoulder to lean on, he did what he’d done to everyone else, and pushed her away. It was why Dick had left, in part. Batman didn’t blame him.
“She's doing great, though. Really proud of her and the future she's making for herself,” Jim went on. “She still asks about you when we talk on the phone, you know, not that I can ever tell her much. I'm sure she'd want to hear how you're doing, though. Make sure her hero and saviour is as well off as she's been. If you want to give me something I can tell Barbara to put her at ease that you're doing alright, I'll be sure to let her know...”
“Tell her I’m fine, Jim. She has no need to worry about me.”
A giggle, somewhere in the far recesses of his mind. A pale face. An insane smile. They flashed across his vision, replacing Jim for just a split second – ushering a wince that caused the captain to frown.
The shadows grinned at him. “You’re lyyyyy-ing,” they sang.
“Right,” Jim said, dubious. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”
His doubt hung in the air, like a bad smell. After a few seconds, Batman broke the silence, turning away. “Take care of yourself, Jim.”
“You too, Batman.”
Batman withdrew his grapnel gun from his belt, aiming at the roof above him. He pulled the trigger, the wire shooting out with speed, its clawed end clasping onto the edge with an audible impact. Pulled taut, the gun worked to carry Batman up, whirring in the process. He climbed from the edge of the roof with ease, walking west to the corner where he’d parked the Batmobile. The night wasn’t coming to an end; not yet. He had someone he wanted to talk to first. The Riddler was about to get an unexpected visit.
A camera flashed on the neighbouring rooftop. It went unnoticed by Batman, its owner smiling in the evening gloom.
“Perfect.”
V I C K I V A L E ' S P E N T H O U S E ♦ T H E F A S H I O N D I S T R I C T ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J
It felt good to write again. Ever since Vicki Vale had received the offer to host her own show, she found that the time she once had to sit down in front of her laptop and write – truly write – came few and far between. Now her time was spent interviewing celebrities with questions that were not her own, and talking about news she had not covered or delivered herself. She often felt like the Vicki Vale Show was only hers in name, and she supposed that that was exactly what she’d bargained for, just like anyone else in showbusiness did – but the bitterness still remained, a part of her that wished she could do what she loved as she liked it, not as her producers did. It was why she’d jumped at the offer to keep writing for the Gotham Gazette as a guest columnist; her time as the newspaper’s star journalist was time she looked back on with yearning – the piece she wrote on Carmine Falcone’s fall was still the one she was proudest of.
She wasn’t sure exactly what she was writing now. It was part-tribute, part-recount; a piece on the Kryptonian Invasion in remembrance of those that died, commending the endurance of human spirit, while at the same time speaking against the storm of hate aimed at metahumans that came after the tragedy. The words had started to flow out of her the moment she sat down, and now, three hours later, a monster displayed itself on her computer screen, only continuing to grow with every press of the keyboard. She’d hit a groove, and she knew it. The words spilled onto the screen in a flurry of passion, the building blocks of what would surely take the place of her Falcone piece as the best article she’d ever written, and –
Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of her trance. Just like that, the magic was gone.
Vicki sighed, tucking a lock of her red hair behind her ear. It was probably Bruce; he hadn’t been returning her calls, and it was just like him to send an apologetic text at this hour of night. She didn’t blame him. He was doing an admirable job in his effort to help rebuild Gotham, no doubt too busy to even consider catching up with friends. Picking up her phone, she frowned – the text was from an unknown sender. She entered her passcode.
Her gasp penetrated the silence of her apartment. The message definitely wasn’t from Bruce.
It was a picture of a rooftop, darkness swallowing the light, making the photo grainy at best – but the figure that stood at its centre, back to the camera, devil horns piercing the air and cape suspended mid-flow, was undeniable in its apparent identity.
Below the attachment was a caption to accompany it, sending chills through Vicki’s spine, confirming her suspicions:
Where’s Batsy?
She fumbled to respond to the text, her nerves getting the better of her as she struggled to type the right letters. She knew that she should be deleting the messages, wiping them from her phone’s, and her own, memory. She couldn’t afford to get distracted by what was most likely a hoax. She’d had her run through the rumour mill; she’d heard stories of the Bat, ranging from a demon that preyed on men in the dark of night, to those claiming that he was nothing more than a myth spun by the GCPD to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. But her curiosity, her excitement, got the better of her, and she sent her mystery contact a reply.
Who are you?
Three dots appeared on her phone for four agonisingly long seconds before a new text arrived. It was cryptic, giving nothing away and yet raising gooseflesh all the same. Just two words.
A messenger.
She wasn’t sure exactly what she was writing now. It was part-tribute, part-recount; a piece on the Kryptonian Invasion in remembrance of those that died, commending the endurance of human spirit, while at the same time speaking against the storm of hate aimed at metahumans that came after the tragedy. The words had started to flow out of her the moment she sat down, and now, three hours later, a monster displayed itself on her computer screen, only continuing to grow with every press of the keyboard. She’d hit a groove, and she knew it. The words spilled onto the screen in a flurry of passion, the building blocks of what would surely take the place of her Falcone piece as the best article she’d ever written, and –
Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of her trance. Just like that, the magic was gone.
Vicki sighed, tucking a lock of her red hair behind her ear. It was probably Bruce; he hadn’t been returning her calls, and it was just like him to send an apologetic text at this hour of night. She didn’t blame him. He was doing an admirable job in his effort to help rebuild Gotham, no doubt too busy to even consider catching up with friends. Picking up her phone, she frowned – the text was from an unknown sender. She entered her passcode.
Her gasp penetrated the silence of her apartment. The message definitely wasn’t from Bruce.
It was a picture of a rooftop, darkness swallowing the light, making the photo grainy at best – but the figure that stood at its centre, back to the camera, devil horns piercing the air and cape suspended mid-flow, was undeniable in its apparent identity.
Below the attachment was a caption to accompany it, sending chills through Vicki’s spine, confirming her suspicions:
Where’s Batsy?
She fumbled to respond to the text, her nerves getting the better of her as she struggled to type the right letters. She knew that she should be deleting the messages, wiping them from her phone’s, and her own, memory. She couldn’t afford to get distracted by what was most likely a hoax. She’d had her run through the rumour mill; she’d heard stories of the Bat, ranging from a demon that preyed on men in the dark of night, to those claiming that he was nothing more than a myth spun by the GCPD to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. But her curiosity, her excitement, got the better of her, and she sent her mystery contact a reply.
Who are you?
Three dots appeared on her phone for four agonisingly long seconds before a new text arrived. It was cryptic, giving nothing away and yet raising gooseflesh all the same. Just two words.
A messenger.
Same with me, if not later. I'm drowning in assignments, so I'm trying to get my bearings on things before I write any posts up.
M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 6 ♦ T H E B R O N X ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y, N Y
I’ll be honest… I’m not sure what hurt more. Sure, the physical pain was considerable, but my pride… oh, my sweet, sweet pride. I could’ve been sent flying through any establishment, literally any – and which one did I end up smashing into?
Starbucks. Starbucks.
I hurtled through a display window, glass spraying over the café’s gaping customers as I crashed into a table, falling to the floor as it broke from the impact. Its two occupants stared at me in shock, holding their cheap excuse for coffee to their chests as if they thought that I might steal it. I stood with a groan, brushing away any glass and splinters that might have stuck to my costume.
“Hey. How you doin’?” I said, glancing at the guy whose table I just demolished. I plucked his drink from his hands, taking a sip, his (I think) girlfriend’s expression that of utmost shock. Gulping it down with a grimace, I handed the coffee back to him. “Thanks.”
To the rest of the café: “Uh. Sorry.”
Yeah, I know. Smooth, right?
A flash of blue lighting crackled at the broken window, revealing the idiot that had been harassing Spider-Man. His suit was decent, a mix of blue, red and gold that actually didn’t look half bad. He stood there with a predatory snarl on his face, his fists clenched and chest heaving; not from exhaustion, but excitement. His gaze swept over the café, teeth bared.
“I would suggest leaving. I don’t like audiences. Now,” he ordered, eyes digging into me behind his visor.
“Yeah, y’know, Road Runner might be onto something, people,” I agreed.
They listened, beginning to file out in a panic as they knocked over chairs and tables on their way shuffling out of the building.
“So,” I began, convinced that we had the room to ourselves, “You a metahuman?”
“What?”
“A metahuman. You had to get your powers from somewhere.”
He scoffed the kind of scoff that said, “You’re beneath me. I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you.” Needless to say, he was full of himself. “Chemistry accident in the lab at my school during a storm. Boom. Now I’m God.”
“Ha,” I said, disbelieving. What he was saying... the accident he was describing... there was no way he was powered by the Speed Force. I should’ve been able to sense his connection to it, like a signal on a frequency only I could receive, but there was nothing, as if something was blocking it. “Hahaha – wait, you’re serious?”
A sadistic smile curled on his lips. “You know, I was content with splattering the other stupid “hero” all over the parking lot, but I think it’ll be a lot more fun doing it to you; maybe I’ll do it while I’m robbing this coffee shop blind. So really what I’ve been doing for the last three months, but now with the added satisfaction of being the man who killed the Flash.”
I would’ve laughed if not for the fact that he’d practically confirmed his connection to the Speed Force. It’s textbook super-villainy. If they stay on topic, gloating about how yes, they're completely serious, and then go on and on about how they came to get their powers, they’re most likely full of it. But if they take your shock and build on it with a threat, there’s still a chance that they’re bullshitting you – only now, you can’t help but feel like there’s some tiny grain of truth hidden in there somewhere.
“You know, it’s a little bit rude to kill someone who is just visiting.”
Spider-Man dropped down from the ceiling, sneaking up on both of us; he landed in a crouch, feet planted on the countertop to my left. It was hard to tell how the guy was doing – I had his mask to thank for that – so I just nodded at him, a gesture that he returned.
Speed Demon (God, what a terrible name) growled, obviously annoyed. I suppose I would’ve been, too. One smartass is already annoying, but another one? And with those awful tights? Yeah, I could see why he was so offended. “You know, I was going to let you go… but you just passed my grace period.”
“Did I get first place?” Spidey said, flipping onto the floor beside me.
He held an arm behind his back, something small and plastic wedged between his forefinger and thumb. He dropped it onto the floor, taking a step forwards. A thought crossed my mind that he left it there for me to use, clashing with another that screamed “WAIT, WHAT ARE YOU – ” as he leapt towards the rogue speedster, leg extending in a kick that he had to know would be dodged. That’s when it clicked, and speed mode kicked in – the world slowed down, and in an instant my only companion was my heartbeat. With Spider-Man flying towards Speed Demon at a snail’s pace, I used the distraction to pick up the plastic cartridge he’d dropped, smiling at the brilliance of my plan.
I threw the cartridge… really fast.
Electricity arced behind my arm as I flung the plastic, watching it shoot towards Speed Demon as Spidey inched forward with every passing millisecond. The cartridge exploded on impact, covering the speedster in a sticky, goo-like substance – Spider-Man’s webs – holding him in place for the foot that met his face a fraction of a second later.
“AAARRGH! You can’t be serious!” he cried, recoiling from the blow.
I knew the webs probably wouldn’t hold him for long; if he knew anything about his powers, he would’ve known how to get free within milliseconds. As blue lightning crackled from his efforts to escape, I dashed forward, stopping bare inches away from him.
“Y’know, I’d say sorry, but…” I shrugged, “I’m really not.”
My fist connected with a satisfying crunch, little more than blur; blood spurted from his nose as he tried to cover it with his hands, the webs unwilling to let him. “Agh, myb nobe, you puffer!”
“That looks like it hurt. Not quite like being thrown from Queens to the Bronx, but hey,” quipped Spidey, webs shooting from his right wrist with a loud thwip, beginning to cover Speed Demon. “Please tell me he can’t break free from that.”
“Don’t worry, I gotcha covered.”
My arm blurred with electricity once more as I bopped Speed Demon on the head, watching with fascination as he slumped in his adhesive prison.
I saw him before Spidey did; a perk of being a speedster. The Flash sped into the café in a trail of red and yellow, taking in the display before him with a half-smile on his face. He came to a stop next to me, patting me on the shoulder.
“Oh, hey, Flash. I have a guy you should probably meet. Spidey, Flash. Flash, Spidey.” I gestured between them, a wide grin spreading from cheek to cheek.
“And this,” I motioned to Speed Demon’s unconscious form, “Is Speed Demon. Yeah, I know, very inspired.”
My aloof smile faded, replaced by a stern gaze. “He’s connected to the Speed Force. I think he might be our guy.”
“No,” said the Flash, “He’s not. I’ll fill you in later.”
He turned to Spider-Man, extending his hand. “For now, though. Nice to meet you, Spider-Man. You do great work here.”
Spidey accepted Barry’s hand, shaking it. “Oh, psshh, it’s nothing. So, welcome to New York City. We get the weirdest supervillains; I should tell you about this one time I fought a giant chicken. No, I’m not kidding, he went ‘kraw kraw’ and everything.”
I think that was the moment Barry and I decided that we liked this Spider-Man guy.
Lord knows he needed friends.
Starbucks. Starbucks.
I hurtled through a display window, glass spraying over the café’s gaping customers as I crashed into a table, falling to the floor as it broke from the impact. Its two occupants stared at me in shock, holding their cheap excuse for coffee to their chests as if they thought that I might steal it. I stood with a groan, brushing away any glass and splinters that might have stuck to my costume.
“Hey. How you doin’?” I said, glancing at the guy whose table I just demolished. I plucked his drink from his hands, taking a sip, his (I think) girlfriend’s expression that of utmost shock. Gulping it down with a grimace, I handed the coffee back to him. “Thanks.”
To the rest of the café: “Uh. Sorry.”
Yeah, I know. Smooth, right?
A flash of blue lighting crackled at the broken window, revealing the idiot that had been harassing Spider-Man. His suit was decent, a mix of blue, red and gold that actually didn’t look half bad. He stood there with a predatory snarl on his face, his fists clenched and chest heaving; not from exhaustion, but excitement. His gaze swept over the café, teeth bared.
“I would suggest leaving. I don’t like audiences. Now,” he ordered, eyes digging into me behind his visor.
“Yeah, y’know, Road Runner might be onto something, people,” I agreed.
They listened, beginning to file out in a panic as they knocked over chairs and tables on their way shuffling out of the building.
“So,” I began, convinced that we had the room to ourselves, “You a metahuman?”
“What?”
“A metahuman. You had to get your powers from somewhere.”
He scoffed the kind of scoff that said, “You’re beneath me. I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you.” Needless to say, he was full of himself. “Chemistry accident in the lab at my school during a storm. Boom. Now I’m God.”
“Ha,” I said, disbelieving. What he was saying... the accident he was describing... there was no way he was powered by the Speed Force. I should’ve been able to sense his connection to it, like a signal on a frequency only I could receive, but there was nothing, as if something was blocking it. “Hahaha – wait, you’re serious?”
A sadistic smile curled on his lips. “You know, I was content with splattering the other stupid “hero” all over the parking lot, but I think it’ll be a lot more fun doing it to you; maybe I’ll do it while I’m robbing this coffee shop blind. So really what I’ve been doing for the last three months, but now with the added satisfaction of being the man who killed the Flash.”
I would’ve laughed if not for the fact that he’d practically confirmed his connection to the Speed Force. It’s textbook super-villainy. If they stay on topic, gloating about how yes, they're completely serious, and then go on and on about how they came to get their powers, they’re most likely full of it. But if they take your shock and build on it with a threat, there’s still a chance that they’re bullshitting you – only now, you can’t help but feel like there’s some tiny grain of truth hidden in there somewhere.
“You know, it’s a little bit rude to kill someone who is just visiting.”
Spider-Man dropped down from the ceiling, sneaking up on both of us; he landed in a crouch, feet planted on the countertop to my left. It was hard to tell how the guy was doing – I had his mask to thank for that – so I just nodded at him, a gesture that he returned.
Speed Demon (God, what a terrible name) growled, obviously annoyed. I suppose I would’ve been, too. One smartass is already annoying, but another one? And with those awful tights? Yeah, I could see why he was so offended. “You know, I was going to let you go… but you just passed my grace period.”
“Did I get first place?” Spidey said, flipping onto the floor beside me.
He held an arm behind his back, something small and plastic wedged between his forefinger and thumb. He dropped it onto the floor, taking a step forwards. A thought crossed my mind that he left it there for me to use, clashing with another that screamed “WAIT, WHAT ARE YOU – ” as he leapt towards the rogue speedster, leg extending in a kick that he had to know would be dodged. That’s when it clicked, and speed mode kicked in – the world slowed down, and in an instant my only companion was my heartbeat. With Spider-Man flying towards Speed Demon at a snail’s pace, I used the distraction to pick up the plastic cartridge he’d dropped, smiling at the brilliance of my plan.
I threw the cartridge… really fast.
Electricity arced behind my arm as I flung the plastic, watching it shoot towards Speed Demon as Spidey inched forward with every passing millisecond. The cartridge exploded on impact, covering the speedster in a sticky, goo-like substance – Spider-Man’s webs – holding him in place for the foot that met his face a fraction of a second later.
“AAARRGH! You can’t be serious!” he cried, recoiling from the blow.
I knew the webs probably wouldn’t hold him for long; if he knew anything about his powers, he would’ve known how to get free within milliseconds. As blue lightning crackled from his efforts to escape, I dashed forward, stopping bare inches away from him.
“Y’know, I’d say sorry, but…” I shrugged, “I’m really not.”
My fist connected with a satisfying crunch, little more than blur; blood spurted from his nose as he tried to cover it with his hands, the webs unwilling to let him. “Agh, myb nobe, you puffer!”
“That looks like it hurt. Not quite like being thrown from Queens to the Bronx, but hey,” quipped Spidey, webs shooting from his right wrist with a loud thwip, beginning to cover Speed Demon. “Please tell me he can’t break free from that.”
“Don’t worry, I gotcha covered.”
My arm blurred with electricity once more as I bopped Speed Demon on the head, watching with fascination as he slumped in his adhesive prison.
I saw him before Spidey did; a perk of being a speedster. The Flash sped into the café in a trail of red and yellow, taking in the display before him with a half-smile on his face. He came to a stop next to me, patting me on the shoulder.
“Oh, hey, Flash. I have a guy you should probably meet. Spidey, Flash. Flash, Spidey.” I gestured between them, a wide grin spreading from cheek to cheek.
“And this,” I motioned to Speed Demon’s unconscious form, “Is Speed Demon. Yeah, I know, very inspired.”
My aloof smile faded, replaced by a stern gaze. “He’s connected to the Speed Force. I think he might be our guy.”
“No,” said the Flash, “He’s not. I’ll fill you in later.”
He turned to Spider-Man, extending his hand. “For now, though. Nice to meet you, Spider-Man. You do great work here.”
Spidey accepted Barry’s hand, shaking it. “Oh, psshh, it’s nothing. So, welcome to New York City. We get the weirdest supervillains; I should tell you about this one time I fought a giant chicken. No, I’m not kidding, he went ‘kraw kraw’ and everything.”
I think that was the moment Barry and I decided that we liked this Spider-Man guy.
Lord knows he needed friends.
M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 6
There are times when Barry Allen hates his job. Times when all the years he spent studying for it, all of the sleepless nights, all of the countless hours, seem like they’ve only helped with one thing: the realisation that no matter how much he does, or how fast he runs, people will always – always – get hurt. It’s during those times that Barry tries to remind himself of why he chose to become a CSI in the first place; of finding his mother dead in a pool of her own blood, his father carried away in handcuffs; of the conviction he felt for finding his mother’s true killer and clearing his father’s name. He reminds himself that for every day he spends at work, he’s helping bring another criminal to justice – helping ease their victims’ pain just a little bit. Most times, it helps him like his job again. But now, as he stares at Albert Lim’s bloody corpse, all he can think is, I could have stopped this. If I knew this was happening… this kid might still be alive.
There are times when Barry Allen hates his job. This… is one of those times.
Albert Lim lies on his side, lifeless and cold, a pool of blood absorbed by his duvet. The deep red stains his bedroom’s walls. It covers his bed and his desk, his computer and his wardrobe, the ceiling and the fan that hangs from it; messy, violent splatters, disturbing in their number.
“Ever seen anything like this?” asks Patty Spivot.
She’s a former flame of Barry’s, his girlfriend before Iris, now a good friend and colleague; the most talented forensic analyst he knows after himself. She stands next to him, dressed so she doesn’t contaminate the crime scene – although most of her face is covered, her bespectacled eyes still show. They’re all Barry needs to see her horror, and he meets them with his own. During his time as a CSI, he’s seen a lot of terrible things. Some still haunt him to this day. But something like this?
“No. Nothing like this,” he answers.
He walks towards Albert with cautious steps, careful not to smear any blood with his boots. The body is covered in lacerations – they’re deep, some cutting all the way through, their edges burnt. Whatever was used to stab him was hot. His skin is red in places, raw and peeled – electrocution. The red mingles with burn scarring, its shape consistent with that of…
“Lightning,” Barry whispers, his mind working faster than light can travel.
The scars aren’t new, but they aren’t old, either. They definitely aren’t there because of whatever happened to the victim last night.
“Yeah,” says Patty, examining the blood spatter on the wall to his right. “The mother says he was caught in the S.T.A.R. Labs explosion. You know, the particle accelerator.”
She pauses, lost in thought.
“Hmm. The blood’s impact velocity… it would’ve had to be fast for it to spatter this way. Really fast. The weapon would’ve had to be a gun.”
Barry’s brow creases in perplexity. “No, it couldn’t have been. It’s all cuts and burns, no gunshot wounds… I don’t think we’re looking for a regular Joe.”
“So, what?” asks Patty, “You think a mutant did this?”
“No.”
His eyes widen as he begins to fit the pieces of the puzzle. The moment he stepped into the room, he could feel something was different… and yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But now – with the blood spatter, the deepness and the heat of the cuts, the electrocution, the burn scarring – it all starts to make sense. That feeling he couldn’t quite explain, the feeling that he couldn’t put his finger on… it’s the Speed Force. Residue of the energy that gives Barry his powers. He clenches his fists, dread spreading through him. And to think that yesterday, Iris had woken him up to such great news.
“Not a mutant. A speedster.”
There are times when Barry Allen hates his job. This… is one of those times.
Albert Lim lies on his side, lifeless and cold, a pool of blood absorbed by his duvet. The deep red stains his bedroom’s walls. It covers his bed and his desk, his computer and his wardrobe, the ceiling and the fan that hangs from it; messy, violent splatters, disturbing in their number.
“Ever seen anything like this?” asks Patty Spivot.
She’s a former flame of Barry’s, his girlfriend before Iris, now a good friend and colleague; the most talented forensic analyst he knows after himself. She stands next to him, dressed so she doesn’t contaminate the crime scene – although most of her face is covered, her bespectacled eyes still show. They’re all Barry needs to see her horror, and he meets them with his own. During his time as a CSI, he’s seen a lot of terrible things. Some still haunt him to this day. But something like this?
“No. Nothing like this,” he answers.
He walks towards Albert with cautious steps, careful not to smear any blood with his boots. The body is covered in lacerations – they’re deep, some cutting all the way through, their edges burnt. Whatever was used to stab him was hot. His skin is red in places, raw and peeled – electrocution. The red mingles with burn scarring, its shape consistent with that of…
“Lightning,” Barry whispers, his mind working faster than light can travel.
The scars aren’t new, but they aren’t old, either. They definitely aren’t there because of whatever happened to the victim last night.
“Yeah,” says Patty, examining the blood spatter on the wall to his right. “The mother says he was caught in the S.T.A.R. Labs explosion. You know, the particle accelerator.”
She pauses, lost in thought.
“Hmm. The blood’s impact velocity… it would’ve had to be fast for it to spatter this way. Really fast. The weapon would’ve had to be a gun.”
Barry’s brow creases in perplexity. “No, it couldn’t have been. It’s all cuts and burns, no gunshot wounds… I don’t think we’re looking for a regular Joe.”
“So, what?” asks Patty, “You think a mutant did this?”
“No.”
His eyes widen as he begins to fit the pieces of the puzzle. The moment he stepped into the room, he could feel something was different… and yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But now – with the blood spatter, the deepness and the heat of the cuts, the electrocution, the burn scarring – it all starts to make sense. That feeling he couldn’t quite explain, the feeling that he couldn’t put his finger on… it’s the Speed Force. Residue of the energy that gives Barry his powers. He clenches his fists, dread spreading through him. And to think that yesterday, Iris had woken him up to such great news.
“Not a mutant. A speedster.”
T H E W E S T - A L L E N H O U S E H O L D ♦ C E N T R A L C I T Y, M O
I could’ve stared at her forever.
After I walked out of the presentation, she was quick to follow. She looked at me with her beautiful brown eyes, hair perfectly framing her face, tucked behind her ears; they searched mine as she reached for my hand, my skin tingling with electricity not even the Speed Force could replicate. With a vibrant smile, her white teeth shining in the sunlight, she asked me if I was okay.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just… what that guy’s saying… it makes me so angry.”
“Then don’t listen to him, Wally,” she told me. “He’s an asshat.”
Linda Park, ladies and gentlemen. God, I love her.
The rest of the day was nothing special. Y’know, school. Jared Morillo, my best friend, raved about his (alleged) girlfriend, who we had never met or seen pictures of, for the billionth time, and Lilith Clay, Linda’s best friend, did her best to prove that she wasn’t real. Typical, everyday stuff. No explosions or supervillains or Tricksters off their meds.
But before you groan and moan about how Kid Flash is boring and you wanted more ass-kicking, and tell everyone that Spider-Man’s cooler (which, by the way, is hurtful), I’m going to stop you right there and give you what you want. So strap in, dear readers, and get ready for a wild ride, because this is the story of how I met New York’s favourite person to crap on, flush down the toilet and hunt down in the sewers.
But first, to set the scene.
I walked home with Linda, our hands linked together, that wonderful electricity coursing through me again. It put a skip in my step that made her giggle; hands-down the best sound to ever grace my ears. Normally I would’ve ran home, but whenever I got the chance to walk with Linda, you can bet that I took it. Every second with her beat running, every time – no exceptions. And I loved running. If it was my lifeblood, then she was my everything. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s a cliché, but dammit, it’s my cliché.
Aunt Iris had already prepared dinner when we arrived. Roast chicken marinated in honey and soy, with a side of vegetables and the bars Dr. Wells worked up for Barry’s and my accelerated metabolism. She’d always been good to me, and the gratefulness I felt towards her and Barry when they took me in after Mom died and Dad ditched never faded away. I kissed her on the cheek to show her, and sat down at the table to tap my feet until Barry got home and I could start eating.
About ten minutes later he walked in, interrupting Iris and Linda’s conversation (they were talking about journalism, like they always did; the result of an aspiring journalist being in the same room as an actual one). His blond hair was a mess, and his face was weary, maybe even a little sad – a far cry from the easy smile he usually wore.
“Hey, hon,” he said, leaning down to give Iris a kiss.
“Hey, Bear,” she smiled. “How was work?”
“Later,” he returned her smile, taking a seat next to her. “How about you, Linda? Wally get you into any trouble today?”
“Oh, you know. Not any more than usual,” Linda laughed.
Though the joke was at my expense, I couldn’t help but join in. She had that kind of effect on me.
“So how was school?” asked Barry.
“Ehhhh. Racists. Hate speeches. Jared and his ‘girlfriend’. Nothing special.” I started digging into the food, the flavor exploding in my mouth.
“Food’s delicious, Aunt Iris.”
Barry raised his eyebrows, some levity replacing his… well, non-levity.
“What?”
He and Iris shared a smile, keeping quiet, like there was some secret they were debating whether or not to tell. It was infuriating. Eventually, Barry broke the silence.
“There was a murder last night,” he said. His smile was gone, and he was looking directly at me. “I was at the scene today.”
“And this is something to smile about, why…?”
He ignored me, pressing on. The weariness returned to his face. “It was just a kid. Your age, maybe a year or so younger.” He paused. “I think a speedster did it.”
What I did next could be described as a double-take, but I don’t think that adequately describes the horror I felt course through me at that moment in time. My mind immediately turned to the one culprit I knew might be responsible, and the moment it did, my body responded in kind – by launching me the heck out of my chair. Images of Thawne flitted in and out of my thoughts, his blazing red eyes burned into my head. The thought of facing him again terrified me, and as much as I tried to recover from my reaction, it was obvious that everyone in the room knew it. Linda looked at me with worry, Iris with sympathy. Barry, though – his eyes reflected my fear.
“You don’t think that it’s – ” I began.
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “Maybe. But the M.O.’s different. Bloody. There’s a similar case in New York City – the NYPD think a speedster did it, too. Darryl’s sending me over there to help out.”
My fear was joined by resolve almost immediately. Nothing scared me more than Thawne did; after the beating he dished out to Barry and I, the very thought of seeing him again was enough to make me queasy. But just the notion of someone, a speedster, like me and Barry, using their powers to kill, gave me determination that turned that fear into drive, no matter if the culprit turned out to be Thawne or someone else entirely.
“Great. I’ll see you there.”
“Wally, you don’t – ”
“Yes, I do. C’mon, Barry. It doesn’t matter whether this is Thawne or not. Whoever this is, they’re a killer, and there’s no way I’m going to sit this one out and let you shoulder this all by yourself. We’re partners.”
His lips formed into a small smile. “Okay, Kid. I guess I’ll see you there.”
I turned to Linda. Her eyes were a mix of different emotions; worry, pride… love.
“Will you be okay to get home?”
She nodded. “Go get ‘em, Fleet Feet.”
I pecked her on the lips, taking out the ring that’d been sitting in my pocket for the entire day. It fit perfectly on my third finger, its golden Flash emblem inviting me to tap it – the suit sprung out in an instant, and I moved to put it on, the slightest bit of electricity crackling around me. It fit me like a glove, slipping on without a hitch – Kid Flash now stood before my family, smiling brashly. I turned to leave, starting at a slow jog –
“Wally, wait,” Iris said.
I stopped in my tracks.
“Barry and I have news… This probably isn’t the best time, but…”
“It’s okay. I can wait. You can tell me when I come back.”
I winced at the disappointment that crossed her face, and I almost apologised if not for the understanding that replaced it. “Okay. Be careful,” she said.
I grinned. “When am I not?”
I jogged out the door and ran down the street, gradually building up to just under the speed of sound. When I left suburbia and Central City behind, I let loose, the sonic boom a satisfying thoom as the world slowed around me. It’s weird, how the Speed Force worked; it gave us speedsters two modes to work with, normal and speed. Speed mode activated whenever we used our powers; whenever we were afraid, threatened or even excited. Time slowed down, and before you knew it the only sounds you could hear were a low hum and the beat of your heart. Unless you had a watch on you, you had no idea how much time had passed during your journey from Point A to Point B. The best you could do was guess. By my best estimation, I arrived at the Bronx in just under half an hour.
It was there that I met the webbed wonder, at what’s arguably the greatest fast food joint in the world: Big Belly Burger. I’d like to say that we just bumped into each other and acquainted ourselves over a burger and fries, but no. Nothing’s ever that simple.
I met Spider-Man in the parking lot of a Big Belly Burger in the Bronx. But we didn’t go inside to feast on some glorious, greasy goodness. No, I had to save his ass. From who, you ask? Well, isn’t that the question.
I’ll let Spidey tell you.
After I walked out of the presentation, she was quick to follow. She looked at me with her beautiful brown eyes, hair perfectly framing her face, tucked behind her ears; they searched mine as she reached for my hand, my skin tingling with electricity not even the Speed Force could replicate. With a vibrant smile, her white teeth shining in the sunlight, she asked me if I was okay.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just… what that guy’s saying… it makes me so angry.”
“Then don’t listen to him, Wally,” she told me. “He’s an asshat.”
Linda Park, ladies and gentlemen. God, I love her.
The rest of the day was nothing special. Y’know, school. Jared Morillo, my best friend, raved about his (alleged) girlfriend, who we had never met or seen pictures of, for the billionth time, and Lilith Clay, Linda’s best friend, did her best to prove that she wasn’t real. Typical, everyday stuff. No explosions or supervillains or Tricksters off their meds.
But before you groan and moan about how Kid Flash is boring and you wanted more ass-kicking, and tell everyone that Spider-Man’s cooler (which, by the way, is hurtful), I’m going to stop you right there and give you what you want. So strap in, dear readers, and get ready for a wild ride, because this is the story of how I met New York’s favourite person to crap on, flush down the toilet and hunt down in the sewers.
But first, to set the scene.
I walked home with Linda, our hands linked together, that wonderful electricity coursing through me again. It put a skip in my step that made her giggle; hands-down the best sound to ever grace my ears. Normally I would’ve ran home, but whenever I got the chance to walk with Linda, you can bet that I took it. Every second with her beat running, every time – no exceptions. And I loved running. If it was my lifeblood, then she was my everything. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s a cliché, but dammit, it’s my cliché.
Aunt Iris had already prepared dinner when we arrived. Roast chicken marinated in honey and soy, with a side of vegetables and the bars Dr. Wells worked up for Barry’s and my accelerated metabolism. She’d always been good to me, and the gratefulness I felt towards her and Barry when they took me in after Mom died and Dad ditched never faded away. I kissed her on the cheek to show her, and sat down at the table to tap my feet until Barry got home and I could start eating.
About ten minutes later he walked in, interrupting Iris and Linda’s conversation (they were talking about journalism, like they always did; the result of an aspiring journalist being in the same room as an actual one). His blond hair was a mess, and his face was weary, maybe even a little sad – a far cry from the easy smile he usually wore.
“Hey, hon,” he said, leaning down to give Iris a kiss.
“Hey, Bear,” she smiled. “How was work?”
“Later,” he returned her smile, taking a seat next to her. “How about you, Linda? Wally get you into any trouble today?”
“Oh, you know. Not any more than usual,” Linda laughed.
Though the joke was at my expense, I couldn’t help but join in. She had that kind of effect on me.
“So how was school?” asked Barry.
“Ehhhh. Racists. Hate speeches. Jared and his ‘girlfriend’. Nothing special.” I started digging into the food, the flavor exploding in my mouth.
“Food’s delicious, Aunt Iris.”
Barry raised his eyebrows, some levity replacing his… well, non-levity.
“What?”
He and Iris shared a smile, keeping quiet, like there was some secret they were debating whether or not to tell. It was infuriating. Eventually, Barry broke the silence.
“There was a murder last night,” he said. His smile was gone, and he was looking directly at me. “I was at the scene today.”
“And this is something to smile about, why…?”
He ignored me, pressing on. The weariness returned to his face. “It was just a kid. Your age, maybe a year or so younger.” He paused. “I think a speedster did it.”
What I did next could be described as a double-take, but I don’t think that adequately describes the horror I felt course through me at that moment in time. My mind immediately turned to the one culprit I knew might be responsible, and the moment it did, my body responded in kind – by launching me the heck out of my chair. Images of Thawne flitted in and out of my thoughts, his blazing red eyes burned into my head. The thought of facing him again terrified me, and as much as I tried to recover from my reaction, it was obvious that everyone in the room knew it. Linda looked at me with worry, Iris with sympathy. Barry, though – his eyes reflected my fear.
“You don’t think that it’s – ” I began.
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “Maybe. But the M.O.’s different. Bloody. There’s a similar case in New York City – the NYPD think a speedster did it, too. Darryl’s sending me over there to help out.”
My fear was joined by resolve almost immediately. Nothing scared me more than Thawne did; after the beating he dished out to Barry and I, the very thought of seeing him again was enough to make me queasy. But just the notion of someone, a speedster, like me and Barry, using their powers to kill, gave me determination that turned that fear into drive, no matter if the culprit turned out to be Thawne or someone else entirely.
“Great. I’ll see you there.”
“Wally, you don’t – ”
“Yes, I do. C’mon, Barry. It doesn’t matter whether this is Thawne or not. Whoever this is, they’re a killer, and there’s no way I’m going to sit this one out and let you shoulder this all by yourself. We’re partners.”
His lips formed into a small smile. “Okay, Kid. I guess I’ll see you there.”
I turned to Linda. Her eyes were a mix of different emotions; worry, pride… love.
“Will you be okay to get home?”
She nodded. “Go get ‘em, Fleet Feet.”
I pecked her on the lips, taking out the ring that’d been sitting in my pocket for the entire day. It fit perfectly on my third finger, its golden Flash emblem inviting me to tap it – the suit sprung out in an instant, and I moved to put it on, the slightest bit of electricity crackling around me. It fit me like a glove, slipping on without a hitch – Kid Flash now stood before my family, smiling brashly. I turned to leave, starting at a slow jog –
“Wally, wait,” Iris said.
I stopped in my tracks.
“Barry and I have news… This probably isn’t the best time, but…”
“It’s okay. I can wait. You can tell me when I come back.”
I winced at the disappointment that crossed her face, and I almost apologised if not for the understanding that replaced it. “Okay. Be careful,” she said.
I grinned. “When am I not?”
I jogged out the door and ran down the street, gradually building up to just under the speed of sound. When I left suburbia and Central City behind, I let loose, the sonic boom a satisfying thoom as the world slowed around me. It’s weird, how the Speed Force worked; it gave us speedsters two modes to work with, normal and speed. Speed mode activated whenever we used our powers; whenever we were afraid, threatened or even excited. Time slowed down, and before you knew it the only sounds you could hear were a low hum and the beat of your heart. Unless you had a watch on you, you had no idea how much time had passed during your journey from Point A to Point B. The best you could do was guess. By my best estimation, I arrived at the Bronx in just under half an hour.
It was there that I met the webbed wonder, at what’s arguably the greatest fast food joint in the world: Big Belly Burger. I’d like to say that we just bumped into each other and acquainted ourselves over a burger and fries, but no. Nothing’s ever that simple.
I met Spider-Man in the parking lot of a Big Belly Burger in the Bronx. But we didn’t go inside to feast on some glorious, greasy goodness. No, I had to save his ass. From who, you ask? Well, isn’t that the question.
I’ll let Spidey tell you.
@Ruby
Cue the music...
M A Y 2 N D ♦ S . H . I . E . L . D . H E A D Q U A R T E R S , A V E N G E R S C O M P L E X ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y, N Y
Cue the music...
M A Y 2 N D ♦ S . H . I . E . L . D . H E A D Q U A R T E R S , A V E N G E R S C O M P L E X ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y, N Y
Tony Stark always had an answer.
It had always been this way. Even before he was old enough to design his own tech (eight, if he remembered correctly), he was thinking of the pathways, of the branches, of the tens of thousands of millions of possibilities the future could take shape from. He’d produced concepts of a multi-touch screen smartphone a decade before Apple introduced the iPhone; he knew how to develop plastic without fossil fuels long before LG Chem and KAIST University published their findings in 2009; by the age of fifteen he’d designed the weapons that would see his company thrive for many years to come. If someone asked him now of what he thought the future looked like, he would tell them that within a year China would become home to the world’s largest megacity; that within two there would be a drug to prevent obesity; that by 2020, holographic TVs will have gone mainstream, and that in that same decade over thirty thousand drones would be patrolling America’s skies; he would tell them that by the fifties – not those gone by, but those of this century – robots would be a common feature in the households of many, and that A.I. would be as commonplace as computers are now.
This was what he did. He observed. He calculated. Human nature was, at its very essence, predictable. All he had to do was take note of the patterns, of the details hidden within every day’s headline, and voila. Just like that.
Tony Stark always had an answer. When Pepper Potts asked him, “Why am I here?” as they walked through the crowded halls of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Manhattan headquarters, it was no exception.
“You’re my Girl Friday, Pep,” he said, winking at a not-unattractive blonde as he strode past. The suitcase containing his Iron Man armour was heavy in his hand. “I need you with me.”
“Right,” she rolled her eyes, “At a meeting for the Avengers. I can see my uses here as clear as day.”
“Mhm. Stand there and look pretty, and glare at Hill whenever she does that scary thing. You know the drill.”
“Wouldn’t Happy be better suited for this, then?”
“Looking pretty?”
“No, the glaring. I have looking pretty covered, ass.”
“Happy? Glare? Have you seen him try to be intimidating?”
“… Point.”
They entered a large conference room, a long, glass-topped wooden table at its centre. Jessica Drew and Carol Danvers sat on its left-hand side, the former tapping her nails impatiently on its reflective surface. Nathaniel Adam, on the other hand, who sat opposite them, stared straight ahead of himself; an unnerving, metallic statue.
An unnerving, metallic, radioactive statue.
S.H.I.E.L.D.’s eagle watched over them at the far end of the room, perched above a large screen which was, for the moment, blank. In front of it stood the appointed leader of the Avengers Initiative. Next to her stood a man who looked like he belonged in a nursing home. The top of his scalp shined in the light; grey patches on the surrounding area and an impressive moustache that brushed his upper lip were the only spots of hair he had left. Maria Hill scowled. “Stark. So glad you could join us.”
“Good to see you too, Hill. You look lovely.” He set his suitcase down, taking a seat next to Adam. “Nate. Jess. Danvers.” He propped his legs up on the table, crossing them over. Jess looked at him in bewilderment. Nate glanced at him, expression unreadable.
“And who’s this?” asked Hill, nodding at Pepper.
“Pepper Potts. His personal assistant, Agent Hill,” she said, all smiles, standing behind Tony with her hands behind her back.
“Lucky you,” Hill drawled. “This,” she motioned towards the elderly man, “Is Stan. He’s from the PR department.”
“Hi there,” said Stan. He even waved.
Tony raised his eyebrows.
“Stan’s here to talk to us about our public image. I expect you all to give him your full attention.” Tony didn’t have to look. He could feel Maria’s eyes dig into him. “Take it away, Stan.”
“Right, yes,” said Stan, leaping into action. He held a remote in his hand, and he clicked a button; the screen behind him came to life, displaying an array of graphs and statistics that Tony didn’t care for. “Following the Kryptonian Invasion, public opinion on superheroes has understandably dropped, eh… pretty dramatically. I don’t know why, myself, I think you’re great, but people like Superman aren’t really beacons of hope anymore. You guys (and gals, beautiful gals) are the Avengers, you’re the last line of defence, and the public needs to trust you, they need to see that you’re not just these people with powers that could destroy us if you wanted to, so the people at PR have put together this plan that I think could really help you all out here, so without further ado – ”
“ – Yes, thank you, Stan, I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind,” interrupted Tony, walking to stand in Stan’s place.
“Stark…” warned Hill. He waved her off.
“Thanks, Stan, I really appreciate your dedication. Why don’t you go to Pepper over there, leave her your address. I’ll send you a fruit basket, maybe a cheque. There you go, buddy. Thank you.”
“Stan, you really don’t have to…” Hill pinched the bridge of her nose.
Stan did.
“Here’s the problem, people,” said Tony, clasping his hands together. “We’re a team of superheroes. The first big-name superhero team since the Justice Society (except for Hill, don’t know what she’s doing here). But what are we doing? We’re sitting around on our asses waiting for something to happen in a facility belonging to the world’s largest intelligence and espionage organisation. When people hear ‘Avengers’, they don’t think of us. They think of scary, back-stabbing spies and a guy called ‘Deathstroke’. What we need to do is separate ourselves from S.H.I.E.L.D. We need our own base of operations, our own identity, our own brand – yes, Hill, we’ll still be S.H.I.E.L.D., but we won’t be hiding anymore. Like Stan said, after the Invasion, people don’t trust us anymore. We need to give them a reason to.”
“And where do you suggest we put this new base of operations?” asked Nathaniel.
“Stark Tower.”
Jess threw her head back as she erupted in laughter, smacking the table with her right hand as her left clutched her stomach. By the time she finished, tears were streaming down her face, which had turned as red as a strawberry. Tony frowned. Pepper was allergic to those.
Jess wiped the tears off with the back of her hand. “Ohmygod,” she gasped, “Ohmygod. Tony. Anthony. Edward. You’re full of shit.”
“So I’ve been told,” he agreed. “We replace ‘Stark’ with our logo. I already have floor plans. All I have to do is give the word, and my guys will have everything ready within a month, two at most. Your own rooms, a training facility, everything the team could ever need – all out of my own pocket, at no expense to S.H.I.E.L.D. or the government. Think about it. This’ll do wonders for our publicity (well, not as much as actually doing something, but I’m getting there). Hill?”
She stared at him with embers in her eyes, the gears in her head turning with considerable effort. Eventually, “… I’ll see what Director Wilson thinks, but I’ll need more information.”
“Check your inbox. Already there.”
“Fantastic…” she muttered.
“Alright. Now, onto the good stuff.”
At his end of the table were a series of USB ports. Reaching into his inside pocket, Tony extracted a drive, plugging it in. On the screen behind him appeared a photograph of a group of men, all carrying weapons that looked alien in design. They… did not look friendly.
“They call themselves the Bastard Sons of Wilbur Day. Y’know, Stilt-Man. That one guy the Justice Society used to fight a lot. They are anti-superhero, anti-establishment, anarchist techno-terror cell wannabes that have recently come across the means to become a very real danger. The weapons you see them holding are courtesy of the Kryptonians that engineered what could have been a mass extinction event. I don’t know where they got them, but they have ‘em, and it turns out that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s had them under surveillance for some weeks now.”
Hill’s eyes widened. “How – ”
“Later, Hill. For now, I say we go kick some terrorist ass. They’re in Red Hook. Hope you’re all ready.”
He eyed the other Avengers, a smirk working its way across his face. “Avengers… Go.”
No… Something about that doesn’t sound right.
It had always been this way. Even before he was old enough to design his own tech (eight, if he remembered correctly), he was thinking of the pathways, of the branches, of the tens of thousands of millions of possibilities the future could take shape from. He’d produced concepts of a multi-touch screen smartphone a decade before Apple introduced the iPhone; he knew how to develop plastic without fossil fuels long before LG Chem and KAIST University published their findings in 2009; by the age of fifteen he’d designed the weapons that would see his company thrive for many years to come. If someone asked him now of what he thought the future looked like, he would tell them that within a year China would become home to the world’s largest megacity; that within two there would be a drug to prevent obesity; that by 2020, holographic TVs will have gone mainstream, and that in that same decade over thirty thousand drones would be patrolling America’s skies; he would tell them that by the fifties – not those gone by, but those of this century – robots would be a common feature in the households of many, and that A.I. would be as commonplace as computers are now.
This was what he did. He observed. He calculated. Human nature was, at its very essence, predictable. All he had to do was take note of the patterns, of the details hidden within every day’s headline, and voila. Just like that.
Tony Stark always had an answer. When Pepper Potts asked him, “Why am I here?” as they walked through the crowded halls of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Manhattan headquarters, it was no exception.
“You’re my Girl Friday, Pep,” he said, winking at a not-unattractive blonde as he strode past. The suitcase containing his Iron Man armour was heavy in his hand. “I need you with me.”
“Right,” she rolled her eyes, “At a meeting for the Avengers. I can see my uses here as clear as day.”
“Mhm. Stand there and look pretty, and glare at Hill whenever she does that scary thing. You know the drill.”
“Wouldn’t Happy be better suited for this, then?”
“Looking pretty?”
“No, the glaring. I have looking pretty covered, ass.”
“Happy? Glare? Have you seen him try to be intimidating?”
“… Point.”
They entered a large conference room, a long, glass-topped wooden table at its centre. Jessica Drew and Carol Danvers sat on its left-hand side, the former tapping her nails impatiently on its reflective surface. Nathaniel Adam, on the other hand, who sat opposite them, stared straight ahead of himself; an unnerving, metallic statue.
An unnerving, metallic, radioactive statue.
S.H.I.E.L.D.’s eagle watched over them at the far end of the room, perched above a large screen which was, for the moment, blank. In front of it stood the appointed leader of the Avengers Initiative. Next to her stood a man who looked like he belonged in a nursing home. The top of his scalp shined in the light; grey patches on the surrounding area and an impressive moustache that brushed his upper lip were the only spots of hair he had left. Maria Hill scowled. “Stark. So glad you could join us.”
“Good to see you too, Hill. You look lovely.” He set his suitcase down, taking a seat next to Adam. “Nate. Jess. Danvers.” He propped his legs up on the table, crossing them over. Jess looked at him in bewilderment. Nate glanced at him, expression unreadable.
“And who’s this?” asked Hill, nodding at Pepper.
“Pepper Potts. His personal assistant, Agent Hill,” she said, all smiles, standing behind Tony with her hands behind her back.
“Lucky you,” Hill drawled. “This,” she motioned towards the elderly man, “Is Stan. He’s from the PR department.”
“Hi there,” said Stan. He even waved.
Tony raised his eyebrows.
“Stan’s here to talk to us about our public image. I expect you all to give him your full attention.” Tony didn’t have to look. He could feel Maria’s eyes dig into him. “Take it away, Stan.”
“Right, yes,” said Stan, leaping into action. He held a remote in his hand, and he clicked a button; the screen behind him came to life, displaying an array of graphs and statistics that Tony didn’t care for. “Following the Kryptonian Invasion, public opinion on superheroes has understandably dropped, eh… pretty dramatically. I don’t know why, myself, I think you’re great, but people like Superman aren’t really beacons of hope anymore. You guys (and gals, beautiful gals) are the Avengers, you’re the last line of defence, and the public needs to trust you, they need to see that you’re not just these people with powers that could destroy us if you wanted to, so the people at PR have put together this plan that I think could really help you all out here, so without further ado – ”
“ – Yes, thank you, Stan, I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind,” interrupted Tony, walking to stand in Stan’s place.
“Stark…” warned Hill. He waved her off.
“Thanks, Stan, I really appreciate your dedication. Why don’t you go to Pepper over there, leave her your address. I’ll send you a fruit basket, maybe a cheque. There you go, buddy. Thank you.”
“Stan, you really don’t have to…” Hill pinched the bridge of her nose.
Stan did.
“Here’s the problem, people,” said Tony, clasping his hands together. “We’re a team of superheroes. The first big-name superhero team since the Justice Society (except for Hill, don’t know what she’s doing here). But what are we doing? We’re sitting around on our asses waiting for something to happen in a facility belonging to the world’s largest intelligence and espionage organisation. When people hear ‘Avengers’, they don’t think of us. They think of scary, back-stabbing spies and a guy called ‘Deathstroke’. What we need to do is separate ourselves from S.H.I.E.L.D. We need our own base of operations, our own identity, our own brand – yes, Hill, we’ll still be S.H.I.E.L.D., but we won’t be hiding anymore. Like Stan said, after the Invasion, people don’t trust us anymore. We need to give them a reason to.”
“And where do you suggest we put this new base of operations?” asked Nathaniel.
“Stark Tower.”
Jess threw her head back as she erupted in laughter, smacking the table with her right hand as her left clutched her stomach. By the time she finished, tears were streaming down her face, which had turned as red as a strawberry. Tony frowned. Pepper was allergic to those.
Jess wiped the tears off with the back of her hand. “Ohmygod,” she gasped, “Ohmygod. Tony. Anthony. Edward. You’re full of shit.”
“So I’ve been told,” he agreed. “We replace ‘Stark’ with our logo. I already have floor plans. All I have to do is give the word, and my guys will have everything ready within a month, two at most. Your own rooms, a training facility, everything the team could ever need – all out of my own pocket, at no expense to S.H.I.E.L.D. or the government. Think about it. This’ll do wonders for our publicity (well, not as much as actually doing something, but I’m getting there). Hill?”
She stared at him with embers in her eyes, the gears in her head turning with considerable effort. Eventually, “… I’ll see what Director Wilson thinks, but I’ll need more information.”
“Check your inbox. Already there.”
“Fantastic…” she muttered.
“Alright. Now, onto the good stuff.”
At his end of the table were a series of USB ports. Reaching into his inside pocket, Tony extracted a drive, plugging it in. On the screen behind him appeared a photograph of a group of men, all carrying weapons that looked alien in design. They… did not look friendly.
“They call themselves the Bastard Sons of Wilbur Day. Y’know, Stilt-Man. That one guy the Justice Society used to fight a lot. They are anti-superhero, anti-establishment, anarchist techno-terror cell wannabes that have recently come across the means to become a very real danger. The weapons you see them holding are courtesy of the Kryptonians that engineered what could have been a mass extinction event. I don’t know where they got them, but they have ‘em, and it turns out that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s had them under surveillance for some weeks now.”
Hill’s eyes widened. “How – ”
“Later, Hill. For now, I say we go kick some terrorist ass. They’re in Red Hook. Hope you’re all ready.”
He eyed the other Avengers, a smirk working its way across his face. “Avengers… Go.”
No… Something about that doesn’t sound right.
An Iron Man post is in the works. I repeat, an Iron Man post is in the works. Hold onto your seats, people.
@FacePunch Yeah dude, go for it. Invitation = acceptance, lol.
M A Y 1 S T, 2 0 1 6
Albert Lim arrives home with a bruised cheek and a cut lip. He wipes the blood from his chin before he steps inside the building, pulling his hood up as far past his face as possible; the last thing he needs is for his mother to catch wind of his injuries. It had taken her a month to even consider letting him step back into the outside world after the Invasion. She only needs the tiniest of reasons, he knew, to force him back into isolation. Striding into their apartment with his battered visage on display is not something he can risk.
He climbs the four flights of stairs to his home with a grimace that travels through his entire body. It had only taken two hits for him to collapse onto the ground (the very same hits that seemed to colour his face so vibrantly) – the rest of the beating was dished out with shins and feet, no doubt dyeing his ribs with varying shades of purple and blue. His thoughts bitterly turn to one of his tormentors, Brian Williamson. His voice echoes through Albert’s mind, deep and nasal. “C’mon, Chink,” it says, “What’cha gonna do, huh? Take a swing, I dare ya, Miyagi.” Albert shakes his head. Williamson wouldn’t say that. Two slurs within three sentences is too creative for the guy.
If only Williamson knew what Albert could do now, he thinks. If only he knew that when the Kryptonians invaded, and the Flash and Kid Flash were fighting the man in yellow, and Jay Garrick was doing his best to keep people clear of any debris, that Albert was at S.T.A.R. Labs. If only he knew that when the particle accelerator exploded, even though Flash and Kid Flash tried to contain the blast, Albert was caught in its middle. If only he knew that when the lightning struck Albert, it did more than give him third-degree burns across his back. If only he knew that now… before, during and after the beating… Albert had powers. And that the only reason why he hadn’t used them, was for fear that he might have killed him.
Albert avoids his mother that afternoon. He skips dinner. He doesn’t say whether he’s okay when she knocks on his bedroom door. He just tells her to leave him alone.
Albert Lim doesn’t wake up the next morning. At the stroke of midnight, a man comes into his room and takes him into his next life.
He climbs the four flights of stairs to his home with a grimace that travels through his entire body. It had only taken two hits for him to collapse onto the ground (the very same hits that seemed to colour his face so vibrantly) – the rest of the beating was dished out with shins and feet, no doubt dyeing his ribs with varying shades of purple and blue. His thoughts bitterly turn to one of his tormentors, Brian Williamson. His voice echoes through Albert’s mind, deep and nasal. “C’mon, Chink,” it says, “What’cha gonna do, huh? Take a swing, I dare ya, Miyagi.” Albert shakes his head. Williamson wouldn’t say that. Two slurs within three sentences is too creative for the guy.
If only Williamson knew what Albert could do now, he thinks. If only he knew that when the Kryptonians invaded, and the Flash and Kid Flash were fighting the man in yellow, and Jay Garrick was doing his best to keep people clear of any debris, that Albert was at S.T.A.R. Labs. If only he knew that when the particle accelerator exploded, even though Flash and Kid Flash tried to contain the blast, Albert was caught in its middle. If only he knew that when the lightning struck Albert, it did more than give him third-degree burns across his back. If only he knew that now… before, during and after the beating… Albert had powers. And that the only reason why he hadn’t used them, was for fear that he might have killed him.
Albert avoids his mother that afternoon. He skips dinner. He doesn’t say whether he’s okay when she knocks on his bedroom door. He just tells her to leave him alone.
Albert Lim doesn’t wake up the next morning. At the stroke of midnight, a man comes into his room and takes him into his next life.
M A Y 2 N D ♦ C E N T R A L C I T Y H I G H ♦ C E N T R A L C I T Y, M O
I never really liked school. Whether it was kindergarten or elementary school, the thought of going there seemed almost as terrifying as the thought of staying at home. I’d never really been able to put my finger on why – for most kids it was because they hated their teachers, or because they dreaded schoolwork – and while I was one of those kids, those reasons were never really the ones that made me despise the place. As I thought on it more and more, I began to realise just what it was that did. My parents were never the most attentive bunch; Dad was too busy dancing his dance with booze and easily-earned money, and Mom was too worried about what the rich family from across the street thought of her to share much of her time with me. See, the thing is, school was never this hell where the principal was Satan and the teachers were his demons-in-arms; it was just another place my parents took me so I wouldn’t bother them for a couple more hours.
“Boo-hoo, Wally,” I hear you say, “You had crappy parents. Welcome to the club.”
Yeah, okay, fair. But you didn’t let me finish.
I never really liked school because it was another naughty corner my parents put me in when I was “being a nuisance,” as Mom put it, or, as dear old Dad would say, “a disgrace to the West family name.” But I never thought I’d find another reason to… not… like it, let alone one bigger than “Mummy and Daddy didn’t have time for me.” And guess what?
Yep. You got it. On the first Monday of May, 2016, I found one.
A month and one day had passed since the Kryptonians decided to flip humanity their collective birds, and society was recovering about as well as you’d think (hint: not very). Imagine a beehive. The bees are buzzing along, minding their own business, making honey and doing other bee things, when all of a sudden a big, scary, alien bear comes along and scoops up their sweet syrup, accidentally killing their queen in the process. The bees are angry, and they start attacking the bear, but not before it decides to throw their hive onto the ground and empty its bladder all over their home. Hell, it thinks, why not take a dump while it’s at it? The bees are so angry now that not only are they hostile towards big, scary, alien bears, but to any poor metasquirrel they happen to know of, too.
That’s the state the world was in in that month of May, and the twin cities of Central-Keystone were no exception. In addition to the whole evil Supermen thing, there was also that of the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator explosion, and the man calling himself Professor Zoom. Eobard Thawne, who claimed to be the man who killed my uncle Barry’s mother, and who also claimed to hail from the twenty-fifth century, used the Kryptonian Invasion as cover for his attack on the second Flash. Knowing full well that Barry and I would be busy trying to save anyone we could from the Kryptonians, he activated S.T.A.R. Labs’ particle accelerator, which was only weeks from completion. It exploded, energies previously only theoretical in nature spilling out through rips in the fabric of reality. With the original Flash, Jay Garrick, there to help us, Barry and I managed to contain the explosion to a couple of blocks… but the damage had been done, and Thawne disappeared without a trace.
The Gem Cities were in a state of paranoia they had never been in before, and it was spilling into their schools in bucket-loads. Central City High was one such school, and on its first day back since the Invasion, everyone was forced to see it for themselves.
We were all gathered in the gym. Hundreds of students filled the bleachers, talking with a kind of energy I don’t think anyone was expecting. To return to school knowing that your summer would be non-existent is generally a mood-killer – I, for one, was pretty bummed out – but the place was buzzing with excitement and gossip, and it was contagious. Despite the fact that I’d been separated from my usual circle of friends (I’d arrived late, as a good speedster’s alter ego always does), I happily chatted with the girl sitting next to me, elbows propped up on my seat’s backrest.
The stage at the far end of the gym was set up for a presentation, images projected onto the large screen that hung above it: a picture of Central City, post-Invasion, all debris and distraught men and women, with one word written in bold, red letters: ‘CRISIS’. A man in his thirties stood at the microphone in front of it, clean-shaven and hair shaped with wax, dressed in a uniform with ‘SFH’ emblazoned on his left breast pocket. He smiled at us students, gaze travelling over us before he turned to look at our principal, Mr. Lampert, who was seated on the stage’s left with the rest of the teachers. Mr. Lampert gave him a nod, and SFH-Man once again greeted us with a smile.
“Hello, everyone,” he said into the microphone, his voice booming throughout the gym. “If I could have your attention, please.”
The chatter died down.
“My name’s Gardner Kolins. I’m a volunteer working for Stand For Humanity, a foundation you may or may not have heard of. We provide for those who might have lost anything in situations involving mutants, masked vigilantes or any other extranormal individuals and groups – the recent catastrophe that came with the Kryptonian invaders being no exception. In light of recent events, your school has asked us to come and talk to you about the dangers “superheroes” such as Superman pose for society, and how you can keep safe if you ever find yourselves stuck in the middle of a conflict between such a person and other, usually powered, people. In a world where more and more of these beings are popping up every day, it’s very important that the public learns of how to endure the inevitable damage these so-called heroes inflict. So I ask that you all listen. It could be matter of life and death.”
“Now,” he continued, pointing up to the screen, “Who here can tell me what “crisis” means to them?”
“Boo-hoo, Wally,” I hear you say, “You had crappy parents. Welcome to the club.”
Yeah, okay, fair. But you didn’t let me finish.
I never really liked school because it was another naughty corner my parents put me in when I was “being a nuisance,” as Mom put it, or, as dear old Dad would say, “a disgrace to the West family name.” But I never thought I’d find another reason to… not… like it, let alone one bigger than “Mummy and Daddy didn’t have time for me.” And guess what?
Yep. You got it. On the first Monday of May, 2016, I found one.
A month and one day had passed since the Kryptonians decided to flip humanity their collective birds, and society was recovering about as well as you’d think (hint: not very). Imagine a beehive. The bees are buzzing along, minding their own business, making honey and doing other bee things, when all of a sudden a big, scary, alien bear comes along and scoops up their sweet syrup, accidentally killing their queen in the process. The bees are angry, and they start attacking the bear, but not before it decides to throw their hive onto the ground and empty its bladder all over their home. Hell, it thinks, why not take a dump while it’s at it? The bees are so angry now that not only are they hostile towards big, scary, alien bears, but to any poor metasquirrel they happen to know of, too.
That’s the state the world was in in that month of May, and the twin cities of Central-Keystone were no exception. In addition to the whole evil Supermen thing, there was also that of the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator explosion, and the man calling himself Professor Zoom. Eobard Thawne, who claimed to be the man who killed my uncle Barry’s mother, and who also claimed to hail from the twenty-fifth century, used the Kryptonian Invasion as cover for his attack on the second Flash. Knowing full well that Barry and I would be busy trying to save anyone we could from the Kryptonians, he activated S.T.A.R. Labs’ particle accelerator, which was only weeks from completion. It exploded, energies previously only theoretical in nature spilling out through rips in the fabric of reality. With the original Flash, Jay Garrick, there to help us, Barry and I managed to contain the explosion to a couple of blocks… but the damage had been done, and Thawne disappeared without a trace.
The Gem Cities were in a state of paranoia they had never been in before, and it was spilling into their schools in bucket-loads. Central City High was one such school, and on its first day back since the Invasion, everyone was forced to see it for themselves.
We were all gathered in the gym. Hundreds of students filled the bleachers, talking with a kind of energy I don’t think anyone was expecting. To return to school knowing that your summer would be non-existent is generally a mood-killer – I, for one, was pretty bummed out – but the place was buzzing with excitement and gossip, and it was contagious. Despite the fact that I’d been separated from my usual circle of friends (I’d arrived late, as a good speedster’s alter ego always does), I happily chatted with the girl sitting next to me, elbows propped up on my seat’s backrest.
The stage at the far end of the gym was set up for a presentation, images projected onto the large screen that hung above it: a picture of Central City, post-Invasion, all debris and distraught men and women, with one word written in bold, red letters: ‘CRISIS’. A man in his thirties stood at the microphone in front of it, clean-shaven and hair shaped with wax, dressed in a uniform with ‘SFH’ emblazoned on his left breast pocket. He smiled at us students, gaze travelling over us before he turned to look at our principal, Mr. Lampert, who was seated on the stage’s left with the rest of the teachers. Mr. Lampert gave him a nod, and SFH-Man once again greeted us with a smile.
“Hello, everyone,” he said into the microphone, his voice booming throughout the gym. “If I could have your attention, please.”
The chatter died down.
“My name’s Gardner Kolins. I’m a volunteer working for Stand For Humanity, a foundation you may or may not have heard of. We provide for those who might have lost anything in situations involving mutants, masked vigilantes or any other extranormal individuals and groups – the recent catastrophe that came with the Kryptonian invaders being no exception. In light of recent events, your school has asked us to come and talk to you about the dangers “superheroes” such as Superman pose for society, and how you can keep safe if you ever find yourselves stuck in the middle of a conflict between such a person and other, usually powered, people. In a world where more and more of these beings are popping up every day, it’s very important that the public learns of how to endure the inevitable damage these so-called heroes inflict. So I ask that you all listen. It could be matter of life and death.”
“Now,” he continued, pointing up to the screen, “Who here can tell me what “crisis” means to them?”
* * *
It started like that, and as Kolins talked through his presentation, it only got worse. Baseless criticisms against heroes were disguised as facts; statistics were thrown in our faces to hammer home the “reality” metahumans and superheroes were “bringing to our doorsteps”; Kolins provided commentary laced with mutant and xenophobia with a conviction that seemed to win over at least half of the gym. But it wasn’t that that disgusted me – not the most, anyway. It wasn’t that he omitted practically every good deed any superhero had ever done, twisting their acts into crimes that they deserved to punished for. It wasn’t that he was so completely racist the swastika practically etched itself onto his forehead, however subtle he may have been, or that his entire lecture relied on shock value and images of death on the screen. It was that when I looked over to the right, a few feet past him where the teachers were sitting, that I saw most of them nodding in agreement. It was that when I looked at the other students, I saw some of them look at Kolins like he was the second coming. It was that I could almost see their hate for people they weren’t even trying to understand as it gripped them like a vice – not that it needed to. Most welcomed it with open arms.
And so I found a bigger reason to dislike school than “Mom and Dad didn’t do parenting.” Maybe it was the optimist in me, or the fact that I was a superhero myself, but I liked to think that we, as people of Earth – humans, metahumans, aliens, whatever – were stronger than our fears. That we were bigger than hating on what we didn’t understand. On May 2nd, 2016, school showed me just how wrong I was. And I hated it for that.
I didn’t wait for Kolins to finish his presentation. As he talked about the total deaths caused by metahuman-related incidents since the turn of the century, I got up. I walked the length of the gym to the exit, and I stepped into the silence of the sunny outside world.
It was music to my ears.
And so I found a bigger reason to dislike school than “Mom and Dad didn’t do parenting.” Maybe it was the optimist in me, or the fact that I was a superhero myself, but I liked to think that we, as people of Earth – humans, metahumans, aliens, whatever – were stronger than our fears. That we were bigger than hating on what we didn’t understand. On May 2nd, 2016, school showed me just how wrong I was. And I hated it for that.
I didn’t wait for Kolins to finish his presentation. As he talked about the total deaths caused by metahuman-related incidents since the turn of the century, I got up. I walked the length of the gym to the exit, and I stepped into the silence of the sunny outside world.
It was music to my ears.
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