Hound55
Crimson Flame
Simple Unicycle
Qia
SkaiThe first death in Barry’s life was his mother, killed in contempt by the Reverse Flash. It was quick, brutal. Barry would always remember the way the Reverse Flash looked just after, not looking at Barry, but just past him, lips twisted into a cruel smile.
Barry saw death for the first time as a young man, as a sear of black scarcely visible through the lightning storm that crackled between his and Pietro’s footsteps. Both boys thought it a trick at the time -- surely it was only a madcap Mirror Master illusion, or some obscure machination of the Reverse Flash. Only a clue to a grander scheme, not a threat in itself.
The next was watching it approach and then fade into impossible distance, faster than Barry could hope. Death was a man, a black racer, unbound by his speed from the limitations of space or time, able to snatch Barry’s mentor’s soul and be gone, almost before he could notice.
Since, Death had lingered in Barry’s perception; a streak skating through those disasters he wasn’t quite fast enough to reach, even dogged on Death’s heels, blowing his lungs out with the effort. Over time, Barry could get closer, no longer a dozen meters behind, but half that. A quarter. An eighth. Soon he was close enough to see Death was not cloaked in ethereal robes, but a costume, like Barry’s. It was black and sleek and seemed to stretch on forever, encircling everything Barry loved.
Eventually, Barry grew to outpace even Death, able to grab Batman and run from his grasp until the caped crusader could be returned to proper life. For a time, Barry thought he could outrun Death altogether. At the height of his speed, he could stay one step ahead of the racer, maneuvering everyone and everything out of his reach, keeping Death just at bay. If he pushed himself, maybe there would be no death, not ever again.
Mojoworld proved otherwise. When Batman died, the other Batman, Barry hadn’t even gotten a chance to see the racer claim Batman’s soul, he could only feel the racer’s presence worming into the back of his mind as Batman lay dying.
It was like that here, too. He couldn’t see the death, but he could feel it, footprints burned into his mind. The Black Racer was near. Had he already collected? No: had he come for them?
He juggled the questions in his mind as he zoomed through the facility. Whatever had happened here, it started fast. Several rooms had shattered coffee pots, glass exploding from too much time on the burner unattended. Computer terminals, awoken from their slumber by lightning-fast inputs, showed an array of half-written research reports and emails. Some had stopped mid word. He would’ve stopped to read them, tried to get a greater understanding of the facility, if it wasn’t for the blood.
He had excused the first few droplets he saw. Maybe someone had slashed their thumb with a papercut, or let a drop of their bloody nose loose onto their desk. The deeper he drew in the facility, the deeper the blood became -- in one hallway, reinforced at either side with haphazardly lain office equipment, the blood stood in a pool just up past the soles of Flash’s boots. Its deep red stained his bright costume darker as he ran.
There had been a battle here, he could tell from the desperate, slipshod construction of each barricade he encountered, but there were almost no signs of a real fight. Just officeware stained crimson. He had searched easily hundreds of meters of facility, winding halls and all, but beyond the blood, he only had two signs of what had happened here.
The first was the cuts. In a whirlwind glance as he dashed past, he thought it was the trace of an attack, a wild slash by someone endowed with claws like Wolverine’s. There were four cuts, each so deep in the walls that they consigned themselves to darkness before Barry could see their ends. They were too accurateto have come from Wolverine, maybe too pristine to have been made by a man at all. They appeared to be of equal volume, each carefully inches apart. Too far for a clawed hand, too perfect for the random variation of biology. There bore inside was smooth to Barry’s touch, sanded down to precise, flat features. The concrete that should have been in the wall, be it dust, rubble, or thick slices of it simply removed, were nowhere to be found.
Then, deeper, there were the shell casings. Four, exactly, with matching bullet holes that traced up the facility’s walls and onto the ceiling. The shooter was unconfident, or injured, firing at a target larger than them. Much larger, if Barry had to guess. The cases laid in a puddle of blood, at least as big around as Cap’s shield. Maybe the gunman hit his target, shots blasting through whatever it was and leaving their marks in the walls… But the blood spatter didn’t support it. There would be clean arcs of blood slashed against the walls from the bullets exit, but instead the patterns seemed almost random. Like, all at once, the blood had been evacuated from the shooter’s body.
Odder still, the shots were the only sign of a fight. He expected a discarded magazine, a torn scrap of armor or clothing. He’d have settled for a post-it note that read “oh, no”, but there was nothing. Whatever was here, whatever presence Six sensed, it had covered its tracks well… Too well for them to see it coming if it came back.
“M’gann?” Barry tried to project his thoughts as he ran, feet pounding down the corridors to the security room, “I’m almost back to Steve and the others. I think we’re in trouble...”
Barry rounded the last corner before his destination and stopped flat in his tracks. Where he expected the familiar steel door, laying crumpled beside the entrance, was a featureless steel wall. Had he gotten turned around? He was The Flash! He could run circles around a facility like this… He used to run circles around facilities like this. He gulped, and thought again.
“... I might be in trouble.”
Barry saw death for the first time as a young man, as a sear of black scarcely visible through the lightning storm that crackled between his and Pietro’s footsteps. Both boys thought it a trick at the time -- surely it was only a madcap Mirror Master illusion, or some obscure machination of the Reverse Flash. Only a clue to a grander scheme, not a threat in itself.
The next was watching it approach and then fade into impossible distance, faster than Barry could hope. Death was a man, a black racer, unbound by his speed from the limitations of space or time, able to snatch Barry’s mentor’s soul and be gone, almost before he could notice.
Since, Death had lingered in Barry’s perception; a streak skating through those disasters he wasn’t quite fast enough to reach, even dogged on Death’s heels, blowing his lungs out with the effort. Over time, Barry could get closer, no longer a dozen meters behind, but half that. A quarter. An eighth. Soon he was close enough to see Death was not cloaked in ethereal robes, but a costume, like Barry’s. It was black and sleek and seemed to stretch on forever, encircling everything Barry loved.
Eventually, Barry grew to outpace even Death, able to grab Batman and run from his grasp until the caped crusader could be returned to proper life. For a time, Barry thought he could outrun Death altogether. At the height of his speed, he could stay one step ahead of the racer, maneuvering everyone and everything out of his reach, keeping Death just at bay. If he pushed himself, maybe there would be no death, not ever again.
Mojoworld proved otherwise. When Batman died, the other Batman, Barry hadn’t even gotten a chance to see the racer claim Batman’s soul, he could only feel the racer’s presence worming into the back of his mind as Batman lay dying.
It was like that here, too. He couldn’t see the death, but he could feel it, footprints burned into his mind. The Black Racer was near. Had he already collected? No: had he come for them?
He juggled the questions in his mind as he zoomed through the facility. Whatever had happened here, it started fast. Several rooms had shattered coffee pots, glass exploding from too much time on the burner unattended. Computer terminals, awoken from their slumber by lightning-fast inputs, showed an array of half-written research reports and emails. Some had stopped mid word. He would’ve stopped to read them, tried to get a greater understanding of the facility, if it wasn’t for the blood.
He had excused the first few droplets he saw. Maybe someone had slashed their thumb with a papercut, or let a drop of their bloody nose loose onto their desk. The deeper he drew in the facility, the deeper the blood became -- in one hallway, reinforced at either side with haphazardly lain office equipment, the blood stood in a pool just up past the soles of Flash’s boots. Its deep red stained his bright costume darker as he ran.
There had been a battle here, he could tell from the desperate, slipshod construction of each barricade he encountered, but there were almost no signs of a real fight. Just officeware stained crimson. He had searched easily hundreds of meters of facility, winding halls and all, but beyond the blood, he only had two signs of what had happened here.
The first was the cuts. In a whirlwind glance as he dashed past, he thought it was the trace of an attack, a wild slash by someone endowed with claws like Wolverine’s. There were four cuts, each so deep in the walls that they consigned themselves to darkness before Barry could see their ends. They were too accurateto have come from Wolverine, maybe too pristine to have been made by a man at all. They appeared to be of equal volume, each carefully inches apart. Too far for a clawed hand, too perfect for the random variation of biology. There bore inside was smooth to Barry’s touch, sanded down to precise, flat features. The concrete that should have been in the wall, be it dust, rubble, or thick slices of it simply removed, were nowhere to be found.
Then, deeper, there were the shell casings. Four, exactly, with matching bullet holes that traced up the facility’s walls and onto the ceiling. The shooter was unconfident, or injured, firing at a target larger than them. Much larger, if Barry had to guess. The cases laid in a puddle of blood, at least as big around as Cap’s shield. Maybe the gunman hit his target, shots blasting through whatever it was and leaving their marks in the walls… But the blood spatter didn’t support it. There would be clean arcs of blood slashed against the walls from the bullets exit, but instead the patterns seemed almost random. Like, all at once, the blood had been evacuated from the shooter’s body.
Odder still, the shots were the only sign of a fight. He expected a discarded magazine, a torn scrap of armor or clothing. He’d have settled for a post-it note that read “oh, no”, but there was nothing. Whatever was here, whatever presence Six sensed, it had covered its tracks well… Too well for them to see it coming if it came back.
“M’gann?” Barry tried to project his thoughts as he ran, feet pounding down the corridors to the security room, “I’m almost back to Steve and the others. I think we’re in trouble...”
Barry rounded the last corner before his destination and stopped flat in his tracks. Where he expected the familiar steel door, laying crumpled beside the entrance, was a featureless steel wall. Had he gotten turned around? He was The Flash! He could run circles around a facility like this… He used to run circles around facilities like this. He gulped, and thought again.
“... I might be in trouble.”
