GreenGrenade

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

After heaps of time spent procrastinating writing, I present to you the third Flash post. Shit's getting real.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

---

My name is Barry Allen, and I’m the fastest man alive.

That used to mean something to me. It used to fill me with confidence, make me want to be better, to use my powers to help people. I would wake up every morning with refuelled optimism, thinking that whatever went wrong, wherever I went, I could fix it-- that I would fix it. That I’d care enough to make a difference. To stand for something.

But that was before.

That was before Zoom.

---

The house was empty. Dark shadows everywhere, the only light above the kitchen bench; a phone. Not mine. Not Iris’. I heard her voice, a desperate cry for help. “Barry!”

She was in trouble. But where--? I searched for her, my head turning, sharp movements. Panic seized me. Fear clouded my thoughts. “Iris?!” I called. “Iris?!” Where was she? What was happening to her? Where was she?

“Iris?”

Nothing.

Only the insistent ringing of the phone.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Click.

“Hello? Iris?”

“No, Barry. Zoom.”

---

Chapter Three
Monday, 21st March, 2005
4:05am

I woke with a start. Heavy breaths, skin clammy. The bed sheets damp with my sweat. Beside me, someone stirred. I exhaled in relief, breath shaky. Iris. She was safe.

“Barry?” she asked, touching a hand to my cheek, “Are you okay?”

"Yeah," I said between gulps for air, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. Just had a bad dream."

"Do you want to talk about it?”

I looked at her, meeting her sympathetic, worried gaze. “No. No, it’s okay. You should go back to sleep.”

“No, come on,” she patted me on the chest, “I’ll go make some hot cocoa.”

---

Tuesday, 22nd March, 2005
12:00pm

That’s when it started.

When time froze. When people stood motionless, as unmoving as statues; when sound, loud and quiet, failed to reach my ears; when every insect, every bird, every animal failed to move; when light seemed to stop in its tracks; when the Earth itself stood still. I could see every particle, every speck, every grain. I could see everything, and everyone. All because Digger Harkness threw a boomerang at my wife.

The Rogues’ token Australian, Digger quit the group a few months back over a disagreement with their captain, Cold. Before he joined up with them, he worked as a mercenary. Anyone that needed a job done, they hired him, because as stupid as Captain Boomerang sounds, he was efficient-- lethally so. And when he left the Rogues, he did just what his boomerangs did. He came back. A mercenary once more.

He was back in town for a job. Whoever hired him wanted him to rob a man called Francis Flashman, known to his associates as Funky, and beat the hell out him while he did it. In another world, I wouldn’t have minded. Flashman was a scumbag, known for being a con man from Hell, scamming all who dared to be his clients. Being a public relations officer, that could only spell bad things for his customers, for both their finances and reputations. But I was the Flash, and as far as I was concerned, Harkness was my responsibility. No matter who he was hired to hurt.

I found him at Flashman’s building, a small office on lease in downtown Central. It was an ugly thing, all faded paint and cracked plaster, its entrance a disgusting, vomit-yellow door, as if I needed any more reasons to dislike the guy. I heard a scream-- Flashman-- before the door, with a satisfying crash, flew off its hinges, Francis right behind it.

“Get away from me-- get away-- ” A boomerang skimmed past his face, turning in midair before flying back into Captain Boomerang’s hand. Blood trickled from two symmetrical cuts on Flashman’s greedy little cheeks.

“‘Fraid I can’t do that, mate,” said Harkness, a toothpick wedged between his teeth. “A job is a job, and this one just so happens to be one where you get the everlivin’ crap hit outta you. Lucky for you, it won’t make much of a difference. Face looks like a kicked-in shitcan, anyway.”

With a flick of his wrist, he threw the boomerang again, sending it spinning through the air at Flashman, cowering on the ground as he steeled himself for contact--

--that never came. Having intercepted the projectile, I turned on my heels, running back to take Flashman to safety. With him out of the way, I ran back to Harkness, who, in the predictable fashion of a Rogue, threw a boomerang in my direction; one that I ducked without difficulty. An audible “Oof,” escaped his lips as I barged into him, arm outstretched in a haymaker. He hung like a coat for a brief second, my momentum not allowing him movement, and I pushed him off, sending him rolling along the road before he came to a stop.

Then, a laugh. But not Digger’s. Not mine. Someone else’s. A disembodied voice, coming from every direction, all at once. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

And all of a sudden, faster than even I could register, we weren’t in downtown Central. We were at the park. Green grass, tall trees, picnic tables… and people. People like Iris. Iris… and her nephew.

Wally.

He’s a great kid. At sixteen years old, he was the mirror image of Iris’ dad, Joe. If they were seen together (if Joe was still alive), I don’t doubt that people would’ve thought that he was Iris’ younger brother. Red hair, green eyes, a smile almost always on his face-- yeah. He was a West. No doubt about it.

Iris hadn’t told me that he was in town. I’d met him before; whenever he had a disagreement with his dad, Rudy, his parents would send him down to stay with us. I liked him, and I like to think that he liked me. We never had a dull moment when he was around.

But someone he liked more was the Flash. Every visit, he asked the same questions: Did you see him? Were you there when he stopped the Rogues? Can he really do all the things they say he can?

So when he said, “Is that… the Flash?” It wasn't much of a shock. Not as much as it was arriving at the park with Harkness in tow, faster than my eye could see. And as I stood there, disbelieving and disoriented, he decided to take advantage of the situation. He threw a boomerang. An explosive boomerang.

Right at my family.

And just like that, time stopped moving. And everything changed.

“Hello, Barry. Long time no see.”

Guardians of Infinity

Well, what can I say? I do what I can.

Guardians of Infinity

<Snipped quote by Ruby>

I'm still here!

@Kaalee

But... But...

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

Reading over this conversation makes me realise how wrong I was to think I was ever a nerd.

@Morden Man

#same

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

Also, working on another Flash post. Things are getting really slow on his end.

Guardians of Infinity

I'm here, and boy, am I ready. If Hillan can't post for whatever reason, I'm happy to write something up.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

<Snipped quote by GreenGrenade>

GG gets all the love a man could need from me anyway.

@BlackSam3091

You spoil me, Sam. Stop it.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

<Snipped quote by Gowi>

WHO THE FUCK IS REPLACING ME NOW?!

@Architect

Nah, it's cool, man. We can share the love.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

---

Chapter Two
Sunday, March 20th, 2005
7:21am

At the CCPD, David Singh’s temper was legendary. No man was safe from his wrath. While Darryl was captain of our precinct, Singh was the boss. He was just the director of the crime lab, and as such had no jurisdiction in the rest of the precinct; but the tales of his fury were enough to sway even the toughest of officers. The slightest slip-up got him going. Misplaced some case files? He’d explain exactly what kind of idiot you are. Forgot to hand in the day’s reports? You’d better hope he wasn’t having a bad day. Come to work late? May god help you.

But things were different for me. Six years of working with the guy allowed me to get to know him, learn what made him tick, just what got his blood boiling. I could read him like a book. So when I arrived at 20th and Kanigher with a felafel in hand, I knew exactly how to deal with him.

“Oh, would you look at who decided to show up. Sherlock freaking Holmes. Where the hell have you been, Allen?” he roared. I could see every individual muscle twitch as his face contorted in anger, every line that formed, the individual droplets of spittle that flew from his mouth. I smirked, but he didn’t see it. I was too fast for him.

“It’s Sunday, Dave,” I said, moving past him without a backward glance, “Live a little.”

We were in an alley behind Jitters, Central City’s idea of Starbucks. Police tape refused the public entry, multiple cruisers parked out front with officers on watch. The air was thick with an unpleasant energy, a discomfort that seemed to follow the police force to every murder. It shouldn’t have been this way; no officer was a stranger to homicide. It was part of the job. But the Gem Cities were supposed to be sunny, and happy, and innocent. They were no Gotham. Something that Iris always used to say came back to me-- “New York may be the city that never sleeps, but the Gem Cities are the ones always on the run.” And in a way, I saw the truth of it. The people there did like to run from reality.

The body lay in the center of the alley, untouched since its discovery. It was a middle-aged man, probably in his late forties, dressed in an inexpensive business suit, the kind you’d buy from a second-hand store: scruffy, worn, and in dire need of a wash. He was bald, clean-shaven-- no hair to obstruct the frozen terror on his face. His chest was littered with stab wounds, his suit stained red by blood; the lacerations were deep and frenzied, as if done in a hurry. From afar, it looked unprofessional, probably the work of a mugger or junkie. But there was only one way to be sure.

Pulling on a pair of gloves, I turned back to Singh. “What happened here?”

“Guy’s called Clancy Whittaker,” he grunted, “Forty-nine years old. He was found by a Jitters employee doing early rounds at six fifty. The kid says he heard a scuffle outside, came to check it out. That’s when he saw this damn mess.” He nodded at the body, then looked back to me. “You know what to do, Allen.”

---

Sunday, March 20th, 2005
4:30pm

The man, as I saw him, was slow. He sprinted down the empty street, every step slower than the last, drawn out over time he didn’t have much of. Ragged breaths came out in lengthy intervals. His hair jumped up and down, like a gazelle leaping in the air, swept backwards by his momentum. I figure he was running at around twenty miles per hour; if he wanted to, and he would, he could outrun nearly everyone on the force. Everyone but me.

It wasn’t hard to keep up with him. Yellow lightning arcing behind me, I was speed walking at best, catching up to him within milliseconds. Reaching his side, I stopped, sticking my leg out in front of him, scowling as his feet collided with my ankle, a low pitched yelp escaping his lips. It took a long time for him to meet the ground. When he did, he pulled out a pistol, taking aim and pressing down on the trigger. A loud bang echoed through the street, fire spitting out from the muzzle, a lone bullet ambling its way towards me. I watched in a sort of detached fascination as it inched closer, catching it between my pointer and thumb.

I smiled.

Flicking the bullet away, I walked up to the man, picking him up by the lapel. Then I spoke. Very. Slowly. “Jared Cannes,” I said, “You killed a man this morning. Do you know what that means?”

“I-I’m going to jail,” he bumbled, an uncomprehending look on his face.

“That’s right,” I confirmed, “But first, you’re coming with me.”

---

Sunday, March 20th, 2005
5:00pm

Jared Cannes arrived at the CCPD less than a minute later, courtesy of the Flash. He was our man. When I examined poor Clancy, I found blood under his fingernails; ten bucks said it wasn’t his. I sent it back to the lab for analysis. Patty Spivot gave me a name in half an hour.

Turned out that Cannes was an amateur hitman. And when I say amateur, I mean amateur. He was the guy you turned to when you couldn’t afford anyone else. The guy you turned to if you wanted to get arrested. And that’s exactly what happened to Clancy Whittaker’s ex-wife.

As she was dragged through the precinct, hands cuffed behind her back, I turned to Patty, easily the smartest, and blondest, person in the room.

“Good work, Patty.”

“Just doing my job, Barry.”

“Right.”

A comfortable silence followed. Then--

“SPIVOT!” It was Singh. “Where the hell is your goddamned report?”

She looked to me for backup. I just shrugged. I wanted no part of this.