Bart Allen

When he wakes up next, the restraints are off, and no one’s in the room. He sits up, cautiously, and the room spins and tilts but he’s up. He can move, and there’s no way he’s going to stay still now. There’s an IV in his arm, and he pulls that out roughly, ignoring the bleeding, and stands.

The hallways aren’t as deserted; there’s people in them, and most of them are faced towards his room, and sometimes they move and sometimes they don’t; he’s slipping and sliding in and out of superspeed without any control, but never out of it long enough for them to catch him. He won’t stay still for that.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, picks doors and more hallways at random. He hopes, somewhere in the haze, that one of them will open onto a bar, but none of them do.

And then there’s motion when everyone’s statues, and “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Bart’s hand catches the wall, almost accidentally, and he keeps it there for balance. “That’s why I’m leaving,” he says.

Thad crosses his arms, the movement oddly jerky. (And the people move, just for a moment. Subjectively.) “I’m not supposed to let you do that.”

Bart pushes on. He’s probably going in the wrong direction. He doesn’t know. “So why’d you leave the door open?”

“It was a test.”

“Did I pass?”

Thad snorts. “You can’t even find your way out.”

Wall, smooth; indentation. Door. He pushes at it; it’s locked. “Why are you here?”

Thaddeus hasn’t moved; he’s just watching, not interfering. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m your replacement. Grandpa,” he intones, “needed someone with a vision for the future.”

“What,” Bart says, “you mean years from now, when you look back on your life as a lab rat? Good luck with that.”

He doesn’t even realize Thad’s moved until he’s smashed Bart against the door. The bolts holding it in place collapse on impact, which is probably a good thing because there’s glaring sunshine and fresh air and trees once he stops seeing stars.

“He gave me everything!” someone’s shouting, loud enough to make his head pound. “He gave me everything, and you just threw it away!”

There’s probably something about strength and determination and sheer stupid force of will increasing in times of high stress. He can’t remember it right now. What he does know, however, is that somehow he stands up, albeit unsteadily, and throws a beautiful punch at Thad, neatly shattering cartilage.

“Dude,” Bart hisses. “Shut up.”

He’s not sure how he gets away; it’s a blur from start to finish, walking and not knowing where he’s going or how fast or where. But, eventually, hours or days or maybe even minutes later, there’s a road, and then a mostly-deserted gas station. And he enters.

So, a speedster walks into a bar. Have you heard this one before?