Bart Allen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beforeyoucanblink) wrote2009-01-14 01:49 pm
beforeyoucanblink) wrote2009-01-14 01:49 pm
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The trouble with speedsters is their metabolism: in order to properly drug one, you have to either re-drug them often or keep them on a constant drip- or design something specifically to counteract the effects of a speedster’s metabolism. Originally, it was meant as a supplement, a little something to make sure whatever else they gave their speedster worked. But it turns out a little bit of this drug is all you need.
Of course, you have to be careful when dealing with experimental drugs. The first dosage they try on him is too much; it almost slows his heart to a dead stop. They’re better about it after that, though; just enough to keep him out of it.
Bart wakes up feeling like his insides were pulled out, run under a bulldozer, and shoved back in. Someone’s talking indistinctly; it’s rambling and accusatory, and sounds like it’s from a far away place, miles and years off, and coming closer with every syllable.
Bart cracks an eye open, finally, anchoring himself back down to earth; he can’t move, which is just as well because everything’s a little fuzzy and it’s taking everything he’s got just to keep his eyes focused. There’s a green sweatshirt in the room, a blur of blond hair. Lips moving, out of sync with the sounds; it’s giving him a headache. “-Oh,” he says. “You’re awake.”
He has things to say, a million questions and snarky comments, but somehow they all get twisted up on his tongue and come out garbled and unintelligible.
“He wants to talk to you,” the green sweatshirt says, arms crossed and impatient. “All you have to do is listen.”
All he can do is listen.
So he listens.
He listens to a familiar voice made of angry conversations and uncomfortable dinners and jagged cuts of glass and chemicals. It’s soft, and gentle, and concerned, and it tells him it knows him, it loves him, it knows his parents didn’t. It never wanted this to happen, been searching for him so long, none of this was an accident. He could do so much, be so much more.
Does he recognize it.
He can’t talk, can barely move. He nods his head.
“That’s enough for now,” his grandfather says.
Of course, you have to be careful when dealing with experimental drugs. The first dosage they try on him is too much; it almost slows his heart to a dead stop. They’re better about it after that, though; just enough to keep him out of it.
Bart wakes up feeling like his insides were pulled out, run under a bulldozer, and shoved back in. Someone’s talking indistinctly; it’s rambling and accusatory, and sounds like it’s from a far away place, miles and years off, and coming closer with every syllable.
Bart cracks an eye open, finally, anchoring himself back down to earth; he can’t move, which is just as well because everything’s a little fuzzy and it’s taking everything he’s got just to keep his eyes focused. There’s a green sweatshirt in the room, a blur of blond hair. Lips moving, out of sync with the sounds; it’s giving him a headache. “-Oh,” he says. “You’re awake.”
He has things to say, a million questions and snarky comments, but somehow they all get twisted up on his tongue and come out garbled and unintelligible.
“He wants to talk to you,” the green sweatshirt says, arms crossed and impatient. “All you have to do is listen.”
All he can do is listen.
So he listens.
He listens to a familiar voice made of angry conversations and uncomfortable dinners and jagged cuts of glass and chemicals. It’s soft, and gentle, and concerned, and it tells him it knows him, it loves him, it knows his parents didn’t. It never wanted this to happen, been searching for him so long, none of this was an accident. He could do so much, be so much more.
Does he recognize it.
He can’t talk, can barely move. He nods his head.
“That’s enough for now,” his grandfather says.