(no subject)

At superspeed, everything’s quiet. There’s only you and the rhythm of your feet hitting the ground and your heart pounding in your chest. It’s like entering a world of your own; the only people who can know about it are you and a farmboy somewhere in Kansas.

…And:

The ‘Wait up!’ is like a battering shot; it shatters everything.

(It’s not as poetic as it seems; trust us.)




So, two speedsters meet in an alleyway. One says “Who the hell are you?” The other says “I was just about to ask you the same question”. And then, because speedsters are scientifically proven to run on their stomachs, they adjourn to a pizza place.

It’s not like talking to Tommy, because that was really easy. This is awkward and unnerving, because the other kid’s wearing a green sweatshirt that looks weirdly like his, and their table fills with silence while they both figure out which of the many questions to ask.

Bart’s the one who breaks the silence, this time: “So what’s your name?”

“It’s Thad.”

Thad doesn’t stay still, anytime. He constantly drums his fingers against the table, tap tap t-tap tap, going in and out of superspeed unobtrusively. The table’s going to have a hole in it by the time they’re done talking. “So what about you?”

He hesitates. You have to take a leap of faith, sometimes; he’s not sure what makes him think now is the time, but: “It’s Bart.”

Thad’s fingers slip into superspeed, unnoticed. If his world just shattered, he doesn’t show it. “Allen?”

Bart’s hand tightens convulsively. “Wh,” he says. But Thad’s gone already.

Crap.

As he slides out of his chair to chase Thad, he knocks over his water glass. It shatters on the ground, unheeded.

(Well, maybe just a little bit poetic.)

(no subject)

This is not an evil lair.

Evil lairs are caves and underground facilities, with guards and guns and traps. This is one of many rooms in a mansion, security tight but no barbed wire, comfortable and homelike. It’s filled with posters and dressers and a closet and a chair, and it’s decorated in green and black.

There aren’t any pictures in the room, at all. But that’s not evil.

There’s a kid in that room that’s not an evil lair: he’s blond, and seventeen, and he belongs here; he believes that with all of his heart. He is the success, he is everything his (boss) family worked towards.

But he’s a replacement. He’s the second; someone else could’ve belonged here whole-heartedly, and for a while he considers keeping this information to himself. But he has to tell, because that’s why he belongs here.

And so he sits on his bed in the room that’s not really an evil lair, and he talks, and he listens, and then he leaves, light off and door locked.

(no subject)

When he sets foot through his Door, Bart pushes the bar and Jenny out of his head and regroups: Thad knows his name. It obviously means something, but he has no clue why or what. (Unless his parents are looking for him. But his parents aren’t looking for him, and why would they have a speedster?)

So he needs to find Thad. Find out what’s up. Speedsters aren’t exactly easy to find when they don’t want to be, but:

He can try.

--

He starts by asking around; Thad struck him as the type of kid who lives on or near enough to the streets. Maybe he’s been hanging around the area for a little while; it’s worth a shot. It’s all he’s got, for that matter.

He gives out a description: about his height, blond hair, seventeen or so, goes by the name of Thad. When that doesn’t work, he expands his horizons. Homeless shelters. Foster kids. Schools. Popular local hangouts. Have you seen him?

He’s about to give up, let whatever’s going to happen happen without interference; he can deal with it when it comes. Then, somehow, he finds himself at the pizza place again.

And there he is. Glancing at the streets, jittery, fingers tapping against his jeans. Bart storms over to him. “What the hell was up with that? Who are you? What are you doing he-“

He should’ve been paying attention. Fingers, jittery, hypodermic needle in his hand. He moves just a split-second too late to do anything, hand out to catch himself, he’s tired and everything’s too much effort, he’s



(Thaddeus Thawne hoists the dead weight in his arms. “Get the hell out of my life,” he says, broken, frustrated, and takes off before anyone who might have seen can react.)