Dead Man Walker #12: Full Circle

==Arkham Forest: The Blackest Night==

 

Black dress shoes trudged across frozen dirt; the uneven scraping of an unresisting body followed closely behind, as man dragged corpse down the woodland path. The man was babbling; desperate to end the unbreakable tension between himself and his victim. Every now and then, he would cast his head back, guiltily examining the green-costumed corpse. There had been better dressed bodies, he acknowledged; the average funeral came to mind, although he had no intention of granting his victim that luxury. Not out of malice; truthfully, the man did not know his victim; not in any meaningful capacity. But, rather, he hoped that he could hide the body somewhere remote, to conceal the unfortunate result of a combination of drinking, driving and fruitless people pleasing. The man was no stranger to death; he’d lost people, he’d killed people. But he had never lingered. He’d never had to. Until tonight.

 

“Ah. Ah fuck, you’re heavy. What am I saying? If anything, you should be the one complaining. Being dead and all. Jeez… Granted, being dead and all, you can’t complain. Not to say you shouldn’t, if you were able to. I meant only in the sense that you actually, physically, can’t. Morally, you’ve every right to. I did kill you. Accidentally, mind; it was an accident. Not that you care; if you could care. Intent doesn’t really matter to the victim. Hah, look at me, being all legal. As I’m… dragging your body. Yep. That is what I’m doing. I’m never drawing straws again. Never drink driving either. You can hold me to that, if you’d like.”

 

He cast his head back again, smiling, as though anticipating a response from his charge’s cold, blood-kissed lips. Nothing. Of course not. Why would he expect anything else? ‘C’mon, Drury.’ The man chided himself internally. ‘The dead don’t speak.’ Still, he pushed as he pulled; in the vain hope the body might answer back.

 

“So, what did they call you? When you were not-dead? Costume’s bug-themed; nice. You’ve my seal of approval, anyways. Grasshopper? We've a Grasshopper, grouchy bastard, he is. Lightning Bug? Nah, not while the mob holds the patent. Firefly? Were you a Firefly? Gar’s never mentioned you. But I suppose if he knew you existed, I’d wager you’d have died a lot sooner.”

 

He swallowed. Coming to a stop, he dropped the pair of stiffened ankles, then carried the body in his arms across to a large, snow-covered stone. With a peculiar tenderness, he propped the body up against the boulder. Leaning upright against the stone, eyes closed and mouth agape, it almost looked like it was sleeping. Almost. The man shook the contents of his water bottle, took a hearty gulp, then took a rest beside the body, shoulder to shoulder with the man he’d killed.

 

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “You know today started out so well? Les Mis, finally. Haven’t seen it in, what, twenty, twenty-five years? Mum bought us tickets to see it in London, way way back. Consolation for what happened with- long story. It involved my brother, my dad, and some very nasty people. But yeah, round two. With my other special lady. That sounded weird, sorry. Hah. ‘Sorry.’ Like that helps. But honestly, things were finally starting to turn around! I’d been having a rough time of it, we all had. I’d pulled a job, couple of weeks back; well, I supervised. Not well enough. Things went wrong, people got killed, we… lost someone. Monty, poor kid, took a bullet to the dome, now he’s hooked up to a bed in Gotham General. But at least he has a chance, not like you.”

 

The man shook his head, violently, as though he might wrest the thoughts free from his mind and leave him without burden or guilt. “Ah, can’t stay here all day,” he decided, wiping his nose, and arising with renewed purpose. “Miranda’ll be worried sick. Miranda- she's-”

 

He paused, smiling softly. “She's everything. It’s early days, I know, but of that I’m certain. Do you have someone like that? Did you?” he asked, as he again took ahold of the corpse’s striped ankles. “Look, I know you can’t hear me. I know it doesn’t matter. But I am really, truly, sorry this happened to you.”

 

He trudged the rest of the way in silence.

 

~-~

 

Gar and Miranda leaned against the dented hood of the Mothmobile, waiting silently. Drury seldom left them alone, and with good reason; he had always been the most personable of the trio. “You have a light?” Miranda asked at last, fishing into her purse in search of a cigarette. Gar looked back blankly, then after a moment, retrieved his prized lighter.

 

“Thanks,” Miranda said, dabbing the end of her unlit cigarette into the flame, then taking a drag. By her count, this was the longest it had just been the two of them, and so far, it had been the most words they had ever exchanged one-on-one.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Gar muttered. Appreciatively, Miranda passed Gar a second cigarette, which he lit after a prolonged pause spent staring into the sparks of his lighter. Gar spent the next minute watching the amber embers of the cigarette glow; an addiction far more crippling than nicotine ever was.

 

After a lengthy sigh, Miranda pulled the blonde beehive off her head, then scratched the orange buzz cut beneath. “God, that’s good, does that theatre even know what air-con is?” she asked as cold air cooled her scalp.

 

Again, Gar stared.

 

“What?” Miranda asked, cigarette in one hand, wig in the other.

 

“Nothing. It’s a good wig,” Gar mumbled.

 

“I can get you their number,” Miranda offered.

 

“I’ve been making do without, but thanks.”

 

Miranda shrugged, propping the wig up on the bug-shaped hood ornament behind them. The silence returned, but it didn’t last long; Gar had begun to hum a tune very familiar to her.

 

“Thought you hated Les Mis,” Miranda said.

 

“It’s a three-hour show,” Gar defended himself, a little too hastily. “Some of it seeped in. We don’t choose our earworms.”

 

“You do so like musicals, you liar,” Miranda smirked, not buying his excuse.

 

“Don’t know what you mean,” Gar inhaled smoke.

 

Miranda scoffed. “God, how does Drury believe your bullshit?” she teased.

 

“Same reason he believes yours, I expect.”

 

Miranda’s cheeks turned red. They turned away from one another, Gar the victor. Or so he thought; Miranda was singing now. Subconsciously, he joined her in song; they were good, for a pair of supercriminals teetering on the edges of sobriety. As the song crescendoed, his voice got louder, belting out the final note. It took him a moment for him to realise that Miranda had stopped one minute ago. Perhaps even longer. Realising what he’d done, he locked eyes with her, and Miranda guffawed.

 

“Do you hear the people sing, singing a song of angry men…” she began again, mimicking Gar’s clearly not improvised choreography.

 

“Pipe- pipe down, would you? Yes, you got me. I’ve a background in stage and sets, I collabed with Andrew Lloyd-Webber, got Basil Karlo onto Phantom of the Opera, so yes, I like the occasional musical. What I don’t like is Drury’s standing ovation of one after every song… Javert jumps into the Seine and he’s blowing kisses.”

 

“I think it’s sweet.”

 

“Sure, like a puppy tearing up pillows; it’s cute the first time, but it’ll get old fast. You wait. Has he shown you The Room yet?”

 

“What room? The cave?” Miranda’s brow furrowed.

 

Gar struggled to contain his laugh. “Holy shit. He must really like you; I’ve never seen him show that much restraint. There’s hope for him yet. Maybe you can fix him.”

 

Miranda lowered her cigarette, smiling. “What’s there to fix?”

 

==The Arkham Auditorium: Now==

 

Gar paced back and forth, intermittently ordering Billings to ‘shut up’ and ‘stop crying’ as he drafted a plan of attack aloud. Drury’s departure had hit him the hardest; he had become used to him running off to save the day, but this felt different. It felt like a suicide run, and the longer they stood around deliberating, the less chance they had of getting him back. Part of him, a part he was choosing to ignore, feared that chance had passed some time ago; that they would never get him back, not fully. “I don’t know how much of a head start Dru has, so we need to go now,” he instructed the others, swallowing his fear.

 

“We’d never make it in time,” Ten said dejectedly, sitting on the edge of one of the hundred auditorium chairs. He was tying a sling around Chuck’s arm, using some of the fabric from his kite harness.

 

“We can try.” Gar snapped back. Ten raised his synthetic palms up in defeat, not enough energy left to debate him. “Rig and I will fly on ahead, see if we can cut him off,” Gar continued. Joey didn’t hear his name called; his head was hidden behind the large velvet curtains at the room’s edge, distracted by the commotion outside.

 

“Needham, you’ll carry Billings.”

 

“Can do,” Needham obliged. “But someone else will need to circle back to the Pen and grab Crane,” he added. “Pike left him blubbing on the cell floor. I doubt he can go far in his current condition.”

 

Fiasco's head turned at the mention of Crane's name. Freeing Drury from the Dreamscape had been their priority when he’d last encountered Crane, but he still had unfinished business with The Scarecrow. He said nothing to the others, but he quietly reached under his chair and gripped the stock of his shotgun.

 

“Get a grip, Lynns,” Gaige interrupted. “Joker didn’t bring Walker here just to kill him.”

 

“No, he brought him here to break him. His spirit’s already been crushed. I’m not letting him take his mind too, do you understand that?”

 

“Piss your pants at your own leisure, son,” Gaige slung his speargun over his shoulder. “I won’t let you get the rest of us wet.”

 

“What does that even mean?” Gar spluttered incredulously.

 

“I think- Unfortunately, I think it’s self-explanatory, Gar,” Chuck reluctantly vouched for Gaige’s choice of metaphor.

 

“Hey, not to interrupt whatever... this is” Joey called out, finally poking his head out from behind the velvet parting. “But I thought you said we beat Zoom.”

 

His sling complete, Chuck removed Ten’s arm from his own and stepped forward, craning his neck to get a closer look. “We did,” he stammered. “I mean, I assumed Flash-”

 

“It’s not Zoom,” Billings said flatly, his present pain dulled by the resignation that the worst was still to come.

 

“Pardon me, Pistorius, did I say you could speak?” Gaige cocked his head to one side; the visor of his mask steaming up.

 

“Save it,” Needham shot his palm up to silence him. “What’d you say?”

 

“It’s not Zoom,” Billings repeated, somehow even more monotonously.

 

“He’s yellow and quick. He’s not Gorilla Grodd,” Gaige scoffed. Needham repeated the gesture, again failing to adequately stifle Gaige’s grunts of dissent.

 

“It’s Thawne.”

 

“The Reverse-Flash?” Joey asked; his question met with a solemn nod. Although grateful to receive immediate clarification, his confusion remained ongoing. “But I thought he was dead?”

 

“Sure. And so were Carson, Cobb and The King of Cats,” Gar rattled off a non-exhaustive list of previously departed foes.

 

“Fair,” Joey admitted, scratching his arm bashfully. “That is a fair point”

 

“Fucking- I thought Zoom was the Reverse-Flash,” Gaige spoke.

 

“No, Zoom’s a Reverse-Flash but Thawne is The Reverse-Flash,” Chuck said.

 

"What?”

 

“Right, Professor Zoom,” Joey chimed in.

 

“What?”

 

“Thawne. His title is Reverse-Flash but his villain name is Professor Zoom. Zoom’s just Zoom.”

 

“He has two names? Was he that ashamed of his birth name?” Ten, less familiar with the supervillains operating outside of Gotham, asked Needham.

 

“I would be,” he answered bluntly.

 

“It’s pretentious, that’s all,” Gar muttered, clearly annoyed that this was what the conversation had shifted to.

 

“Let me get this straight, these two guys hate The Flash, dress in inverted onesies and shit lightning, and you’re telling me the only- the only -difference between the two of them is that one of them has a PhD?” Gaige growled.

 

“No, uh, Zoom had a PhD, he just didn’t brag about it.”

 

“In WHAT? Machiavellian BULLSHIT? I know it sure as shit wasn’t English Literature!”

 

Chuck and Joey exchanged glances, as though telepathically deciding who should break the news. Chuck drew the short straw. “Criminology.”

 

“If I don’t get the Bloodiest Mary and six pounds of shrimp in the next minute, someone’s going out the window,” Gaige pledged.

 

“It doesn't matter what he's called,” Gar muttered. “It doesn’t change the fact that none of us can even land a hit on him.”

 

Chuck paused, contemplating Gar's words, then under his breath, he said “Maybe we won't have to.”

 

Needham stiffened. Already on edge (certainly irritated), he overheard the quiet, almost imperceptible scrapings of cloth against carpet and a nervous gulp from behind; Billings’. He spun around; his arm fully extended, his ring and middle fingers rested on the release pad for his webs. Then he relaxed his arm.

 

“Batgirl?” he squinted.

 

The others turned around: Cassandra was standing in the doorway, not quite upright. Her mask, fully enclosed and therefore theoretically masking her expressions, was damp, particularly around the stitched eyeholes. Needham took a couple of steps forward, looking at her questioningly.

 

“Basil…” she spoke, in a quiet, half-muffled voice.

 

That was the only word she was able to produce, and for The Misfits, it was explanation enough. Clayface had taken his leave; departed, presumably, via stage left. Then, without warning, Cass fell into Needham’s arms. After a moment of inaction, extended by the uncomfortable knowledge that five pairs of eyes and two pairs of hands were awaiting his reaction, he placed a fatherly arm over her back.

 

Joey frowned, privately taking a mental tally of everyone in the room and coming up one short.

 

“Hey, did anyone see where Len went?”

 

~-~

 

Jonathan Crane remained sprawled on the floor, limbs outstretched, in the same position that Bridget Pike had left him in. He had since abandoned any further attempts to recover his wheelchair, although it had taken some time before he had fully admitted defeat. At his most desperate, he had even screeched for Billings’ assistance. While he hadn’t expected him to answer, and indeed, the thought of Spellbinder finding him lying on the ground, as feeble as a pensioner who had slipped in the shower, repulsed him, his absence still stung.

 

Isolation was not a foreign feeling to him; much of Crane’s childhood was spent locked within a greenhouse, his only company his great-grandmother's birds; wretched beasts searching for an easy meal.

 

Oh, how those birds had terrified him. Cawing through the night. Pecking at his skin. That was when his worst scars were the shallow bite marks of starved crows. That was when fear was his familiar; his drive, his to understand, to control, to master. Now, fear was unobtainable; he could not feel it, he could not instil it. After all his years of study, all that he had given to fear, he was rendered immobile. Felled chasing the terrors he could once induce with a simple sack mask and a loaded pistol.

 

Further down the hallway, spats clacked against concrete. Not Billings then; these were steady, focused footsteps, not the lumbering of that one-legged drunk. The figure rounded the corner, and Crane raised his head up, as far as was possible in his condition, to meet his gaze. His lips met, forming a tired, resigned smile. “I had a suspicion it would be you, Mr Fiasco,” he nodded, his voice cracking slightly. “My angel of death, clad in black and yellow like caution tape. You should know that I had abandoned all hope of release. I dared not pray for death, you see, else The Lord hear my cries and deny me out of spite.”

 

Fiasco said nothing; the yellow colour of his striped slacks was dulled; dirtied by two months spent in a prison cell. His hair had grown out, no longer the crisp flattop he would trim daily. Despite the reputation of his bar, Fiasco was known to pride himself on cleanliness, tidiness and proper hygiene. Denying him that was just of the many reasons Crane suspected he carried a grudge. More pressing, of course, were the aforementioned months in captivity.

 

“If you came here for my feeble yowling, for desperate begging and salty tears to stave off my demise, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I fear not the hangman’s rope, nor the executioner’s axe. The Batman saw to that,” Crane monologued. “No, if I cared for anything, anything at all, it was my reputation, but it died here, on this floor, alongside the final vestige of my self-respect. All I pray for now is the chance to join it.”

 

“Do it. Let them think it was for Gotham. Why, let them think it was for Butchinsky and they will hail you a hero.”

 

Fiasco looked down, unimpressed. The gun hung loosely from his hand, the barrel practically touching the ground.

 

“Well?” Crane barked, his anticipation turned to impatience. “Don’t dawdle, it does us both a disservice. What delays your judgement? Sadism? Doubt? Fear? Do you fear me, little man, is that it? What little harm I can do to you now is dwarfed by what has been done to me. Finish it.”

 

“Do you know what it is, to be forgotten? Your achievements downplayed, your legacy ignored? Would you deny me even this?” Crane tore the burlap off, exposing his scarred face. His stretched skin was pale and sallow. Yellowed teeth jutted out at unnatural angles. He had a single, bloodshot eye; his other eye socket an empty, scabbed-over pit. Metal pins were all that kept his skull from cracking open.

 

“DO IT, YOU MISERABLE WRETCH; CAST ME INTO OBLIVION!”

 

Fiasco exhaled, and then he knelt beside Crane, keeping his shotgun just out of reach. “Too easy,” he rasped. “Too fuckin’ easy.”

 

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to erase you.”

 

==Arkham North: Courtyard==

 

Simon winced. He had been wincing, on and off, for the last five minutes. Since Thawne had tenderized his face and repositioned his ribs. With the threat of further injury temporarily postponed, Simon’s gashes started to close, as flesh met flesh and knitted the skin back together. Bruises sank into his skin, deflating like balloons, their colour draining. Gums tightened around loosened teeth, drawing them back into place. The blood stayed; dried out like scabs. So, this was what it was like to speed heal... Simon had always thought it’d be painless. His error; he could feel the pull of his skin stretching, he could feel his bones moving beneath the surface like whales beneath the waves.

 

At least it was quick.

 

The Polka Dot Man stood before him, wringing his hands, taking note of his newly found allies. Since Krill had reclaimed his belt, Thawne had stayed in place, unmoving, but pulsing angrily. Streaks of red lightning sizzled across his suit, his teeth were bared, and his face was scrunched into a snarl like a caged tiger. “Look, mate, you’re outnumbered,” Krill boasted, sticking his hand through a portal, retrieving a warm can of beer then twisting the pull-ring up. “We’ve got- Who have we got? Oh, Plug Boy. Nice. The Flash. Sick. Oh, we’ve got both target demographics of Euphoria, fancy that,” he gestured with his free hand, chugging his beverage.

 

Sharpe and Kitten both nodded, looked at each other, then frowned.

 

No longer able to restrain himself, Thawne rushed forward. Still slurping his beer, Krill brought up a defensive bubble around himself; Thawne maneuvered out of the way at the last second, skidding against the ground.

 

“I’m getting to you,” Krill wagged his finger, foam dripping down his chin. With a final gulp (and a shake of the can to confirm it was empty), Krill placed the can against his forehead and punched it, compressing it into a flat circle and depositing it through the same portal he had summoned earlier. “Right, where was I?” he asked, wiping his hands on his thighs.

 

“Krill,” Thawne glowered. “A fitting name for a man of your standing. You’re insignificant. A microscopic gnat swimming through the multiverse. One of a million, billion little pests with mismatched eyes and pockmarked skin aimlessly floating towards an early grave. I would have preferred to let you be consumed by the Speedforce, swallowed into obscurity. But I am not so stubborn that I cannot see the opportunities afforded by your expulsion. It simply means I get to kill you myself.”

 

“You’ll have to catch me first,” Krill flashed a toothy grin. He raised the bubble, and Thawne took the bait, sprinting forwards. Krill chucked a cluster of dot-shaped explosives to slow him down, then dove through an amber portal. Thawne threw his forearm in front of his face, missing the worst of the shrapnel. Krill reappeared in front of the Asylum’s entrance, this time waving a red cloak like a matador.

 

“I tire of this,” Thawne warned, this time not rising to Krill’s taunts.

 

“Well, you’re getting to be that age...” Krill remarked, tossing the cloak away. “Spend your youth sprinting and arthritis becomes a serious concern.”

 

This time, Thawne rose to Krill’s taunts.

 

Whenever Thawne got too close, Krill would leap through a portal with the rehearsed athleticism of a circus acrobat jumping through flaming hoops. Thawne cracked his own fist against his jaw, with a punch meant for Krill. This pattern repeated, as each rage-filled punch was sent into a portal and thrown right back at him. As Thawne sped after him, The Polka Dot Man played hopscotch, jumping from dot to dot to evade the Professor’s sprint. Switching to offense, Krill sent a dozen different dots Thawne’s way; razor-tipped buzzsaws, exploding homing missiles; dots that froze and dots that burned. For every one Thawne missed, another found its mark.

 

“You just don’t get it, do you, mate? So long as I have this belt, I’m practically invincible! No, I’m not, I’m what’s-his-face; the brainy ballsack with the portal predilection. ‘Cept I’ve got the smarts and the wormholes, and you’ve got the victim complex and a head like the Shaggy Man’s scrotum.”

 

“Eugene Levy?” Blake suggested.

 

“Don’t think it’s that, but I appreciate the assist.”

 

~-~

 

Axel and Kitten saw their chance, and stampeded towards their brother, at last embracing in a hug born of relieved disbelief. As they broke apart, Axel playfully tapped his brother’s pec with the back of his hand. “So, you’re fast now?”

 

“I guess so,” Simon confirmed.

 

“You do realise this means I get to hate you more now, yeah? Like, it’s my civic duty. As a Trickster. As a Rogue. As a recreational delinquent. Like, I’m morally obligated to,” he beamed.

 

“Axel!” Kitten chided him.

 

Simon nodded, smiling. “I reckon I can live with that.”

 

“Simon, that was incredible!” Wally appeared behind him, slapping him on the back supportively. “You’re a natural! That was one hell of a gambit; how’d you even know how to access the Speedforce?”

 

“That wasn’t you?” Simon asked.

 

“What?” Wally asked, still smiling, but a confused look in his eyes.

 

“There was a voice, it told me the coordinates… I thought that was you.”

 

Wally frowned. “Simon, I didn’t say anything,” he revealed.

 

“Then who did?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Never mind,” Wally deflected, mulling over what to say, and how best to say it. “When a speedster dies, their souls return to the Speedforce, while their speed is reabsorbed, held until it can be passed down to the next generation. They have been... known to speak from beyond the grave, to guide novice speedsters- I think, maybe, hopefully, that’s what happened to you.”

 

“Why do you say hopefully?”

 

“A headache for another time,” Wally smiled. “Now, run, Simon, run.”

 

Simon saluted, then sped off; his siblings running behind him. Wally’s eyes followed him, watching as Simon’s speed trail faded from view.

 

“Hey,” Dick dropped down from a nearby tree, first greeting Wally with a handshake, then bringing him into a hug. “You gave your superspeed to Killer Moth’s kid?”

 

Wally shrugged. “You gave your pixie boots to Batman’s.”

 

“Fair point,” Dick conceded. “C’mon, slowcoach,” he teased, racing into the fray.

 

Wally smirked, then ran after him.

 

“Night school!” Paul Booker clicked his fingers. “That’s where I know ya from.” Rocks formed beneath his feet, then he followed closely behind.

 

~-~

 

Krill was running low on dots; while waiting for the rest of his nanotech to return, he slipped a stick of gum into his mouth. Left open, Thawne seized his opportunity. He grabbed Krill by a bunched-up piece of fabric around his chest and hoisted him up above his head. Krill, kept chewing; a pink bubble blew out of his mouth, quickly expanding to exceed the size of his head.

 

“Your last meal?” Thawne asked, his grip tightening.

 

“Oors,” Krill answered, his voice muffled by bubblegum. The bubble burst, encasing Thawne’s head in a pink, plastic coating.

 

“Yours,” Krill repeated. Thawne dropped him; the bubble clung to his skin, wrapping around his nose and mouth, slowly suffocating him. Thawne thrashed about on the ground, clawing at his face in a desperate attempt to peel the plastic off his face. Battling his lack of circulation (and Krill’s foot in his side), he vibrated his body, phasing free of the pink prison.

 

Krill’s lip curled. “Ah.”

 

Thawne grabbed his ankle, then flung him across the battlefield. His surroundings a blur, and his head just as fuzzy, Krill twisted his dial; a blue portal opened and deposited a king-sized mattress. He slammed against it, then slid onto the ground; bruised, but far preferrable to the rocks he was on course to strike.

 

As Thawne advanced, intent on neutralising the so-called, self-titled, most powerful man on the planet, Simon struck him like a missile, tackling him. Thawne recovered fast; a backhand knocked Simon away. Simon felt a molar shoot out his gum and impale the lining of his cheek. He loosened the tooth with his tongue, then spat it into his palm, pocketing it. He determined to remind himself to set a dentist appointment when this was all over. Presently, he was reminded that Thawne remained on the warpath. As Simon rushed to keep up, Thawne stopped completely, then stuck his foot out; Simon tripped, his chin taking the brunt of the impact. Thawne looked at Krill, limping away, and at Simon, then smiled. Simon crawled forwards, but Thawne stepped on his hand. “Slowing down? I expect so. Your little power-up was only ever a temporary boon.”

 

Simon phased his hand free; Thawne stumbled forward. Simon swung his other fist up, but Thawne caught it, headbutting Simon back into the ground.

 

“There is no getting rid of me, Simon,” Thawne sneered. “I’m the pebble in your shoe, digging deeper into your sole with each fresh step you take. And no matter how many times you shake your boot, you can never, never, pry me loose.”

 

Simon staggered up; Thawne was right about one thing; his speed was diminishing; he was slowing down with every step. But so long as the Speedforce was pumping through his veins, he was going to fight. A sweeping kick knocked Thawne off-balance; a series of body-blows kept him that way. Thawne stumbled, then peered back; the others were on their way, fists raised, weapons pointed, he would have to postpone this reunion, unless-

 

“You need a time out,” he stated, catching Simon’s fist. Time slowed, the battle froze, the world around them blurred, like staring through a frosted window. As Simon reckoned with the change in perspective, The Professor clamped his hand against his skull, forcing his head against the ground. “I’d say we have just enough time for a quick history lesson. Let’s see if you’ve done your homework.”

 

“Let me go-!”

 

“Time...” Thawne smiled. “Time is such a fickle thing; the smallest shift, the slightest alteration, and the natural flow of events is forever changed. You tread on a butterfly; you move a chair slightly; you nudge a blade two inches to the right…”

 

Simon’s eyes widened at Thawne’s insinuation. “I- I don’t understand, I stopped Chronos.”

 

“Yes, you did. And while you stood atop his body, relishing your victory a tad too long, you met him.”

 

“Dad.”

 

“Mhm. Him, fresh faced, butterflies in his stomach; you, dressed not dissimilarly to the Lightning Bug he had come to know from afar. In your time, I’m sure you know, the Misfits disbanded after poor Monty Sharpe took a bullet through the little brains he had rattling around his skull. But, say, Drury Walker found a replacement; a well-spoken, polite young man, with a familial connection he couldn’t quite place?”

 

“But Lightning Bug died. He always died. It’s the only reason I even have this costume.”

 

“Yes, yes, the Red Hood took care of that in your time too,” Thawne conceded. “But not as quickly… No, your Hood killed the Bug over lowly assault charges, not the total decimation of an apartment block. Funny, one chance encounter and the death toll that should not have been had risen to the hundreds.”

 

“As for Chronos? The time remnant gunned down by your flame-broiled father? Chronos died on The Blackest Night. Did you never wonder where he went? I’ll tell you. The ring sought out his closest ally; in proximity not intimacy; a sick, vulnerable man, held in Arkham over a string of holiday crimes… Imagine, how he felt, when a rotting Lantern tore through his cell, wearing the visage of an old acquaintance. Oh, I’m sure his fragile mind was stretched even further than thought possible. The things he might be driven to do… The people he might hurt…”

 

“No- that wasn’t me- I didn’t-” Simon stuttered, bile rising from his stomach.

 

“You trod on the butterfly. You moved the chair. And a few years on, scared of what mere B-Listers and C-Listers might do, did do, City Hall expanded their purview. They threw half the city into Arkham. And your stepmother died stopping them. Cause and effect. You were messy, Simon, and mess breeds mess.”

 

“You’re lying,” Simon choked.

 

“Maybe. I probably am,” Thawne admitted, leaning in closer, whispering with a broad smile on his face. “But you are never going to know.”

 

And with that final twist of the knife, Thawne zoomed off. Time returned to its proper place. Simon lay still, contemplating Thawne’s words, trying his hardest to disprove them, until he was jolted back to the present by Axel’s hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you alright?” he asked, helping his brother up.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Are you OK? Did he hurt you?”

 

“N-No, I don’t think so,” Simon answered. “Thanks.”

 

~-~

 

Krill had recovered from his tumble, and was back on the defensive, slinging dots the size of manholes Thawne’s way. Beside him, Montgomery Sharpe offered unprompted, and unwanted, critiques.

 

“Oh, wow. More dots. You ever think about opening a portal into space and just sucking him away?” he asked, providing cover fire with his dragon staff.

 

“Oi, am I getting lip from the used tampon?” Krill asked.

 

Sharpe folded his arms defiantly. “Well, you’re not getting head,” he pledged.

 

Thawne caught one of the dots and launched it at the pair. The duo ducked out of the way; Krill selfishly bringing up a protective bubble for him and him alone. The dot struck a nearby oak, and the enormous tree crashed down between them, separating him from Sharpe. Sharpe crawled away, finding refuge beneath the purple cape of Doctor Polaris. The doctor looked down at him inquisitively.

 

“You’re holding back,” he stated. “Why?”

 

“What?” Sharpe snapped, looking over his shoulder to confirm that no one had overheard the doctor’s accusation.

 

“You pull your punches, you strike from a distance… Why? Why do you cower when you are emboldened by luck? From what I can discern you have the one true advantage here.”

 

“Because luck is relative, pal. It’s the slightest distinction between dead and near dead. Just ‘cause I’ve taken hits that should've killed me doesn’t mean I walked ‘em off.”

 

Violet eyes gleamed beneath Polaris’ blood-crusted mask. “Yes, I see it now. You’ve been kissed by metal.”

 

“Kissed? Try screwed. Hard.” Sharpe peeled back his mask, then tapped the white mark in the centre of his sweaty forehead. “I was straight skull-fucked, dude.”

 

Polaris’ eyes narrowed, then raised his gloved fist. “Move your hand away,” he instructed Sharpe. “You wouldn’t want to lose a finger when it exits.”

 

“When what does? What are you-?”

 

“Ammunition.”

 

~-~

 

With Krill firmly established as their greasy golden goose, the remaining able combatants had changed tactics, now doing everything in their power to keep him and his belt insulated from Thawne’s wrath. The problem, of course, was keeping up with them. While Simon still had enough of Flash’s speed left to pose a challenge to him, the others relied on gadgets and gizmos alone to delay Thawne’s vengeance. Lisa’s ribbons and Selina’s whip proved advantageous in tripping him up, whereas Blake’s Catarangs posed as much threat to him as Multi Man’s sporks. Although Big Sir's enormous heart was in the right place, by the time he lumbered towards Thawne, The Professor had already sped to the other edge of the island. Meanwhile, one hand down, Lord Manga remained more interested in peddling cheap merchandise.

 

“Polka Dot!” Wally panted, slightly regretting surrendering his speed as he struggled to keep up with Krill, now mounted on a saucer dot. “You can’t kill him!”

 

“Sod that!” Krill protested.

 

“I’m serious, this isn’t the usual hero spiel; The Speedforce needs a vessel, a speedster to serve as its tether.”

 

“I don’t give a fuck.”

 

“You will when it rips open and sends us all into the abyss!”

 

Krill paused. “Does it need all of him?”

 

~-~

 

One of Bridget’s gauntlets pinged urgently; she checked the display, frowning. She was running low; there was scarcely enough fuel left in her rig to toast a marshmallow.

 

“Hey, kid!” a voice bellowed from behind her. Mick Rory jogged alongside her, then tossed her an extra fuel cell from his belt.

 

“Thanks,” she said, catching it. Affixing it to her gauntlet, she then dove back into the fray. With her in the air and Rory on the ground, the two fired their weapons at Thawne, temporarily holding him at bay with a wall of amber flame. Next, one of the Intensive Treatment building’s windows blasted open, shards of stained glass peppering the grounds below. Thawne looked up, teeth gritted. ‘So, the last of Walker’s Misfits had arrived.’ Lynns and Rigger led the charge, firebombing the grounds from above. Dots like umbrellas formed above the Misfit’s allies, protecting them from the deluge of napalm. Surrounded by fire, Thawne turned to run, only to be struck by a sudden darkness.

 

Smoke bombs.

 

Easily dispensed with, Thawne smirked. He spun his arms to waft away the smoke, and was rewarded by a kick to the face by a young woman in black. Dick moved in to cover Cass, throwing his batons at Thawne.

 

“The assassins’ daughter and the acrobats’ son,” Thawne drawled, catching the batons then throwing them back at superspeed. “According to The Database, you two were the very best of Batman’s line of proteges.”

 

“But his best,” Thawne started. “-isn’t good enough.”

 

Cassandra dodged. Dodged the blows of a speedster. She read his body language; he telegraphed his moves, even at superspeed, he couldn’t help it. And she adjusted accordingly. For a while she evaded his blows and when he left an opening, a fraction of a second between punches, she hit back.

 

If it had been anyone else, it would have been logical to assume that The Database was wrong. That centuries on, the truth had been warped. Distorted. That the records had been exaggerated. Not with Cassandra Cain. She really was that good.

 

Thawne messaged his cheek. “Hn. You are fast.”

 

Cassandra gestured to his side. Puzzled, Thawne turned to see a trio of Batarangs dug into his arm. “What?”

 

“Fast enough,” she taunted him.

 

Thawne snarled, as his arm slumped down, immobilised. Enraged, he grabbed her cape, throwing her back. Cassandra caught herself with the grace of a ballerina, but by then Thawne had moved on. He dodged fiery swings of Joey’s sword. He danced past Gar’s hot flames and Ten’s heavy punches. He caught Gaige’s spear and snapped it in two, and he did it all with one arm. That manic look in Gar’s eyes had resurfaced, his hand trembled, his fingers fondled the trigger of his flamethrower with unnerving ardour. Then a hand rested on his shoulder.

 

Joey looked back at Gar sympathetically then, gently lowering the barrel of his flamethrower to the ground, mouthed the words ‘It’s OK.’

 

“It won’t work,” Gar said quietly. “Can’t work.”

 

“It’s a good plan,” Joey assured him. “Have faith.”

 

He shot Ten a thumbs up he didn’t see.

 

~-~

 

“UMM. HOLY SHIT GIRLIE,” Kitten rushed forward, leaping into Cassandra’s unprepared arms, and lifting her legs off the ground. “YOU ARE SERVING SO MUCH FUCKING CUNT RIGHT NOW. LIKE, WOW, OH MY GOD, QUEEN, YOU ARE SUCH A BAD BITCH, Y'KNOW? YOU KNOW THAT RIGHT, BESTIE?”

 

“I know,” Cassandra replied, resisting suffocation.

 

“That’s Kitten?” Selina asked Bridget.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Kitten Walker?”

 

“Do you know many other Kittens?”

 

“Is that a joke?”

 

“Why would it be?” Bridget asked humourlessly.

 

Selina decided not to answer that. “She’s crasser than I expected,” she evaded, folding her arms.

 

“I’ll be honest,” Bridget admitted. “I kidnapped her and I didn’t even think she knew most of those words.”

 

~-~

 

A stone grazed Thawne’s forehead. He turned to the source and relaxed instantly. “Which one are you again? Kite-Man?” he asked.

 

Chuck edged forwards; his visor was cracked, one arm was suspended in a garish yellow sling and the other was clutching a second stone defensively. “Hell. Yeah.”

 

Thawne smiled, he could feel movement in his shoulder again. “Oh, don’t make me laugh,” he said, laughing. “You’re useless with two arms.”

 

“Mhm. Yeah,” Chuck nodded, dropping his stone. “He’s not.”

 

A red blur blasted through the flames, throwing Thawne off his feet. His eyes scanned the battlefield, searching for the source. “Now he comes,” he murmured, a barely audible tremble to his words.

 

“Your fight is with me, Thawne,” a voice rumbled like thunder, its owner’s red silhouette submerged by smoke and fire.

 

“It was with you,” Thawne replied, beady, red eyes narrowing. “I’ve outgrown you.”

 

Over a dozen onlookers stayed silent, a sense of shared reverence washing over them as The Flash stepped forward. Thawne’s Flash.

 

“Barry?” Wally questioned.

 

“We both know that’s a lie,” The Flash said, each loathful word a knife in Thawne’s chest. As he walked towards him, slowly but purposefully, each golden footstep sounded like a bullet fired through Thawne’s back. “You have no identity without me. You don’t exist without me. You’re a husk, Thawne. That, is why you run. That, is why you flit from time to time, bouncing across the timestream like a yoyo. Why you won’t stay in the past. Why you can’t stay in the future. Because you are loathed. Despised. Hated by all. Just look around, Thawne, you’ve raised an army against you, an army born centuries before you ever will be. In trying to chase my legacy, all you’ve gained is hate a hundred-fold.”

 

“And that’s a Flash Fact.”

 

“Hard truths, Flash?” Thawne rolled his eyes. “Please. Look at all that I have accomplished in a day; look at the bloody piles of broken bones and crushed spirits I have reduced these pathetic amateurs to in your absence. Look at your protégé, sapped and useless.”

 

Thawne chuckled. “You always were late. Late for mommy. Late for Iris. Does she see me when she closes her eyes? See me, like you do? Hm? I am the monster under your bed, Flash. I was always the monster under your bed. The creak in your closet. The shadow in the dark. Perhaps I am nothing, but I am all that I need to be, to hurt you. Whether it’s thirty years in the past, or four hundred in the future, I will always win. I wonder, will you still believe every second is a gift once I’ve finished painting Arkham Island in the blood of these inferiors?”

 

Thawne blinked twice, his smile fading. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

 

“Thawne, enough,” The Flash commanded, but his authority was lost the moment Thawne caught on. The overly dramatic dialogue... the slight mischaracterisation... the stilted delivery as though reading from a script...

 

“Yes, enough,” he sped forward. “Enough games. Enough tricks. Let’s part the curtain and finish this as we are,” he hissed, ramming his vibrating hand through The Flash’s chest. The Flash didn’t fight back. No blood was drawn, no death-gasp was uttered. His image glitched, fizzled, then faded entirely.

 

The Black Spider stared Thawne down, as he fastened his web cartridges. Groggily carried on Needham’s back, Delbert Billings spluttered weak apologies. “Didn’t want to- didn't mean to- they made me-”

 

“Say another word and I will remove what remains of your leg and I will beat you to death with it.”

 

Billings stopped pleading after that.

 

Chuck swung his fist out; Thawne caught it, then kneed him in the gut.

 

“Did you really think that would work?” Thawne asked, slightly amused by Brown’s audacity; both in enlisting Billings and in his attempt to initiate one-handed fisticuffs.

 

“It didn’t have to,” Chuck said breathlessly. “-just needed to distract you.”

 

Thawne turned. Krill was squatting on a dot-shaped podium, hovering above a sparkling portal. Krill waved, then stuck up his middle finger.

 

“I won’t go quietly.”

 

“We figured,” Chuck replied.

 

“But you will go.”

 

A web caught Thawne’s foot, tripping him up. Recovering his footing, Thawne sent a cyclone that knocked Krill off his perch; he caught himself with a trampoline-like dot, safely bouncing him onto the ground. More dots flew, slicing through flesh.

 

“Stabilise the portal!” Chuck ordered Krill, before Thawne backhanded him. Dick threw his batons at Thawne, their electrified charges knocking him back, but only temporarily.

 

Something else halted Thawne’s approach, something small and metal weighing him down.

 

“I have apprehended the brigand, M’lord!” L-Ron chirped excitedly, spindly arms wrapped around Thawne’s calve.

 

“Get. Off.”

 

Thawne’s hand rammed into L-Ron’s head; sparks spat at the Professor’s hand as he dug inside the robot’s metal skull for the contents within. His fist retracted, pulling with it frayed wires and broken circuitry. L-Ron droned a line of ones and zeroes none present could understand, then hit the ground with the grace of a downed printer. Thawne shook his hand loose of the circuitry wrapped around it, then kicked the metal body aside.

 

“L-RON!”

 

Lord Manga rushed forwards, cape flapping in the wind, golden armour dripping in the heat as he hurried through the flames, until at last, he was cradling the little robot in his arms. “Pity, M’Lord,” L-Ron bleeped. “I had hoped I would make it to the next quarter. I had anticipated we would finally escape the dreaded red-ed-ed-ded-ded.”

 

Thawne scoffed. “I can’t believe they ever made serving droids so crude.”

 

“That was no serving droid,” a metallic voice sizzled like steam. “His name was L-Ron. And he was MINE.”

 

Manga’s true vaporous form shot out from his armour’s wrist, then forced its way down Thawne’s throat; he gagged, spluttered, then pink smoke sifted through his nostrils. That discombobulation left him wide open. Rock formed around Thawne’s ankles; a whip wrapped around his right arm; ribbons his left; Krill twisted the dial and his portal drew closer, drawing grass and stones into The Speedforce as it approached. Thawne broke those bonds; then came the webs. The gum. The snot. Closer, the portal moved. Thawne phased free of those too; then lightning hit his chest, flames shot forth, blue energy stung him. A spork pierced his cheek. Catarangs and Batarangs forced him back. Krill strained, his feet dug in, the dial twisted, and the portal moved closer, inch by inch. Thawne could outrun any portal, he’d proven that already; they needed him restrained, bound long enough for the Speedforce to snare him. No small feat.

 

“Look at you,” Thawne snarled. “You are not the resistance. You are not freedom fighters. You’re dregs, bleeding for a world that never gave you a second glance. I’ll let you in on a secret; it doesn’t change! You’re fighting for a future that mocks and shuns you!”

 

“That suits us just fine, pal,” a voice called out. “We’re Misfits.”

 

A bullet tore through Thawne’s jaw. Bone shrapnel filled his mouth, blood dripped through his chin, and the bullet returned to Polaris’ palm. Sharpe put a damp hand over his forehead, plugging the freshly carved exit wound. Thawne spewed blood and bone fragments, screeching unintelligible curses that would not be invented for centuries to come.

 

“It’s still not enough…” Gar grimaced.

 

Chuck shook his head. “It has to be.”

 

A wet nose nuzzled the cheek of Otis Flannegan. Flannegan patted the loyal rodent on the head, then he looked down at his wound. At least a dozen separate splinters were circling his vital organs, a deep channel was running through his gut. “Eh,” he grunted, wiping the freshest layer of dirt off his overalls. “Why not?”

 

“Abner!”

 

“Who-?” Krill turned to see Flannegan limping towards him, his splintered staff used as a cane to propel him forwards.

 

“This counts as mine!” he belted.

 

“Does it fuck,” Krill muttered.

 

Flannegan tackled Thawne back into the portal’s path; Thawne’s fists pounded against his back, desperate to shake him loose. Eventually, a yellow hand punched through Flannegan’s spine and came back red. Flannegan fell; Thawne panted. Then he realised it was all too late. Flannegan had bought Krill the time needed to force the portal forwards; the ground beneath Thawne’s feet was weightless, cloud-like. Already, lightning formed across his body like reins, pulling him back. He made a final desperate lunge forwards, but he was a fraction too slow. The portal closed on Thawne’s wrist; a severed hand flopped pathetically onto the cold grass. And that was that.

 

Done