C I T Y S T R E E T S
Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City
The wind whipped around Wally, feeling its cold but not its stabs as he ran, cocooned in his small field of distorted physics. His feet feathered over the ground, and he pushed towards the source of the explosion, extradimensional energy arcing like lightning behind him. Inside his pocket of anti-physics, friction did not exist; he felt no heat, no drag. Just the blood coursing through his veins, the beat of his heart and the ticking of time, time in which rubble falls, and people scream, and get hurt – and he runs.
Aliens. Bad ones. Eight of them, by Wally’s count – nine if he counted the orange one – but she seemed distressed, fiercely fighting against the others, and he was willing to bet that even if she helped cause this, she deserved the lesser half of the blame.
In his bubble, inside his mind, time expanded. Milliseconds stretched into seconds. And in those seconds of seconds, he saw –
– Superman? No, that’snotClark, it’ssomeoneelsehelooksmyage, whoishe, whatishedoi –
– foam? Fire, putting it out, wherediditcomefrom, lookslikeitcamefromarooftopcan’tseeanyoneuptheremanifDick’sherethat’dbewaytoocool –
Hey, guys. Question. Which one's are the bad guys? Garth’s voice cut through his thoughts, slow and long, and Barbara’s followed after, slower still.
Yeah, hey, kiddo. Cute party trick, but this headspace is strictly PG13, cool? Or is intellectual property not so much a thing where you're from?
Woahwhatthethisisnew, thought Wally, and he realised that he was thinking faster than they could process, Sorrymybad I’llslow down. Go for the big ugly green ones, Garth, I’m gonna help any bystanders that need helping. Maybe you could see where Agent Orange and “Superboy” stand, they’re uh –
“Superboy” splattered an alien,
– a little hard to get a read on.
People were staring a little too close to the action. If they stuck around, they’d get hurt.
Wally curved around the aliens, making a beeline for the bystanders.
Kid Flash to the rescue.
Aliens. Bad ones. Eight of them, by Wally’s count – nine if he counted the orange one – but she seemed distressed, fiercely fighting against the others, and he was willing to bet that even if she helped cause this, she deserved the lesser half of the blame.
In his bubble, inside his mind, time expanded. Milliseconds stretched into seconds. And in those seconds of seconds, he saw –
– Superman? No, that’snotClark, it’ssomeoneelsehelooksmyage, whoishe, whatishedoi –
– foam? Fire, putting it out, wherediditcomefrom, lookslikeitcamefromarooftopcan’tseeanyoneuptheremanifDick’sherethat’dbewaytoocool –
Hey, guys. Question. Which one's are the bad guys? Garth’s voice cut through his thoughts, slow and long, and Barbara’s followed after, slower still.
Yeah, hey, kiddo. Cute party trick, but this headspace is strictly PG13, cool? Or is intellectual property not so much a thing where you're from?
Woahwhatthethisisnew, thought Wally, and he realised that he was thinking faster than they could process, Sorrymybad I’llslow down. Go for the big ugly green ones, Garth, I’m gonna help any bystanders that need helping. Maybe you could see where Agent Orange and “Superboy” stand, they’re uh –
“Superboy” splattered an alien,
– a little hard to get a read on.
People were staring a little too close to the action. If they stuck around, they’d get hurt.
Wally curved around the aliens, making a beeline for the bystanders.
Kid Flash to the rescue.