CHAOS THEORY

Chaos theory is the field of study in mathematics that studies the behavior of dynamical systems that are highly sensitive to initial conditions—a response popularly referred to as the butterfly effect.

It wasn't what he expected. In fact, he always assumed it would have been a lack of expectation. Science didn't have much in regards to an afterlife but Wally was always a man of science. And science, the way he pessimistically saw it, didn't have enough proof of a divine anything. So heaven or hell always seemed nonexistent. And really, it was just that. He expected to not exist.

Looking back on things now, he wished he had stopped existing because being stuck watching his loved ones mourn over his death is as close to hell as he could imagine and by definition, he still existed. Which, he supposed after spending an entire week in thought, could actually be pretty neat in comparison to the whole "not existing" thing. From what he could tell, he just didn't have a body. He had some kind of illusion of a body. And when he touched things there wasn't so much a physical sensation as there was the feeling of going through whatever object it was that he touched- except it was lessened and felt very much like touching each particle that built up said object. And the new molecular lack of sensation would probably bother him more if he wasn't already panicking about being dead on nearly every account. That or this is some time of limbo or whatever his Great Aunt Shermie would claim with her condescendingly loud voice. Because, if for some reason he was here to pay off whatever sins he wracked up as a goddamn superhero, then it shouldn't be long, right? Unless this God hated science as much as science seemed to hate His existence. In that case, Wally just might be stuck here for all eternity. Shit. I'll never pay that one off. Not to mention, either way, he's still pretty dead.

Well if the purpose was to prove to the hard-headed speedster that ghosts are real and supernatural things are real and, yeah, maybe science is occasionally biased or based largely on theory and therefore not always the gospel truth and… yeah, maybe he should have had a more open mind.

But Wally wouldn't be Wally if he didn't have his sarcastic, realistic, and still oddly optimistic personality. So while he contemplated the universe on a bitterly cosmic scale, he did make the most of his ghost-ness. Attending his very own alter ego's funeral might be a debatable act of carpe diem, however.

Wally knows about surreal. For instance, the life of a superhero is surreal. Finding out who you considered to be a boring uncle is actually the Flash was surreal. Watching his dad go to prison and having said Aunt and Uncle adopting him was surreal. Successfully experimenting on himself and becoming a speedster was very surreal.

And attending the funeral for Kid Flash as Wally West was probably the most surreal moment of his after-life. And it sort of made it hard to enjoy the irony when he spent the majority of the time grieving for himself. And isn't that an odd thing to do?

It's been said that a funeral isn't for the dead but for those who are left living afterwards. It's a time meant for closure and support. He figured it was a bad idea. But what else do you do when you've recently died? Besides, he was always curious to see what might be written on his tombstone. Or what god awful speeches his family might give about him. How many secrets they'd share. To truly see what kind of impact he had because now that he was dead the only sugar coating would be on the thousands of sweets Barry devoured in his grief. And really, it wasn't funny even ironically. Not much is, these days.

So he walked in before anyone else had shown up. He didn't want to see how many tries it took for Iris to apply her waterproof makeup. To see Barry give up entirely on his tie. He didn't care to know the amount of preparation and efforts they made for him because he somehow felt as though he didn't deserve those quiet moments. They were too heavy. He wasn't that strong. That's how he got stuck here in the first place.

Because he was dead. He died. And here he was watching as the world kept turning without him. It was cruel, becoming a shadow of yourself on such an extreme scale. And he couldn't help but wonder if this was par for the course. If perhaps all he had to do to- oh god- move on would be finding closure. And funerals are pretty great at closure. They're the symbolic epitome of closure, actually.

So he walked- slow and steady- to the park. Glancing down at his shoes and only looking up when he walked through the desserts table. That's just morbid. And when he looked up, he saw the stone. And considering it the last thing he could truly claim his right to own these days, he hopped up on top and sat. Best seat in the house, he supposed. They'd be talking to him here anyways and the very least he could do was listen.

Words, it seemed, were all he was left to cherish anymore.

People handle pain differently.

Similar to allergies, only certain people react violently. And, seeing as death is sort of the over-arching anvil of life, then it would make sense that such a theme is healthy, almost. And, according to such a theory, it would seem normal that one would only react with extreme violence in far rarer instances.

Or so logic would imply. But logic always was a know-it-all.

Either way, the days following Wally's explosive exit knitted into one terrible sweater. Wool and prickly with the thorns of life's rose garden.

There was one fatality that day. But that one fatality was the one metaphorical disk necessary to shift the very foundation of the hero community. Because the fallout of this shift created a quake that even a week after it's initial crash left everyone stumbling from the aftershocks.

It had been a bomb. Unexpected. On an out-of-control semi somehow found it's way into the mix. Really, it was almost a predictably strange way to go. The details are hazy partially due to being viewed through tear streamed eyes. Regardless, it was an attack on the city and on heroes and they didn't win but they didn't lose, either.

Nine-hundred or so people survived. A couple children, some widows, a priest who seemed to have revived his home-town with his near- death experience (or so the news reports implied) and plenty of other normal and average civilians.

Maybe in a few years they could tease about it. Morbid as it sounds, the jokes do lay beneath the rubble. It's Wally's luck, afterall. He had never been early in his entire life except to his death and even that was far too soon. Twenty-one years old and the only fatality. He was good at his job.

He had taken a year off of college. Something about hoping to experience the joys of youth, traveling across America and the world while he assumed everyone else was stuck in interminable meetings full of faded, overly buttery bagels, melted ice water and stale coffee in styrofoam cups.

"Look, Dick, I just don't know if I can settle anymore."

"Settle? Wally, you're the top of your class. You've already got two degrees and you break the sound barrier in your sneakers. Is that really settling?"

"That's the thing. I wanna see the world, really see it, you know? More than just visiting. Get to know the locals. I'll still help people. I don't think I could ever stop helping."

"What about helping yourself? Do you really want to give up college for that? Wally, if you think that's settling, then there's nothing I can say to stop you anyways. You've always done what you've needed to. But I'm just wondering if maybe you're giving up."

"Giving up? On what? A desk job where I can drive myself crazy for the eight hours I'll be stuck there? It'd be like high school for eternity, stuck in a room and only completing paperwork after paperwork and-"

"You've wanted that forever, though, Wally. You always said you wanted Barry's job someday. And you'd be working in a lab, anyways, so how would that be static?"

"What do you know about what I want?"

"Wally, I'm a detective. And I'm smart. Right now, I'm smarter than you because I'm thinking and you aren't. Wally, you're doing this because-"

"Don't. Don't do that."

"Do what? Bring up how suspicious it is that ever since Artemis left you all you want to do is run away from anything resembling the normal life you dreamed of sharing with her?"

"That- isn't what's happening right now."

"Really? 'Cuz that's what it sounds like, Wally."

"You're a dick."

"Have been my whole life, what's your excuse?"

And that was that.

A few days later, sleek black loafers- long and lean- walked steadily through the halls of the funeral house. Calm. Strong. Able. Spotlessly clean in a way that seemed unusually unbecoming in the stuffy atmosphere. Dick hadn't been to a funeral since he was twelve. There was a distinct clunk that persuaded Dick to turn leftward where there stood two equally clean heels, black as the night the call first rang it's alarming chime.

"You made it."

"How couldn't I? Look, Dick, the last few months-" "You don't have to explain yourself, Artemis."

Wally was surprised more than anything. He'd figured Artemis would avoid the whole funeral. Or, perhaps, that's what he'd hoped. Because then it wouldn't have felt like he'd completely ruined another life. Because now? Now he wondered if maybe Zatanna was right and all Wally needed was to take his time. Tack that on to the long list of things I'll never experience anymore.

"It seems he never stopped jumping right into things, huh?"

Was it me who taught you to jump or were we attracted to each other because of our equally unreasonable instinct to jump in the first place? Or could you predict a Titanic when you saw one? Wally had never needed a drink more intensely. His head was spinning and between his grief and the grief of others, Wally wondered if maybe he was dying all over again because everything hurt. Absolutely everything.

"He was always so dumb."

"I resent that." was his automatic response. A response that went unheard quickly crumbling the attempt at a light-hearted facade. At least he was trying, yeah? Count on his best friend to put him down with just as much harsh honesty in death as he did in life. But it was how he showed love. Wally knew that.

"I should have been there." But as the day continued, Wally stuffed his mouth with words instead of alcohol. "Thank whatever is making me attend my funeral as a ghost that you weren't. Because first and foremost, because being dead sucks enough without the tension. Based on how you felt about me those last months of life, haunting one another would not only suck but be so awkward even the Ghostbusters would refuse our business. That's probably how poltergeists happen anyhow. A house divided and all that."

It seemed to be more effective, anyways. And it made him just as much of an ass, so really, it was its equal in nearly every way.

"You couldn't have known. You thought there was time. We all did."

And the pattern repeated. Pairs of people, heroes and friends. Friends that would be more aptly referred to as family. Still. Quiet. Tired. Each one apologizing for a man that only did his job. Who only did what he always wanted to do. Who died the only way he ever figured he would.

"At least is was a bang. He would have haunted me if it wasn't, I swear." Barry chuckled with a hollow weep. "Guess it wasn't flashy enough, 'cuz here I am. And there you are." And it hurt. It probably wouldn't ever stop hurting, but the least they could do was remember him fondly. The way he would have wanted. The way he would if he were still around. And not for the first time, Wally wondered if he was the butt of the biggest joke in the cosmos.

The turnout was terrific in that somber way you see long forgotten friends. Everything was detached.

At least twelve news stations attended, each claiming to be local despite their residence three states west. Being a masked hero implied that you had your secrets and when a good chunk of the city was saved with only one casualty and with the knowledge that it was Kid Flash, a funeral for Wally West would have been rather suspicious. And despite his bold personality, Wally wouldn't have been interested in causing any unnecessary speculation for what remained of his family in his eternal absence. So the funeral was for Kid Flash. In a week or so, Bruce Wayne will secretly fund a smaller more personal headstone for the fiery kid behind the mask. The innocuous 21 year-old who will have no real explanation for his death because it simply wasn't safe to document his identity. It wasn't a national tragedy. It was a personal tragedy. Engine failure and an end of chapter. A page that was ripped from trembling hands and flipped onto its dark side. It wasn't their story to tell. And it didn't take long for cheap black loafers to let that fact be known.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The words were polite but the manner was, in fact, threatening. Each syllable shook with pent-up rage. "You tell 'em, Roy." Wally drawled tiredly. "You're just as much of a big brother in death as you were in life. Couldn't have asked for a better bouncer. And I don't have to worry about you punching me now. Already feel kicked anyways."

"We're just covering the story, people are curious you know." The reporter replied in a far too practiced voice. And Wally just watched as Roy stepped forward, his smallish frame suddenly becoming the intimidating stance that is the vestige of Red Arrow.

"My friend died." Angrier, if possible, "A hero died. That was the end of his story. Any more questions should involve exit strategies." From his spot on Roy's left, Wally could see the nervousness that crept into the reporter's face. And out of the corner of Wally's vision he could see the infamous bulge of a vein located on his honorary big brother's forehead as his blood nearly boiled from her attempted professional opinion regarding Wally's previous life.

"I truly am sorry for your loss." she regarded tersely.

"And I'm sorry for your job." With one last glare, the two parted ways, the black loafers squeaking with an unintentional note of finality. "Thanks, Roy." Wally whispered, his voice seemingly unable to produce a more convincing tone. Not that it mattered because Roy didn't hear him. And he wouldn't. So Wally did what he had all day and watched as the red-headed archer paced out of the room, attempting to shield the tears that suddenly threatened to pour from his eyes.

After a couple angst-ridden strides, the loafers found himself re-acquainted with the small heels as a strong, thin arm grabbed hold of his bicep successfully interrupting his hasty escape to whatever dark spot his emotionally constipated friend intended to disappear to. Heated blue eyes met blazing brown ones.

An indignant, 'What?" caused the latter gaze to fall away.

"Why are we even having a viewing? There's nothing to view! His body was burnt in the crash, why couldn't we just knock this out with a simple funeral?"

Brown eyes snapped back to regretful blue, tears pouring from the shattered cavern.

With a mournful sob, Roy pulled Artemis into a tight lock, two dark heels encased by two shining loafers.

Dick, instead walked away sighing as he looked woefully to the tombstone with the last shred of his best friend buried inside. And though the people around them sauntered about, the ex-carnie stood still in the midst of their unwitting crossroads. He felt a familiar sensation of loneliness. And when he looked back up, he could have sworn he saw Wally, using the stone like a couch, feet in the air, arms splayed wide on the ground. And just as Wally had in life, Dick blinked. A hundred times, he blinked and not a single instance changed what he knew couldn't be real. But the amount of double-takes didn't matter because in every one Wally still sat there stupidly kicking his feet as if attending his own funeral was oh so very boring.

So Dick did what he was trained to do. He fainted.