This was inspired by the movie "Runaway Bride" with a twist of The Flash/Westallen.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Flash nor The Runaway Bride
"Hey, kid, where are you going? The music's about to start!"
"Barry!"
"Is he making a run for it?"
He pushed his way through the congregation, finding a safe escape outside. A single drop of rain streaked his cheek; it slowly snaked its way toward Barry's quivering lips. He gently smudged the spot away with his fingertips, where it hesitated to drip down, and heaved a sigh.
He was sure that it should have been today.
An exact year after he had proposed, and yet, he could only think of how their marriage would turn out if he walked back into that church and signed away their lives. Barry remembered how he first held Patty Spivot's hand when the morning sun spilled over and a faint glow of the diamond ring slid over her finger. Her face, deeply flushed and intensely focused on the engagement ring she had anticipated for months.
And his face? Currently pelted with raindrops as drenched, matted hair clung onto his wet scalp. He glanced up at a mass of dark clouds stirring above him, bringing forth an entire afternoon of heavy rain minutes before his impending nuptials. The ground was slathered with grotesque, muddy sludge every time he stomped his dress shoes through deep puddles. It swallowed his feet with bitter dampness and the mud splattered onto the ends of his pant legs. Cool droplets enveloped Barry while he ran, gliding down his nose and chin. A sudden clap of thunder, he slipped out onto the wet pavement and quickly rounded the corner.
"Barry, come back!"
He grew farther away from the church until all that was reminiscent was the faint ringing of church bells. Barry had to keep running and the current weather condition certainly didn't prevent the cold air from stinging his throat as he inhaled deeper, faster. Tiny, yellow bolts clung onto his exposed skin, crackling with each lunge forward.
He loved Patty, he truly did. But it would be selfish to expect her to be okay with all of it. She wouldn't understand and maybe she would hate him. But he'd rather she hate him than—
It was complicated.
The small lightning bolts sent a searing pain shooting from the ankle to his knee and up his thigh. His breath huffed in small, frantic spurts. Perhaps excessive speed wasn't in his best interest at the moment, but he had to use all of his willpower before they caught up to him.
Ironic, as if they could really catch him.
"Come on, Barry, come on," he wheezed, throwing himself forward with long strides. His heart began to beat rapidly as he sprinted; panic set in and finally reached the man's exhausted limbs. He collapsed onto the park's nearest bench, wiping the sweat glistening from his forehead.
Barry's chest heaved up and down. He slowly slumped over, frail body dropping onto the damp concrete. The steady rain that fell from the clouds broke up, allowing a flood of warm sunlight to pass through.
She furrowed her brow as the priest entered the hallway, a few seconds short of when she was expected to walk down the aisle. Patty dropped the bouquet from her hands at the sight of her absent fiancé and empty altar.
"I'm so sorry, Patricia," he whispered. "But the groom left."
Her eyes flit between the first and second door, both of them humming as they carried their loads down. She hoped, in some freak twist of fate, they'd get lodged between the second floor and she'd have no choice but to prolong her trip to editor Larkin's office by five minutes. But this was just wishful thinking.
Floor three,
Floor two,
Floor one,
Lobby.
She straightened up once the first door produced a small beep. She stared down the rectangular entrance illuminated by slivers of light from doors that slid open and shut, as other elevators arrived at various floors. A slight breeze had made its way to the lobby, blowing her hair behind her shoulders. Iris took a deep breath and slowly entered the elevator.
"This is fine," she whispered, teeth chattering as she paced the elevator. "No biggie. No, well—yes. It's a biggie."
The elevator had steel walls, a black carpet, a sensor, and six buttons. Iris pressed her employee badge against the small, glass panel and allowed a red sensor to verify the barcode. It turned a bright green, activating the elevator to rise to the fifth floor without interruption. No amateur ever used the elevators, opting for the stairwell to retreat from the vulturous glares given by veteran reporters. She paced back and forth, heels stabbing out a thin trail in the carpet. She briefly glanced down at her legs and thumped her knuckles against her forehead.
"Large hole in my stockings. Perfect, Iris."
She weaved her fingers between one another and eventually settled on picking at her hangnails. The elevator opened directly into the editor-in-chief's office. It was a drearily gray room, occupying a large corner of the building. It gave views of her past and possible future: CC Jitters and the newly constructed field and investigative division—a subsidiary building of Central City Picture News just a few blocks north.
The glass surface of his desk inhabited semi-organized clutter: a clunky computer, scattered pins plucked from the tin can, crumpled papers, black leather notebooks, and a framed photograph of his wife.
"Um, you wanted to see me?"
"Iris, welcome." Eric Larkin peered at her from the top of his glasses and quickly motioned for her to sit; he pulled out a piece of paper in preparation to read.
"To be fair, the notion of death in this gruesome society isn't exactly new. In Ancient Greece, this fearsome female was known as Erinyes, a devouring death goddess. The simple personification of death, raising hellfire to all in its path."
She swallowed.
"... And in Central City, where Dr. Harrison Wells manages the S.T.A.R Labs facility, his creation of the failed particle accelerator may also equate him to that personification of death himself—"
He turned the page.
"Last year's explosion of the particle accelerator has already disemboweled Central City, leaving concerned citizens to pick up the pieces. His ritual feast continues as Dr. Wells prepares to make a sacrifice out of the already-broken city. So all bets are on that his latest boomerang project isn't honeymooning with Las Vegas odds makers as many predict that this will devastate the struggling Central City before the cut ribbon hits the ground. And lo, the emergence of The Flash (formerly known as The Red Streak), has reignited that spark the city longs for: hope. The Flash has recently— ..I can't read this anymore."
Larkin removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. "Iris, tell me why would one print a piece of fiction and call it fact? This wasn't your assignment. You were told to stick to the fluff pieces for our entertainment column."
"Exposing the dangerous methods behind Harrison Wells's various projects or how The Flash has brought hope to Central City are hardly fictitious. I know it wasn't my assignment but with all due respect, sir, I don't belong in the entertainment column. Investigative reporting and exposés are my thing. The Flash—"
"The Flash, the Flash. Listen," Larkin sighed. "Iris, when I brought you on board—it's because I genuinely enjoyed your blog. But this? This is not a blog. CCPN can't publish this without verified sources."
He slid the article across the desk. "Journalism lesson number one: If you don't verify your sources, you don't get published. Lesson number two: you don't follow your assignments, you don't get published. There's a list of factual misrepresentations in your article. Fifteen, in fact." Larkin sank heavily in his chair and swiveled around. Under the dull glow of strip lighting, Eric Larkin appeared oddly pale. Today, he was secretly nursing a killer migraine and his stomach constantly turned. This was definitely the last conversation he intended to have with his valued novice journalist. "And besides, you're in the big leagues, kid. We don't need Flash-praise pieces anymore. If I'm being honest—I've seen enough of those from you. I need something new, not Flash or S.T.A.R Labs conspiracy theories."
"I'm a journalist. This is what journalists are supposed to do. This is the kind of material that needs to be published. We push, we stretch, we go out on a limb," she paused. "Writing about The Flash gives me hope. It gives everyone hope. It's what makes me good at what I do."
"No, reporting the same hero saves the day and gives us hope—that storyline—that's what makes you unemployed. It's a cut throat business and I have to run it effectively." Larkin tapped his finger across the top of his desk. "I believe in your potential, Iris. But you're still testing out the water and I can't risk a novice reporter on the front page yet."
"Sir—"
He held up a hand. "Stick to your column assignment. Bring me an entertainment piece and I might reconsider your future work. And one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Bring me something good."