Hopelessness.

Just a new fic. Let me know if you want me to continue it, and stuff!

In this non-canon universe, Wally never died when he was 21. Nope. Did not happen. Sighs Happy Birthday for today, to our great speedster! May he live forever in our hearts!

And also: Lest we Forget. In terms of those who served our countries.

Hope you enjoy!

My grandfather did not believe in hope.

He used to prop me onto his knee, push his glasses slowly up his crooked (twice broken) nose, and look at me sternly in the eyes. He'd lick his chapped lips, wheeze slightly, and say; "Luck always seems like it belongs to someone else." He'd shake his head sadly, rub his creased forehead, and he'd proceed to stare out of the cracks in his boarded up windows.

My grandfather had been in a war, though he never specified where he'd served, nor what he saw. My grandfather had been blinded in his left eye, leaving it a pale blue, during that time. He didn't speak of how that had happened, either. He'd lost both his parents when he was still at school, but whenever he tried to explain how they'd passed, his eyes would glaze over, and he'd breathe in through his nostrils, and he would cease to talk to me. He hardly ever spoke to me- not because he was opinionated, or even a quiet man...but because speaking didn't come naturally to him. He had a stutter, and quite frankly, it embarrassed him more than anything in the world.

My grandfather got cancer last year. He wasn't a person that would look on the bright-side of life. My English teacher once told me, "In an age of hope men looked up at the night sky and saw "the heavens". In an age of hopelessness they call it simply "space"." My grandfather was the type of hopeless, and faithless person, that always saw space.

My grandmother died before I was born. My father tells me she was the only woman in the world who could smooth out my grandfather's frown-lines. She'd brush her calloused fingers through his fine hair, back in the day, and she'd whisper words of guidance. She accepted everyone as they were. Even angry, bitter men- like my granddad. A bit before I saw the world, my Grandmother was shot in Gotham, in the dead of some cold, horrid night. They didn't find her body until late afternoon the next day, and by then, the rats had gotten to her.

Good people always have the worst luck.

I suppose that's a factor, one that moulded my grandfather into the unhopeful man he was.

I visited my Grandfather a lot- he became deaf fast, and always slept while hospitalised. His insults or scolding became unknown occurrences. I'd hold his fruit-leather hands, and look at the skin stretched over his bones. I listened to his shallow breathing, and his unintelligent mumbles, and sometimes, when they got a little louder, I'd have to remember to wipe the tears from his squeezed shut eyes. Most of the time, I'd listen to the clock on his bedside table- the one he pleaded to keep in the room, when he was still able. He'd told me he wanted to hear his life tick away. I thought it was awful. Sometimes, I'd take out the batteries, since he couldn't comprehend any more, but the guilt would consume me, and I'd put them back in. He had the one thing he believed in; time...I couldn't quite make myself take that away from him.

I think, partially, my grandfather is the guy who shaped me the most. Made me, me. He's the one who drilled into my head that any situation can go wrong. He's the one who taught me to hold my head down, and only project confidence when needed. The man taught me about giving up- gotta hand him that.

He was a desolate man, and the last thing he ever said to me was, "My fate is like those envelopes – sealed and tossed aside." As I said, he was despairing. My dad told me that his 'old man' was actually just frightened, so he became a pessimist. He looked at every moment in the wrong light- not just from the point in time when he lost sensation in his hands and his feet, but way before then; before I was born even. He looked at his whole life as a tragedy- despite the fact he had four children, despite the fact he survived the war and got shiny medals, or had a single healthy grandchild. He was the guy with no hope...and I was worried that I was becoming like him with age.

I looked down at my bound hands, and stifled a moan. This was one of those hopeless moments. This was the instance of my life my grandfather had told me would come. He told me bad things always got to people in the end, and though I shook my head at the time, and rubbed his hand between my thumb and my index finger to calm him down, I finally understood that he was right. I cursed slightly, for not listening to him before. I was going to die- might as well do it my grandfathers way, listening to the bomb next to my feet bleep away the seconds.

I had no idea how long I had left, and I knew, deep down, that if I hadn't soiled myself when they'd come into my house holding rifles, or cried when they hit my head against the wall until my vision went blurry...maybe I could try to escape. I could focus on vibrating through the ropes. I'd find an exit. I'd run for miles...

But my grandfather had finally gotten through to me. It was best to accept my fate with sealed lips, and a stony expression.

Four days. Two hours. Twelve minutes. I'd hoped that counting the seconds would put my mind to ease...but it put me on edge. I was bleeding severely from a gash in my side. I hadn't eaten for so long my ribs were starting to show (being a speedster, food is everything to me)...and the bomb still hadn't detonated.

I wondered if it would set off with my motions- in which case, if I passed out, I could kiss waking-up good-bye. I decided to risk it, and I tapped my foot on the floor in time to 'Happy Birthday'. I could at least wish myself that. I compressed my eyes shut, held my breath...waited for the world around me to explode.

Nothing.

Nada.

If this was a game, I was having none of it.

If I put myself into the shoes of my grandfather, I'd be losing; I was letting them toy with me. I gritted my teeth- thinking like my Granddad was getting on my nerves, and getting me nowhere.

I tried to imagine what Uncle Barry would tell me. If not something annoyingly pointless like, "Get out of that room." or "Run", he'd probably say, "Three grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for." If not, then it would be something else he'd copied-and-pasted from the internet.

Something to do? I could continuously tap my feet on the floor. In fact, it calmed my nerves that little bit more. I could even work on the ropes itching my arms.

Something to love? That was more difficult. I had a girlfriend back home, and I'd loved her for a while...and I had my parents to think about, but for some strange reason, neither of the two ideas brought me any sense of calm. Instead, I started to feel like I'd tried to swallow a frog, and it had gotten stuck- it's rank smell making my eyes water. I blinked back tears, and sucked in air through my nose. Something to love...was kind of difficult to think about.

I let my head fall back slightly, and my gaze moved to the unattractive ceiling. The grey paint cover was peeling, exposing what I supposed was plaster. A small vent, about the size of piece of A4 paper was placed awkwardly above my head, as if putting it there had been a last minute, inconvenient decision. It's metal was rusting, but it, by far, looked like the newest thing in the room. A steady drip, drip, drip of liquid fell from it, landing beside my chair. The water had formed a puddle at my feet long ago, and I'd stopped paying it much attention. I wondered what would happen to the bomb, if the puddle got large enough to reach it. A false amount of expectation lit up inside of me, as I imagined the device sizzling, before imploding (harmlessly), or something. It was wishful thinking.

I cleared my throat, and brought my gaze back down to my 'prison'. The room was almost a perfect square. A large, rustic looking door sunk into the wall on my right, a heavy padlock attached to it. I took back what I'd said about the vent before; the lock was definitely brand-spankingly brand-new.

Aside from a few cracks in the walls around me, the room was pretty much barren. If taking the bomb, puddle, vent, me and the chair I was sat on, out of the picture. I wiggled my fingers behind my back, making sure they still had circulation. If I got out, I'd have a horrible case of pins-and-needles.

If I got out. I sniffed a laugh. Something to hope for?

How could anyone have any hope, when trapped in a shoe-box of a room, with nothing more than a bomb beside them? My nose was itchy, I smelt like seven-day-old crap, and I could barely keep my stomach from talking to me.

Hope. I scoffed, feeling more like my grandfather by the second.

I'll admit, at one point during my ordeal, I had been hopeful. "Not to worry, Wallace. Your friends will track you down. They'll pat you on the back, suggest you have a shower, and stitch up your wounds when they find you."

Those thoughts were very quickly dissipating however, replaced with an arrogant voice in the back of my head that said, "They don't care. They're not coming. They're too late."

And unfortunately, I believed that voice.

I trusted that the team cared. I knew deep down, and it welled up in my chest like a freshly watered weed. Heck, maybe I even kinda thought that the team was on their way- maybe Rob had planted a tracking device on me as a joke, and he'd suddenly remember...

My more reasonable self, of course, logically reminded me that I had little chance of survival. Little chance of getting out. Perhaps no chance of ever seeing anyone I cared about again.

Those dreadful feelings became a reality as thick grey smoke billowed out of the vent and into the room. It happened so quickly, and so unrealistically, I didn't have a chance to hope I could take a deep breath. I inhaled it without a second thought.

Then the world went a blinding white.

"Subject awake. Subject heart beat normal. Subject alert." The metallic, almost grinding voice rang through my ear's, almost giving me a heart attack. The white hadn't lasted at all that long. Once the smoke had cleared, I was still in the cell – dazed, but very much alive.

It couldn't have taken more than a few minutes to disperse. I must have been asleep, what, half an hour, if even that?

"Subject, please stand."

The robotic drone sounded detached, but commanding. I noted that my hands were no longer bound...but I was still on the stupid chair. The ropes were gone. One leap, through the wall, and I could get home, reassure family and friends and eat a Granola bar. Two Granola bars.

And a cheeseburger.

I got up onto both legs- they felt like jelly. I'd been moving them for four days, and still, they were asleep. I slapped my thighs angrily, at least trying to alert them that we'd be going for a brisk 'jog' very soon.

The door beside me swung open, and the voice came again in monotone; "Subject, you may leave."

But I wanted answers.

I crossed my arms, feeling stupid that I hadn't run already...but something didn't feel right. Part of me thought that if I crossed through the doorway, I'd fall into a never-ending pit straight to Hades.

"Subject, you may leave." The voice repeated, drilling into my head. I felt my leg jitter awkwardly forwards, but I stopped it, shaking my head and furrowing my brow. I was obviously so keen on human interaction, I'd kill myself for it. My thoughts moved back to my grandfather, who had once mentioned something about the enemy buttering you up before the kill. It was a random thought, but the harshness of it gave me some time to get to my senses.

Taking another fumbling step, I found my rhythm, and bolted. If they wanted to kill me, at least my super-speed would let me get away, even if I'd die in refuge, solace, home.

Running out into the street, however, I had no idea which way to go. I didn't remember many places near where I lived with barren, scorched land, and glossy, white buildings. The ride, when I'd been kidnapped, had lasted little over half-an-hour.

Something was very wrong, and the hopelessness began to consume me as I looked for street-signs. Looked for familiar places. I wasn't in a foreign land, or on a foreign planet. I was still in America. The English signs floating around told me enough.

I bent over, digging my nails into the cracked land. A boy on a sheet of blue plastic flew past me, his masked face exposing a small smile. "News?" He asked, motioning to his board.

My jaw dropped downwards. It's not every day you see a floating boy. It's not everyday you don't wake up in your Kansas.

The boy shrugged, speeding a way, a holographic pattern following him, static interrupting the words. I could still make them out, though a few passers-by muttered about 'crappy service'. I rubbed my eyes until they were red, and sore, and then fell to my knees.

North Central City, Daily News, 2046 "Another fluctuation of Energy S-"

I didn't read on. I suddenly understood why my Grandfather had decided that life wasn't worth it. That being a boring, withered man was better when you were cranky, and hated the world. Because he really had lost hope along the way.

I ran a hand through my hair. How long until it turned grey and I became senile? My hope diminished, my heart somewhere on the floor. I was no longer in 2020.

I should have been in my fifties, not in the body of my absolutely normal, 25 year old me. Actually, I quite simply should not have been in the future. Bart had said something about time-travel been a one-way thing, and I really thought he meant only those from the future could come to the past. I really hoped I was wrong though. I hoped that I'd misheard him while he rambled on about it all.

At least I had something to hope for.

I gulped, hugging my arms around me and coughing lightly as the dust picked up, and a brown, winged turtle morphed out of the ground, groaning softly. The weight of the bronze home on it's back must have been almighty.

This place was whacked up. I turned around, looking once more for the building I had run out of, wishing I had paid for attention to outstanding elements. All the buildings were the same though; plastic, white boxes with no windows or doors. Was this the centre of Central? Could I still find home using unfathomable navigation techniques? My parents were so gonna kill me if I found home. My parents would kill me...if they were still alive.

Yeah. Wally should be 51 now...

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Many thanks for reading!

-Fish