The Skipping Stone
Humans are funny little things. Kick them down and they'll pop back up swinging. Give them love and they'll defend it to the death. Give one superhuman speed and he'll alter the timeline.
But they're also fickle, easy to anger and guilt and mystify with questions like: What's the meaning of life?
Barry Allen changed the timeline, and now he has a problem. Good thing he's human.
This short story takes place after the events of the season 2 finale, and draws several elements from the season 3 trailer. It's not really necessary to view it, but some things will make slightly more sense in the Flashpoint Timeline.
Otherwise, view this as an AU. This covers dark themes and I am certain that the show will not go in this direction I have chosen to write.
Enjoy! Make sure to leave a review!
UPDATE: There seems to have been a lot of problems with the page breaks. They are all fixed now (hopefully...)!
Chapter 1: Lost Coastlines
When you're young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, crumpling time up in your hands, tossing it away… You think you can get rid of things, and people too—leave them behind.
You don't yet know about the habit they have, of coming back.
Pre-Flashpoint Timeline, 2010.
"Um, excuse me, pardon me—oh God, sorry 'bout the coffee, ma'am, truly—'scuse me—"
A streak was making its way through the bustling Central City sidewalk. Specifically, a bumbling, apologetic streak.
Barry Allen was about to be painfully, painfully late for his first day at work, and the only thought that was on his mind was: Joe is going to kill me. He was the one who pulled a few strings to land him the job, after all.
"8 o'clock sharp, he said. Don't be late, he said. Does he even know me?" he whined, sidestepping around a fragile old woman with a walker. He'd learned the hard way that trying to brush past them resulted in a lot of bruised egos and nasty remarks from the onlookers. Not that he blamed them, really.
Barry skidded around the corner, feeling his shouldered case smack squarely into his thigh. He ignored the pain, though, as an impressive structure came into view. The Central City Police Department. He'd never been so glad to see that damn building.
"One more block, one more crossing, c'mon," he muttered, glancing down at his watch. With any luck he'd be only ten minutes late—and that's reasonable, right? Right?
He broke out into a flat sprint down the sidewalk, his breath coming in as huffs in the cool autumn air. Pedestrians watched with avid amusement at the gangly sprinter, a very poor man's Usain Bolt.
For a moment he thought he'd make it. But of course, this is Barry Allen we're talking about. As soon as his heel grazed the asphalt of the final crossroad, the light turned red. STOP, said the sign.
"Oh, dammit!" said Barry.
"Hush, you!" said the elderly woman next to him, disapprovingly. She shook her head. "Kids these days, no manners…" she grumbled.
Barry resisted the urge to "accidentally" give her a knock and settled for an eye-roll. He felt his phone buzz and fished it out from his pocket. You better get your ass here soon, the text from Joe read.
"I'm working on it," he growled, stuffing it back.
He sighed, ruffling his hair. Well…
Looks like he was left with only one option: run like hell.
"Nice knowing ya," he shot at the old lady, then took off into the middle of the road, dodging cars and hopping over hoods amid a cacophony of blaring horns.
"What type of drugs are they giving the kids now?" wondered the old lady, watching the dancing Barry in awe.
After what seemed like an eternity, Barry finally made it across. He stopped for a second. It was like Columbus stepping foot in the New World.
He had just enough time to drop his things off in the office. It was possible that Singh wouldn't even notice that his newest employee was cutting it close.
Barry double-timed it up the steps and threw open the door—
—and found himself nose-to-nose with none other than the captain himself. "A-aah, Singh! I mean—Captain!"
The captain coolly raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Barry's sudden entrance. "And you are…?" Behind him, Barry caught sight of Joe, facepalming.
"B-Barry Allen, sir!"
"You're the new CSI?" Singh's eye roamed over Barry's damp forehead, disheveled clothing, and coffee-stained sleeves. "Hmm." He turned to Joe, who was still facepalming. "This is him, right?"
Joe snapped out of it quickly. "Yes, this is um, my guy." Barry gave him a pleading look over Singh's shoulder, his eyes begging, HELP ME JOE HELP.
Joe sighed. Why did he always have to clean up his kid's messes? Ah, the trials of fatherhood. He bent in closer to Singh's ear. "He may look like a shaggy dog," he whispered, "but he's got a good head on his shoulders."
Singh's glare softened. If anything, he trusted Joe's judgement. "Alright, Mr. Allen," he drawled, facing Barry again. "I'm Captain Singh. You report to me on a daily basis for assignments." He stuck out his hand. "It's good to have you on the team. I've heard great things about you."
Barry inwardly whooped in celebration. I'm not screwed!
To the rest of the world, he took Singh's hand and gave it a hearty shake. "Pleasure to be here, sir," he replied back, grinning.
"Good," said Singh, "because you're about to go on your first assignment." He and Joe stepped past the stunned Barry, striding purposefully down the steps. "Follow us, nitwit," Joe hissed at Barry as he walked by.
Barry unfroze. "M-my first assignment?" He stumbled to catch up to the duo. "Right now? But I haven't—"
Singh spared Barry a backwards glance. "You need a potty break, Mr. Allen?"
"No, but—"
"Then I'm sure whatever you need to do can wait until afterward," he said drily, stopping next to silver sedan on the side of the road. He climbed into the driver's seat, Joe into the passenger's. Barry hurriedly stuffed himself into the back.
"You picked quite the day to join us," remarked Singh, starting up the car.
"Why's that?"
"One helluva case. I haven't even finished my coffee before I got the report." Singh looked over at Joe. "Mind giving him the details?"
Joe nodded. "We're looking at what appears to be a murder-suicide. According to initial reports, a married couple—the Hydes—got into an argument late last night. The husband, Billy Hyde, might have been intoxicated but that's purely speculation. At any rate, it escalated. Billy Hyde pulled a gun, shot and killed the wife, then himself. Neighbors called the police after hearing the shots and screaming. Their twelve-year old son, Billy Junior, was the only survivor. He's in police custody right now, no relatives anywhere nearby."
Barry swallowed. He couldn't help but draw similarities to another crime that occurred around a decade ago.
Singh noticed his silence and observed him from the rearview mirror. "Problem, kid?"
Barry furrowed his eyebrows. "This is just a lot to take in on my first day, you know? It's heavy stuff—"
Singh stomped on the brakes, cutting Barry off instantly. He shifted in his car seat to face his newest employee, who was fighting a losing battle with his seat belt.
"Listen: if you don't think you're ready for this, the door is right there. I know you're just a rookie, but in life there are no training wheels. Especially not for us. My first case dealt with a notorious rapist and murdering bastard." He stared hard at Barry. "I'll give you one last chance. Are you ready for this?"
Barry hadn't come this far to have his mission squandered by some petty nerves. He wasn't the only one with something at stake here; his dad was still rotting away in jail, his son his only hope at freedom.
He couldn't fail him now.
Barry nodded once, squaring his shoulders. "Yes, sir," he affirmed.
"Good." Singh, satisfied, put his foot to the gas once more. "Let's get to work, boys."
"… and judging from the blood spatter, he aimed at her from an upwards position. I'd venture to say that she was in a prone position prior to being shot, which explains why we found the shell casing over there. It was a clean shot for both of them, Captain. In all likelihood, they died immediately."
Barry drew in a breath, ready to continue, but Singh waved him off with a weary hand. "That'll do for now, Mr. Allen. We have more than enough information. Anything else you have can go in your written report. I'll have Diane show you our template for that when we get back." He tugged at his jacket, somberly looking around the destroyed home. The bloody smears on the wood tiling, the upturned furniture, the glassy smiles in family photos. "But I think we all need to get the hell out of this place for a while."
Barry nodded stiffly. Truth be told, he had been so invested in his work that he didn't notice when Joe and the other investigators left.
He moved to pack up his things when Singh grabbed his arm. "Listen, All—Barry." He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand awkwardly. "I'm sorry for being so harsh on you earlier. In the car. But as you've realized, I take my job seriously and for good reason. When things like this happen," he waved his hand around the crime scene, "oftentimes we're the only way a family member or survivor can get some sort of closure. And with how crazy things can get, some reason can go a long way."
Singh paused. "You've done a good job today, Barry. Joe was right about you."
Barry gave him a small smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "I-I just can't stop thinking about the boy," he admitted, scratching the back of his head. "He—Billy Jr. must be going through a lot right now, losing both of his parents." I would know, he thought.
Singh nodded, pursing his lips in concentration. "Tell you what," he said finally, clasping his hands together. "We still have the boy at the station. Tomorrow after some questioning, we'll let you spend some time with him. This was Joe's suggestion, actually. He figured you would be able to get through to him best. If that's okay with you?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure, I'd be happy to help out however I can. He needs someone." Barry checked his watch. "In fact, I can get there right now if I pack up fast enough—"
Singh stopped him, grabbing his shoulders. "Tomorrow, Barry." He clapped his back. "For now, get some rest, you deserve it. Remember," he added, walking past Barry towards the door, "we're doing as much as we can for the little guy."
Barry allowed his gaze to wander over a picture in the living room. Little Billy smiling cheekily between his parents, each of them with a hand on one of his shoulders. With his dark hair and bright eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to Barry when he was around the same age.
"I wish I could do more," he whispered.
Flashpoint Timeline, 2016.
A bright, yellow streak was making its way through the bustling Central City sidewalk. The city-goers were generally unaware of its presence, except when a strong wind inexplicably knocked them backwards.
Barry Allen was about to be painfully, painfully late for work again, and the only thought that was on his mind was: Joe is going to kill me. He wasn't the fondest of him, after all.
"My name is Barry Allen. I've defeated countless metahumans—" He skipped around a group of teetering schoolchildren on a field trip—"went back in time, saved my mother, changed the course of the universe, got both my parents back plus the love of my life—" A car braked in front of him, forcing the speedster to hop over the vehicle—"but for the life of me, I cannot get to work on time!" He whizzed past a C.C. Jitters, flipping cups and hair.
"Not again!" yelped one of the customers. She shook her head in frustration. "I don't understand it: everyday, at precisely 8:10 AM, something causes this to happen." She pointed down at the mess on her feet. "I swear, I must be cursed or something!"
"Chill, Iris, Jesus," someone said. "You'd think you'd get used to it by now."
Barry probably would have been amused if he knew what had happened, but he was too busy rushing up the stairs of the CCPD.
He sprang back into view in front of the department's office, hair tousled and slightly breathless. He wasn't too late, so hopefully he could sneak up to his office and act like he'd been on time—
"Late again, Mr. Allen."
Barry recoiled at the voice. He turned to face it, an excuse already springing to his lips. "Detective West, I can explain there was a—"
"Lemme guess," Detective Joe West interrupted, stopping Barry with a raised hand. "Kitten stuck in a burning tree on First Street? Found the way to Narnia in your toilet?" he guessed, words dripping in sarcasm.
Barry narrowed his eyes. "If you'd just let me explain, Joe—"
"Don't call me Joe. Friends can call me Joe. My daughter can call me Joe, Singh can call me Joe. You and I happen to live and breathe and work in the same building. We are not friends, and you sure as hell are not any relation of mine. We are coworkers, nothing more." He cocked his head. "Though the way I see it, you're becoming more of a liability every day you're late." Joe lowered his voice. "Keep it up and Singh might have to do something about this."
Furious, Barry opened his mouth with a retort he would probably regret. "You—"
For better or for worse, the sound of every single police radio in the building going off filled the air, drowning out whatever Barry was about to say. Officers and detectives were spurred into action, taking notes and yelling into their radios, trying to make sense of the situation. Obviously something big had just went down.
Somehow, Singh's familiar roar was audible over the chaos. "EVERYBODY! SHUT. YOUR. DAMN. MOUTHS!"
Everyone froze, mid-action. One officer was in the process of taking the cap off his pen with his mouth. It would have been funny if the circumstances hadn't been so dire.
Joe shot Barry a look that clearly said this isn't over before they both sprinted into the room.
Singh was pacing at the front of the room, a look of intense concentration on his face. Not for the first time, Barry admired the way the captain was able to pull himself together. "For those who were unaware or late," at this Joe's eyes shifted towards Barry, who bit back a nasty reply, "we have a 10-32 going down at Veteran's Park. At this point, we are unclear on how many gunmen are present."
Joe raised a hand. "Singh, any report on casualties?"
The captain closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "There was a concert scheduled for the park at this time," he confessed. "It's too early for an exact number, but… we are certain there are casualties."
The room was quiet.
Everything about the situation was surreal. Nobody could quite believe that this was happening.
Thankfully, Singh could. He snapped himself back into business mode. "Officers on the scene have requested allunits. Everyone, get your asses to Veteran's Park. Officers Spivot and Johnson are already in position, they will relay details over the radio regarding formation and gunmen whereabouts." He glared at them all. "Lives are on the line, get over there, now!"
Everyone bustled into action, loading guns, grabbing ammo, throwing on Kevlar. Everyone that is, except for Barry. To be fair, he was formulating a plan to sneak out and grab the shooter on his own—as the Flash. With all the commotion, nobody noticed the young CSI slink along the wall.
But Singh noticed. He strode over to the young man. "All units means all units, Allen. You're coming, too."
Barry felt his knees almost give out. "Me?"
"Yes, Allen, you." Singh thrust a pistol into Barry's hands. "You know how to use one of these, right?"
"Yeah, just… point and shoot, right?" Barry said weakly. The rubber grip felt wrong in his fingers, its weight too heavy.
"Atta' boy." Singh pulled his car keys out of his pocket. "C'mon kid, you're with me."
"M-me? Why am I with you?"
"You're my best CSI," Singh chuckled darkly. "You're not dying on my watch."
"Are you sure this was the best idea, sir?!"
"I'm the damn captain, I give out the orders! Now shut up and let me drive, Allen!"
Barry gripped his chair with both hands as Singh braked the cruiser, going from sixty to zero at an alarming rate. Barry was flung forward, his pistol falling out of his lap as he gasped for air. Singh was already in motion, opening his car door for cover, gun out and ready. "Let's move it, Allen!" he barked.
Blinking blearily, Barry managed to detach himself from the car. Not for the first time, he wished he could unleash his speed. He could feel the power surging through his veins, the desire to bring whoever was responsible to justice.
But he couldn't. Not under Singh's watchful eye. He'd risk exposing the truth, what he'd done, what he'd become. Of course if the rumored other Flash decided to show up, his life would be a hell of a lot easier.
Clambering out of the passenger side, Barry was finally able to take stock of the situation outside.
To call the park a battlezone would not have been an understatement. As far as the eye could see were police cars arranged in a rough semicircle around the park, with Singh and Barry's car at the very top-left corner of the shape, nearest to the park's stage. The normally festive park grounds were strewn with streamers and food items—and more sinisterly, dark, unmoving shapes. Too many of them.
Barry felt bile rising in his throat. He coughed, spraying the side of Singh's car.
Singh glanced over. "Dammit Allen, now is not the time to lose your shit!" But he was pale, the palest Barry had ever seen him, and it took all of Barry's willpower to not imagine him as a corpse.
The captain was furiously snarling into his radio. "Do we have a position of the gunman?" His grip on his gun was trembling. "What do you mean you lost track of him, dammit! You got us all here with nowhere to go?!"
Next to Barry, another police cruised screeched into to a halt. Joe climbed out of the driver's seat, face grim. "Any news?"
Singh shook his head. "None here. They don't seem to have goddamn clue where he is."
"So only one?"
"Just one."
Joe thumbed the safety his handgun, crouching into position. "Just our luck."
Singh snorted. "Well—" Whatever that was on his mind was interrupted by the crackling of his radio. "Yeah, report?" Barry could only hear snatches of the conversation, a garble of words and static. "You sure?" Singh said skeptically. His face darkened at whatever the officer said next.
Joe wasn't enjoying being kept out of the loop. "What's the issue, Singh?"
"We got a tip telling us that the suspect is supposedly hiding in the stage."
The two men continued their discussion, brainstorming tactics, but Barry froze. Singh's car was the closest to the stage. Was. Now Joe's car was closest. And with Joe being on the driver's side, he was leaving his flank open to the gunman…
As he looked over at the stage in question, he saw a dark figure in motion, hidden from view from the other cruisers. Time slowed down. From his vantage point, he watched as the gunman raised a long, long rifle up in his hands, aiming it…
Aiming it at Joe.
Barry sprung into motion. Forgetting about the consequences, he tapped into the Speedforce, zipping around his car to get to Joe. Distantly he heard a muffled crack, which he knew instinctively was the recoil of a military-grade rifle—most likely an AR-15. Pretty useless information for the moment.
He tackled Joe to the ground, sending them both sprawling into the dust. Above them, a bullet slammed into the car where Joe's head had been only a second before.
Barry rolled off Joe onto his elbows, wheezing from the dirt he inhaled. Joe stared at him, dumbfounded. "How did you—"
A yellow streak whizzed past them, sending more dust and dirt into the air and Barry's lungs. "'Bout damn time," he gagged, eyes watering.
The Flash zipped back to the front of Singh's police cruiser, the unconscious gunman in his arms. "Here's your guy, Captain," the Flash said, his vibrating vocal cords distorting his speech. He dumped the man unceremoniously onto the hood, lip curling in disgust.
Barry noticed several things at this moment. His heart stopped.
One, that the Flash was wearing some sort of yellow costume, in contrast to the red suit Barry was so fond of. That was more of a cosmetic problem. But more importantly, Barry could recognize the person from the shape of his jaw, the brown eyes that shone beneath the mask.
The Flash, this Flash at least, was Wally West.
But the universe wasn't done with Barry yet.
They were all getting their first clear look at the gunman, this murderer. Barry was surprised at how young the gunman was. He couldn't have been more than twenty, peach fuzz and short stubble lightly dotting his cheeks.
Then the Fla-Wally shifted him where he lay, exposing his face to the world.
Barry's mouth dropped open.
He couldn't comprehend what was happening.
Dark hair. Slightly more angular face that had been matured over the years, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
Billy Hyde, Junior.