First Fire
*
Arc I
Prologue
*
Bartholomew Allen, as a general rule, was fidgety. His teachers throughout the year had tried everything from sitting in a corner to detention to force him to pay attention in class. It wasn't that he was slow or a natural troublemaker: quite the opposite in truth. He was exceptionally bright, as evidenced by his advanced placement, and he was very sweet and honest. It was the simple fact that he could not stay still. Always, he would be doing some small thing like drumming his fingers softly, or bouncing his knee, or bobbing his head to some inner melody. Teachers grew frustrated very quickly with his seeming lack of interest, and more than once he would be called on in class to repeat what had just been said. Interestingly enough, the powers-that-be had granted him a perfect memory, along with excellent hearing. He found it strange that so many of his teachers called it being smart-aleck.
That day, the gangly twelve-year old twirled his pencil between his fingers, wild auburn hair messy as always and oddly large feet sweeping back and forth over the tiled floor. He was preoccupied with the track meet starting during sixth period; as a new ninth grader, having just been bumped up another grade, he was already on the junior varsity track team. And he was bored. This particular teacher, Mrs. Sebastian, was perhaps the most mind-numbing literature teacher he had ever had in his young life. So, it wasn't any wonder that he was fiddling with his pencil.
At least, he was fiddling with it until Mrs. Sebastian herself came stalking down the aisle, slapping her pointer against her upturned palm as she pulled up beside his desk, snatching his pencil out from his fingers. He looked up at her, guiltily, and she spoke sternly: "As interesting as your pencil may be, Bart, I would recommend you pay attention to my infinitely more important lecture." With that, she set his pencil back down on his desk and turned sharply around, stalking back up to the front of the room.
Bart sighed, sinking down in his seat and resting his cheek against his palm, and, for a moment or two, stared dutifully at the board. That moment lasted for about as long as his interest did, and he was soon absently drumming his fingers, silently, on his desk. Amber eyes fixated on the board, he stared blankly at the same word for around five minutes, somehow appearing to be listening from his spot at the back of the room, before the first itching, burning tingle seared up his finger. A soft noise started in the back of his throat, and he caught it in time, smiling weakly at the teacher until she returned her attention to the board. The pain subsided, vanishing just as quickly as it came, and he resumed drumming his fingers soundlessly, deciding he had probably just jammed it momentarily.
An eerie ache sprang up in his shins, weaving carefully around the bone and then into it, feeling very much like a growing pain, as a burning feeling started numbing his nerves along his arms and his abdomen. Blinking, he moved his head slightly, glancing about the classroom. Every one of the other students was paying attention, more or less, to the lecture, and he swallowed, trying to ignore the clenching muscles in his gut.
Mrs. Sebastian did not like interruptions: every student in her class knew that. She was strict, no-nonsense, and had a tendency to look down on anyone who dared interrupt her when she was lecturing. Already, she had classified Bart in her mind as a disturbance to her class; she was of the opinion that children should not be advanced to classes they were not prepared for in terms of maturity, or, confidentially, at all. Thusly, she knew exactly who to look at when the peculiar, high-pitched humming gradually grew in intensity until a few sensitive students were clamping hands over their ears: Bart.
She glanced at him, then, as she took a step back, her eyes widening in shock, the pointer dropping from suddenly limp hands, the humming stopped abruptly; he slapped his other hand over the one that she, inexplicably, had seen imbedded through the solid wood desk. Shocked blue eyes met frightened amber ones and the irrational fear of something she could not understand fell at the feet of her natural protective instincts. He was frightened.
"Bart," she said quickly, blue eyes still captured by those terrified gold ones, "you don't look very healthy right now. I think you might be catching that pesky cold that's been circulating around the county. Here," she ripped a pass off the little pad on the corner of her podium, "take yourself to the office and call your Uncle Max."
He nodded, shakily, and tried to stand up, but sat back down quickly, his face pale. Squeezing his eyes shut, he exhaled softly, and the students sitting beside him looked at him curiously. The painful humming screeched out one more time and he was on his feet in the time it took most people to blink, bolting for the door, snatching the pass out of her hand before vanishing into the hallway.
"Wow," one of the girls in the back said after a stunned moment, "I knew Bart-man could run fast, but that's insane…"
His hand was vibrating faster than he could see, a tanned blur as he held it up in front of his face, running through the halls, turning corners sharply on his way not to the office, but to the doors leading to the main road. 'Oh my God!' his mind screamed hysterically at him. 'Oh my God!' His hand had phased through his desk. 'Oh my God!' His fingers had begun drumming faster and faster, and then his entire hand had started vibrating. 'Oh my God!' And gone through the desk. 'Oh my God!'
Distantly, Bart realized the burning and the aches had melted away the instant he had started running, and he realized, along with that, his surroundings were beginning to slip by faster than they were supposed to. Fear grasped coldly about his stomach, and a scared look grew dangerously on his face.
It was around then that he ran straight into Cecilia King-Jones, beautiful cheerleader and arguably the most popular girl at school. It sufficed to say that she was the best candidate for Homecoming Queen the high school had had in several years. And, currently, she was sprawled on the floor, short cheerleader skirt in disarray and shimmering gold locks looped over her shoulders. Bart was kneeling across from her, his arms tightened around his burning gut.
"Watch where you're going!" she snapped, pulling herself up into a sitting position, snatching up the flyers for the bake sale that had been scattered across the floor. "God, you jerk, it's going to take even longer to get these up!" Incensed, she glared daggers at him, and probably would have continued to if he hadn't lifted his face.
The next stinging words froze in her throat, dying suddenly. His face was recognizable as Bart Allen from the JV team, the school's newest and most talked about track star, considering he was also regarded as being somewhat low in the popularity pecking chain. The only problem, however, was the fact that his face was a year too old for Bart. Mildly leaner, and slightly less cute while being a bit pouty, it was framed by wild auburn hair that was a few inches too long. He was too tall, as well, but his eyes were the give-away. Nobody else, no matter who they were, had eyes at the school like his.
"Oh my God…" Her voice trailed off and she reached out to touch his cheek, her own face shocked.
Bart jerked away from her touch, a crack of red-laced gold lightning snapping off his skin at her. "It hurts!" he wailed, and then, in a whirlwind, he was gone, leaving after images in his wake that glowed for a moment, then faded swiftly. The flyers were sent spiraling up to the tiled roof, floating slowly down as her skirt and hair settled down from the violent wind.
Max Crandall studied the label of the soup and, with a reluctant sigh, set it back down on the counter. 'Sheesh,' he thought, 'you'd think I would have a broader choice of lunches.' Shaking his head with a smile, he pulled the can opener out of the open drawer, sliding it shut and fixing the curved metal against the rim of the can.
At that moment, a lean figure exploded through the sliding glass doors of the back porch without actually shattering the glass. The figure simply went through it, and promptly was engulfed in flames.
Max stared, his mouth suddenly dry. "Damn it!" he cried. "Bart!"
The flames twisted in entrancing shapes, then died down just as quickly. In the center of the charred ring of carpet, there was the crumpled shape of a fifteen-year-old boy.
A brief blue blur extended through the hallway and Max was feeling for a pulse in his neck.
The mutation had arrived early.
*
End Prologue
*
Notes
- 'Cecilia' is the name a few Bart/Cissie writers have chosen as Cissie's full name. It can't be regarded as an official name considering it has never been announced by DC, and Cissie has a tendency to switch nicknames. She's told Bart several different nicknames she assumed over time, ranging from Suzie [which he met her as] to Ralph.
- Technically, Cissie is only twelve-years old in the DCU, but she is physically a teenager and she behaves as one. Heck, her best friend is Wondergirl, a bona fide teenager.
- In this fanfic, Max and the other speedsters are mutants as well. If anybody else has read DCU comics, it's notable that the speedsters lead normal lives.
- Chapter One, which will tie this with X-M:Ev, will be posted tomorrow evening.
- Reviews are always welcome, and e-mail is welcome as well. I would like to know that someone is reading this!
*
Arc I
Prologue
*
Bartholomew Allen, as a general rule, was fidgety. His teachers throughout the year had tried everything from sitting in a corner to detention to force him to pay attention in class. It wasn't that he was slow or a natural troublemaker: quite the opposite in truth. He was exceptionally bright, as evidenced by his advanced placement, and he was very sweet and honest. It was the simple fact that he could not stay still. Always, he would be doing some small thing like drumming his fingers softly, or bouncing his knee, or bobbing his head to some inner melody. Teachers grew frustrated very quickly with his seeming lack of interest, and more than once he would be called on in class to repeat what had just been said. Interestingly enough, the powers-that-be had granted him a perfect memory, along with excellent hearing. He found it strange that so many of his teachers called it being smart-aleck.
That day, the gangly twelve-year old twirled his pencil between his fingers, wild auburn hair messy as always and oddly large feet sweeping back and forth over the tiled floor. He was preoccupied with the track meet starting during sixth period; as a new ninth grader, having just been bumped up another grade, he was already on the junior varsity track team. And he was bored. This particular teacher, Mrs. Sebastian, was perhaps the most mind-numbing literature teacher he had ever had in his young life. So, it wasn't any wonder that he was fiddling with his pencil.
At least, he was fiddling with it until Mrs. Sebastian herself came stalking down the aisle, slapping her pointer against her upturned palm as she pulled up beside his desk, snatching his pencil out from his fingers. He looked up at her, guiltily, and she spoke sternly: "As interesting as your pencil may be, Bart, I would recommend you pay attention to my infinitely more important lecture." With that, she set his pencil back down on his desk and turned sharply around, stalking back up to the front of the room.
Bart sighed, sinking down in his seat and resting his cheek against his palm, and, for a moment or two, stared dutifully at the board. That moment lasted for about as long as his interest did, and he was soon absently drumming his fingers, silently, on his desk. Amber eyes fixated on the board, he stared blankly at the same word for around five minutes, somehow appearing to be listening from his spot at the back of the room, before the first itching, burning tingle seared up his finger. A soft noise started in the back of his throat, and he caught it in time, smiling weakly at the teacher until she returned her attention to the board. The pain subsided, vanishing just as quickly as it came, and he resumed drumming his fingers soundlessly, deciding he had probably just jammed it momentarily.
An eerie ache sprang up in his shins, weaving carefully around the bone and then into it, feeling very much like a growing pain, as a burning feeling started numbing his nerves along his arms and his abdomen. Blinking, he moved his head slightly, glancing about the classroom. Every one of the other students was paying attention, more or less, to the lecture, and he swallowed, trying to ignore the clenching muscles in his gut.
Mrs. Sebastian did not like interruptions: every student in her class knew that. She was strict, no-nonsense, and had a tendency to look down on anyone who dared interrupt her when she was lecturing. Already, she had classified Bart in her mind as a disturbance to her class; she was of the opinion that children should not be advanced to classes they were not prepared for in terms of maturity, or, confidentially, at all. Thusly, she knew exactly who to look at when the peculiar, high-pitched humming gradually grew in intensity until a few sensitive students were clamping hands over their ears: Bart.
She glanced at him, then, as she took a step back, her eyes widening in shock, the pointer dropping from suddenly limp hands, the humming stopped abruptly; he slapped his other hand over the one that she, inexplicably, had seen imbedded through the solid wood desk. Shocked blue eyes met frightened amber ones and the irrational fear of something she could not understand fell at the feet of her natural protective instincts. He was frightened.
"Bart," she said quickly, blue eyes still captured by those terrified gold ones, "you don't look very healthy right now. I think you might be catching that pesky cold that's been circulating around the county. Here," she ripped a pass off the little pad on the corner of her podium, "take yourself to the office and call your Uncle Max."
He nodded, shakily, and tried to stand up, but sat back down quickly, his face pale. Squeezing his eyes shut, he exhaled softly, and the students sitting beside him looked at him curiously. The painful humming screeched out one more time and he was on his feet in the time it took most people to blink, bolting for the door, snatching the pass out of her hand before vanishing into the hallway.
"Wow," one of the girls in the back said after a stunned moment, "I knew Bart-man could run fast, but that's insane…"
His hand was vibrating faster than he could see, a tanned blur as he held it up in front of his face, running through the halls, turning corners sharply on his way not to the office, but to the doors leading to the main road. 'Oh my God!' his mind screamed hysterically at him. 'Oh my God!' His hand had phased through his desk. 'Oh my God!' His fingers had begun drumming faster and faster, and then his entire hand had started vibrating. 'Oh my God!' And gone through the desk. 'Oh my God!'
Distantly, Bart realized the burning and the aches had melted away the instant he had started running, and he realized, along with that, his surroundings were beginning to slip by faster than they were supposed to. Fear grasped coldly about his stomach, and a scared look grew dangerously on his face.
It was around then that he ran straight into Cecilia King-Jones, beautiful cheerleader and arguably the most popular girl at school. It sufficed to say that she was the best candidate for Homecoming Queen the high school had had in several years. And, currently, she was sprawled on the floor, short cheerleader skirt in disarray and shimmering gold locks looped over her shoulders. Bart was kneeling across from her, his arms tightened around his burning gut.
"Watch where you're going!" she snapped, pulling herself up into a sitting position, snatching up the flyers for the bake sale that had been scattered across the floor. "God, you jerk, it's going to take even longer to get these up!" Incensed, she glared daggers at him, and probably would have continued to if he hadn't lifted his face.
The next stinging words froze in her throat, dying suddenly. His face was recognizable as Bart Allen from the JV team, the school's newest and most talked about track star, considering he was also regarded as being somewhat low in the popularity pecking chain. The only problem, however, was the fact that his face was a year too old for Bart. Mildly leaner, and slightly less cute while being a bit pouty, it was framed by wild auburn hair that was a few inches too long. He was too tall, as well, but his eyes were the give-away. Nobody else, no matter who they were, had eyes at the school like his.
"Oh my God…" Her voice trailed off and she reached out to touch his cheek, her own face shocked.
Bart jerked away from her touch, a crack of red-laced gold lightning snapping off his skin at her. "It hurts!" he wailed, and then, in a whirlwind, he was gone, leaving after images in his wake that glowed for a moment, then faded swiftly. The flyers were sent spiraling up to the tiled roof, floating slowly down as her skirt and hair settled down from the violent wind.
Max Crandall studied the label of the soup and, with a reluctant sigh, set it back down on the counter. 'Sheesh,' he thought, 'you'd think I would have a broader choice of lunches.' Shaking his head with a smile, he pulled the can opener out of the open drawer, sliding it shut and fixing the curved metal against the rim of the can.
At that moment, a lean figure exploded through the sliding glass doors of the back porch without actually shattering the glass. The figure simply went through it, and promptly was engulfed in flames.
Max stared, his mouth suddenly dry. "Damn it!" he cried. "Bart!"
The flames twisted in entrancing shapes, then died down just as quickly. In the center of the charred ring of carpet, there was the crumpled shape of a fifteen-year-old boy.
A brief blue blur extended through the hallway and Max was feeling for a pulse in his neck.
The mutation had arrived early.
*
End Prologue
*
Notes
- 'Cecilia' is the name a few Bart/Cissie writers have chosen as Cissie's full name. It can't be regarded as an official name considering it has never been announced by DC, and Cissie has a tendency to switch nicknames. She's told Bart several different nicknames she assumed over time, ranging from Suzie [which he met her as] to Ralph.
- Technically, Cissie is only twelve-years old in the DCU, but she is physically a teenager and she behaves as one. Heck, her best friend is Wondergirl, a bona fide teenager.
- In this fanfic, Max and the other speedsters are mutants as well. If anybody else has read DCU comics, it's notable that the speedsters lead normal lives.
- Chapter One, which will tie this with X-M:Ev, will be posted tomorrow evening.
- Reviews are always welcome, and e-mail is welcome as well. I would like to know that someone is reading this!