He distanced himself from the crowd of reporters and citizens beyond the yellow caution tape, a leather gun holster and police badge dangled at his hip. It was an unusual time of the year for a sudden heat wave in Central City and he wasn't sure if he could stand this sweltering weather. Amongst the unforgiving glare of midday, the only visible shadow was the one that pooled at Joe's feet. He looked down and frowned, smearing the pink gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe across the ground.
On any given day, Detective Joe West preferred to make use of his time.
Currently, he was running out of time and patience with his painfully-late coworker. As the allotted half hour drew near, waiting in the autumn heat became unbearable. He perspired profusely, occasionally pulling out a blue handkerchief to blot his forehead. Joe decided it was best not sit on any bench, as they had been heated under the direct sunlight, so he propped himself up against a lamppost near CC National Bank's entrance. Joe let his eyes mull over the crowd in search of any familiar faces.
"Come on now, Barry."
He hunched over his tiny cellphone screen, fingers moving at a swift pace. Sensing that he wouldn't receive a text message within the next few minutes, Joe opted for a more direct approach and dialed his missing comrade.
"It's about 2:10 and we have a fresh crime scene here. I'm only missing one thing. Can you guess what that is?" He took a deep, burdened breath. "CCPD's damned CSI. Barry, where are you?"
"Joe," Captain Singh called from afar. "I've been looking for you."
"Give me a call back, pronto. I mean it, Barry. You're late," he whispered. Joe shoved the phone into his pocket and turned around to shake the man's outstretched hand. "Captain Singh."
"This city's run amuck, it's the second bank robbery this week." He motioned with his index finger for Joe to follow him. "Talk to me, Detective. What do we got?"
"Two perps took over the bank, shot out all the cameras. The twelve hostages are accounted for and cooperative."
"Any casualties?"
"One security guard, over there." Joe's head tilted toward the black body bag several feet away and Captain Singh began to approach it. He bent down to unzip the bag and made a careful examination of the body.
"Just one?" Singh asked, zipping the bag up. He retrieved a cloth from his back pocket and wiped his hands clean.
"Yep. You can take a look at what we have so far." Joe handed over a working report, Captain Singh read it over and shuddered. "Looks like our perp made off with a bunch of handguns."
"Define 'a bunch'."
"There's at least four glock 19s fitted with a couple of extra ammunition magazines. Basically, somebody's looking to do a whole lot of bad. We suspect the Mardon Brothers are back."
"You're certain of this?" Captain Singh questioned.
Joe nodded. "Positive. The bank teller already ID'd Clyde Mardon as the main shooter."
"Then I'll get Thawne's unit kicking in doors of some Mardon associates on file. We'll weed 'em out. Tell me," He handed Joe the report back and the detective pocketed it. "Has CSI been over this yet?"
"Uh, well—" Joe hesitated, uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck. "No."
"Joe," Captain Singh sighed. "You can't keep covering for him. Look, I know the kid's smart. But, Detective West, you even said it yourself: sometimes he's chasing flying pigs."
"I know."
"Then you should also know that if he's not here, I have no choice but to carry on this investigation without him."
"CSI! CSI! Excuse me, coming through." There was a suggestion of movement from beyond the barrier of tape and news cameras. The figure was formless and indistinct, as everyone shifted to let it through. Barry flashed his badge up in the air, weaving through the crowd of people.
"Looks like you don't have to. Right on time."
"CSI, here. Excuse me—" Barry ducked under the yellow caution tape, awkwardly tripping over his unlaced shoestring.
"Kid, are you okay?"
"Oof, that's gotta hurt."
Joe squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a deep sigh at the clumsy man. Barry nervously peeled himself from the ground and dusted off his pant leg; his eyes avoided their angry glares once he reached them. "Barry, you made it."
"Hey, Joe, sorry. I just got your voicemail and texts now." He shook the captain's hand. "And I am so sorry I'm late, Captain Singh."
"What, were you doing a little fall shopping, Mr. Allen? Perhaps you forgot to set your alarm clock this morning?" Barry opened his mouth to speak but was immediately interrupted. "Before you answer, I should remind you that the excuse you gave me last time was car trouble. And do you want to know why that one excuse was particularly memorable?"
Barry lowered his head, idly fumbling with his fingers. "Because I do not own a car."
"Exactly." Singh folded his arms across his chest. "So what is it this time, Mr. Allen?"
"He was running an errand for me," Joe interjected. Both Barry and Captain Singh redirected their attention to Joe. "Barry, did you get me what I asked for?"
Barry's eyes squinted in confusion. "What?" he mouthed.
"The thing. You know," Joe cleared his throat. "That thing for the investigation."
"Oh!" Barry swiftly patted down his pockets. "Right. Yeah. Yeah, I did. I have it right here, uh, well somewhere. If I can just find it—in my pocket—here—"
"Find it later. Barry, I want you to start processing the evidence," Singh muttered, walking away from the two men. "If you'll excuse me, CCPD still has a killer on the loose which means I need get back to the precinct. Get back to work, gentlemen."
Once Singh was out of earshot, Barry turned to his colleague. "Joe, I can't express enough how sorry I am. Thank you for covering for me."
"You should be sorry. I just don't get it, Barry." Joe defeatedly threw up his hands. "At some point, you have to look in the mirror and say: who is this guy and what is he proud of? When does it end?"
"It won't happen again, I promise." Barry shook his head. "I plan on keeping my promises this time."
"Good. Because if you keep on lying like that, you're liable to get struck by lightning again," Joe warned. "It's a universal thing. You put stuff out there—"
"It always comes back," Barry finished.
"That's my boy," Joe grinned, ruffling the young man's hair. "Now get to work."
"So, what are we looking at?" Barry inquired, pulling out a pair of gloves from his back pocket. "Just our typical amateur bank robbery, right?"
"Not amateurs, pros. The teller ID'd Clyde Mardon as one of the shooters, we can only presume who he was with."
"What? Oh, jeez, the Mardon brothers are back," Barry groaned. "Didn't we already put those low-lives in prison?"
"Yep, on a 10 to 20 stretch. But, you know, in Central City's warped mess of crime this actually comes to two years time served."
"Gross," he mumbled, stretching the latex gloves over his right hand and lastly the left.
"Tell me about it. Singh's got Thawne working on all the Mardon associates, so we'll hear updates soon."
"Thawne?" Barry asked. "Who's that?"
They made their way to the body bag and knelt down to examine the corpse before Barry moved on to the leftover evidence of tire tracks and rubber.
"Don't step in that," Joe instructed, directing Barry away from the smudged feces in the street. "I hate when people don't pick up after their dogs."
He took a magnifying glass from his pocket and began a careful examination of the spot where the Mardons were believed to have taken off. Barry made a great detailed show of his work. He studied a piece of blown-up tire rubber underneath the magnifying lens. Joe remained knelt by his side, busying himself with a tape measure.
"Joe," Barry mumbled absentmindedly.
"Hmm?"
"You said Thawne is on the case, too. Who is that?"
"Oh, yeah. Eddie Thawne. He's a transfer from Keystone, started a few days ago." Joe retracted the tape measure and placed it beside Barry. "Detective Pretty Boy."
"Sounds pretty." Barry wrinkled his nose. "Why'd they need a transfer to handle this?"
Joe hesitated to respond. He figured that it would be best to break the news with tact, empathy, and even a little discretion. He knew that he had enough tenure in detective work and policing when it came to delivering difficult news. But even so, he felt grief for the unaware forensic scientist.
"Hey." Barry peered up at him. "What is it?"
"Well, Eddie Thawne," he sighed. "He's my new partner."
"I—I thought Patty was your partner?" Barry stammered, dropping the tools in his hand. "A few days ago? Wait. How come—how come no one told me? When did this—"
"She transferred out, he transferred in. I'm sorry." Joe placed a comforting hand on Barry's shoulder. "You had to know she wouldn't have stayed, Bar. I mean, it would've been too much."
"I know." Joe stared at Barry, but the CSI refused to meet his gaze. "So the getaway car is a Mustang Shelby GT-500," Barry began. He cocked his head toward the tire tracks and rubber. "Shelby's have a super-wide rear tire specific to that model. These tracks are nearly identical to that description. But, there's something else I discovered. I just need to borrow a pen." Joe retrieved a blue ink pen from his coat pocket and handed it to Barry. "Thanks."
Barry dug the tip of the pen in the feces next to the tire tracks and held it up in the light for further examination. "Fecal excrement. Same kind I found under the groove of this tire. I'm positive it's a big animal, but not necessarily a dog."
"I got that pen for Christmas," Joe whispered.
Barry quickly wiped it down. "Sorry."
"On second thought," Joe said, holding up a hand to block himself from the ruined pen. "I don't want that thing back. Keep it."
Barry shrugged his shoulders. "I need to do some more testing in the lab. So I'll just bag all of this up and, fingers crossed, we'll get some results in soon."
"Good work. I'm gonna call Singh real quick and let him know what we've found," Joe said, beginning to stand up from his knelt position. Barry started the process of labeling and bagging evidence as Joe walked away.
Joe dialed Singh, raising the phone up to his left ear. "Captain Singh, it's Joe West. I'd say everything looks good, Barry's found some stuff he's gonna take to the lab. We should be out of here by 2:45, I—"
"Dad?" a voice called out.
His face moved rather slowly, as if he were taking in the surroundings and the sound of her voice. Joe turned around, smile widening at the sight of his daughter behind him. "I'll give you a call back." He ended the call, arms stretched out for her to run in.
"Iris, my favorite reporter and baby girl, get in here."
"Dad," she laughed, snuggled into the embrace. "You're the only person I know that gives the best hugs."
His arms squeezed a smidge tighter and Iris breathed more slowly, calmly. Her body melted into her dad's as every strained muscle lost its tension to warmth and happiness. Joe smoothed down his daughter's hair as they removed themselves from the hug. "Iris, what are you doing here?"
She paused, thoughts frazzled as to what to say next. What could she possibly say to her father? She's there to track down his coworker and maybe score an interview about some gossip she heard? That definitely seemed like a valid reason for a visit.
Iris patted her dad's arm fondly. "Relax, it's just work," she explained. "I just got a tip on an article I'm writing. I thought maybe I'd get a few ideas. You know, if that's okay."
"Putting the old man in your column?" he replied, proudly adjusting his suspender straps. "Well, how could I say no?"
"Only if you have good intel for me," she laughed. "But, hey, um—if you're not too busy maybe we could talk it over lunch? I'm kind of starving."
"Oh yeah, sure, just let me wrap things up." Joe glanced back at Barry and waved. "Hey, Barry, I'm headed out for a late lunch. Are you good here?" Several feet away, Barry looked up as he sealed a plastic bag, giving Joe a quick thumbs up.
Jackpot.
"Barry?" Iris's head shot up as she directed her attention to the man in the distance, the sudden movement caused her to accidentally drop her phone in the process. She looked down, reaching for her phone. "Oh, shoot."
Joe picked up the befallen object. He handed it to her and Iris dusted off her phone screen, inspecting it for any cracks. "Iris, honey, you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I just—" She thought for a moment, before regaining her composure. "Actually, Dad, I need to take care of something really quick and then we can go. Give me a few minutes?"
"Alright, uh, well I'll be right here," Joe replied, eyebrow quirked as Iris walked away.
"Cool."
This was it. This was Barry, the Barry.
Iris stared him up and down, surveying the unsuspecting subject before she went in for the kill. The man's appearance was torn between the traces of mid-twenties and boyhood. He was fairly clean shaven and made quick, calculated movements as he neatly packed containers and clear plastic bags into a silver case. She figured he couldn't be much over twenty-five. He had a nerdy appearance about him—almost befuddling her as to how such a doe-eyed and uncoordinated outfit-wearing man could create such heinous acts of altar abandonment.
She walked over to him with an effortless, sleek saunter. The clicking of her heels adding a slight rhythm to her footsteps. Her eyes scanned the scene with determination as he packed up the remainder of his belongings. Iris suddenly stopped and appeared before him, long black hair billowed around her shoulders and her head was held high. His gaze averted from the blue container on the ground and traveled up to her face. When her eyes met his, she smiled.
"Hi."
"Hi," she replied, holding out her hand.
Barry reached for it but his eyes widened and he quickly pulled away. "I'm sorry. I'd shake your hand, but—" Iris peeked down at his dirtied gloves and slowly retracted her hand. "I just realized I'm kind of a mess right now. It's—uh—well this is animal poop."
"Good call. Don't worry about it," she assured with a laugh, letting the moment falter into brief silence before speaking again. "By the way, I'm Iris West."
"Bartholomew—well, no, uh—Barry. I go by Barry—Barry Allen," he introduced. Barry's eyebrows scrunched together, he pointed his thumb back. "West, you said. By any chance, are you related to—?"
"I'm his daughter."
"Ah. Well, for the record, I think Joe's a really great guy. You're lucky to have him as a dad." He smiled at Joe, who was currently preoccupied with an incoming phone call. Barry awkwardly looked back at Iris, thinking up a topic as he deemed himself quite a terrible conversationalist. "So, you must be on the verge of breaking some huge story, huh?"
It was a bit too early in the game for her to be thrown off guard by his odd, yet revealing, question. Iris blinked rapidly, words coming out as stammers as she tried to find an appropriate response. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry. It's this weird CSI thing I do," he backtracked, pointing to her shirt. "I noticed your CCPN badge. I figured you were either an employee or, you know, sometimes someone with a notebook and badge ends up being a big city reporter."
"Oh! Right." She briefly looked at her badge. "Yeah, I'm actually here working on an article for my column."
He straightened up a bit, slightly relieved at this information. "Good news is that I'm sure there's plenty of things for you to write about. As you can see," he waved his hand around to showcase the scene before them. "Exhibit A, we had a huge robbery here."
"As crazy as this sounds," Iris began. "I'm not here for the robbery. I actually wanted to get an in-depth look into the people working at CCPD. I hoped maybe you could spare some time to give an interview or two."
Iris watched him stand up, and lock the evidence case in his hands. Barry pondered over her offer, and when he appeared uneasy, she quickly added, "About your CSI work, of course. Not just—you."
But mostly him and his questionable love life. She needn't go over the minor details, yet.
"I'm gonna be honest, Iris. I'm not really that good at giving interviews," he admitted. "Besides, my work probably won't seem that cool on paper compared to any of the stuff that Joe does. CSI, it's a lot of forensic science, mathematic formulas, and lab testing."
"So basically science fiction stuff?" she quipped.
"Yeah," Barry laughed. "Pretty much."
"Well, I'll tell you this, Barry Allen." She dug around in the satchel and retrieved a scrap of paper and pen, scribbling information down. "I think we definitely have a story here. So if you ever want to talk about that science fiction work you do, give me call."
In her midst of finite disappointment throughout her career, she would not lose her infinite hope. This piece could open up unimaginable doors, she just needed one chance.
Barry Allen would call for an interview and when he did, Iris West would make sure that she picked up.
The sun sank lower in the sky, a mixture of pink and yellow daylight gradually drained away, exposing the dark of night. Evening had finally wrapped around Central City, filling the horizon with city light and specks of faint stars. Despite the exciting bustle during daytime, he always preferred the night.
It was when the scorching heat beaming down from midday would surrender to the onslaught of cool breezes that he would sit outside, head comfortably tilted back, and gaze the sky. On much warmer nights, he'd study constellations or keep track of the lunar phases with the background sound of crickets hidden within the long grass.
Tonight, his legs dangled off the parapet edge of Jitters' flat rooftop. His figure silhouetted against the stars and city lights.
"I'm going to CSI school in Midway City, so that means moving in three days. I've always wanted to do this my whole life," she explained. "CCPD will be fine without me."
"I heard." He drew in a labored breath. "Patty, I'm so sorry."
He could hear her breathing into the phone, yet the thickened tension and silence remained.
"Are you there?" he finally asked.
"You know, you kept telling me there was stuff you couldn't share with me and, truthfully, I've been going a little crazy trying to figure out what that stuff is." She paused, allowing time for her words to sink in. "So I went through some old cases. Just on a hunch. All of them involved The Flash saving the day with specific details that even you couldn't have possibly even known."
"That's weird," Barry insisted.
"I know you're The Flash, Barry."
He heaved a sigh. "Patty, come on, don't do this."
"I'm a detective and I should have known, Barry. I understand why you didn't want to tell me or why you've been distant. But tell me the truth, just be honest with me one last time," Patty requested. "Admit to me you're The Flash, and I'll stay."
The lingering silence was intolerable for him; in that brief void of sound, the emptiness of their conversation was bare. What used to be playful banter regarding sports teams and movie quotes were now gone. Silence stretched thinner between them, until his temptation to rupture it was irresistible.
"I can't do that," Barry confessed quietly. "Because I'm not him."
As he waited for her reaction, the stillness hung desperately in the air. He expected her to dissolve into tears, to scream at him, pretend the topic was never brought up; but Patty Spivot did none of those things. Instead, she simply replied, "You know, it's really too bad, Barry. It would have been nice to stay. To fight crime during the day and be with you at night."
"Patty—"
"Take care, Barry."
The darkness that now shrouded the rooftop was thick and heavy, interlaced with sorrow and grief for what could have been—and what he knew was right for the both of them. In an overwhelming rush of emotions, he discovered there was nothing left but loneliness.
Dr. Wells was right, he couldn't have both worlds. People were a distraction and with the Reverse-Flash still around, he couldn't risk being distracted or vulnerable.
Hands dug deep in his pockets, he fumbled around, eyebrows furrowing together as he pulled out a thin piece of paper. Barry read over the contact information before crumpling it back up and shoving it in his pocket.
Barry slowly stood up, attempting to balance without falling over the edge of the roof. He turned his back toward the city; nothing behind him but flashes of lightning as he ran.
And dead silence.
And in Central City, where he is currently employed as an assistant crime-scene investigator for CCPD, one can only remain aghast that: Bartholomew Allen, locally known as Barry, is the Runaway Groom. What is unusual about Mr. Allen is that he likes to dress his women up as brides before he devours them. He has already disemboweled two in a row, leaving them frantic at the altar.
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Remain aghast that: Bartholomew Allen, locally known as Barry, does not call back. Which really sucks because I need my job. Dude.
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That: Bartholomew Allen, locally known as Barry, is...is..going to the the death of Iris West's article if he doesn't just
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Iris closed out of the word document and sighed, resting her head in her hand. She stared at the blank computer screen, waiting for the idea to come to her. Inside her mind, the words were laced together, and it wouldn't come into fruition until the real intent of her piece became acknowledged. She needed to understand the true nature of her subject. A connection needed to be built between her editor, Barry, and her readers.
If she dared to pitch this unfinished idea, Eric Larkin would either be transported happily into the world of wedding scandal or he'd place it abruptly back on the rack and fire her. She was simply out of time and ideas.
Iris pushed her laptop aside and dipped out of her bed, deciding to head into the kitchen for some water.
She switched on the lights of the living room. It was fairly cozy, adorned in beige tapestry pieces that hung on her wall; some clunky furniture and other trinkets mixed in, yet all the more pleasing and apparent of her style. It was a small apartment space, not too empty, and seemingly to belonging to a single, human life. Iris maintained a fairly moderate level of cleanliness, despite the few scattered newspapers and beat up notebooks that piled on her end-table.
Beyond the windows of the ivory-paneled apartment, dim city lights glowed through a pair of fluttering, brown curtains. Iris parted the taffeta fabric with her hands, allowing moonlight to spill into the room. An incredible view of the skyline appeared before her without a single cloud to ruin the starry night sky. Red taillights from faraway traffic offset the faint orange glow of sodium-vapor streetlamps. Cup of water in hand, Iris took a sip.
Vehicles sped down the street, creating threads of headlights, and she nearly dropped her cup when she seen it.
A vibrant shock of red and yellow zipped through the streets, breaking through the darkness and cleaving away at rapid speeds. If only, for the briefest of moments, before it was gone.
The corners of her lips lifted up into a smile, one so genuinely sweet. Iris let out a relaxed sigh and headed back to bed.
Perhaps even The Flash, too, grew restless at night.
"Good evening, Dr. Wells."
"Good evening, Gideon. Please, bring up my log. It's a new entry."
Harrison paced around, hands clasped behind his back. "It has now been 310 days since the lightning struck our subject. Initially, I assumed his attachment to people would be a distraction. Something that would slow down his progress."
Harrison stopped, idly stroking his chin. "I have convinced him of such, so our subject remains compliant in following the allotted timetable. Patricia is no longer involved, unfortunately a moment that has previously affected our timeline. Certainly, with the relationship currently defunct we are right on schedule. Now that this obstacle surpassed us, I realize the opposite is true. Barry Allen's attachment to people, especially those that deeply he cares about, is the key to getting him up to speed. Compassion equates to speed. An interesting theory but one that has proven me otherwise. However, I have good news."
Gideon pulled up a projection of the 2024 report. Harrison walked over, scanning through the article byline until his eyes settled on the author's name. What once appeared as singular had now changed into a hyphenated surname.
"The future still remains intact."
