Wooo! 15 reviews! You guys are amazing! Thanks so much for all of your support.!

AND . . . I was added to a C2! Ahhh!!!! Who was it? (pokes) C'mon, you can tell me . . . ah, I love you guys! Is it sad this has me so excited?

Without further ado:

Inertia

Chapter Four: Recovery

The monitor room was mostly empty, due in large part to the tropical storm that looked on track to both gravitate into Hurricane Andrea and collide with the coast of North Carolina. It was the beginning of the season, and it was going to be a rough one. Clark was itching to get down there, could tell that his companions were as well (except for maybe Shayera, who hated flying with soggy wings), but most of the league was already on scene and Terrific said he had something important for them. J'onn stood off to the side, hands almost gliding over the panels, giving orders in voice that was calm no matter the tone of the addressee.

"I'll try to make this brief." Mr. Terrific turned in his swivel chair, dark face showing none of the stress of the situation as he calmly tapped a few keys, switching the screen from wildly buffeted palm trees -- the storm was just skirting the coast of Florida -- to lines of text. Clark studied it as if he actually knew what he was looking at, eyes pausing at a graph showing a few mumbling lines and another skyrocketing a jagged mountain above them.

"Batman sent me a sample of 'Velocity 9' and I ran it through all of the WatchTower's databases, as well as the MetroTower's. I wasn't able to identify it as anything made commercially in the US or any other country – I couldn't even find anything with a similar chemical composition. It took engineering a new chemical identification test and about twelve rat autopsies, we finally figured that the substance in Wally's system was an extreme metabolic stimulant.

"I'm not a doctor—" and somehow Clark doubted that. Terrific might not have an M.D., but was probably as well rounded in every branch of medicine as specialists three times his age, "--but the best I can figure is when the substance was introduced into Wally's already amazing system, it forced his body into hyper-drive. His heart was beating nearly a thousand times a second when was brought to the WatchTower. His lungs were taking in air and expelling it so quickly his blood cells weren't absorbing enough oxygen. His brain was nearly suffocating, which would explain the state John found him in. Nearly all the fat on Wally's frame almost immediately depleted, and his body started converting muscle tissue into energy. His metabolic rate finally hit such an extreme level it plateaued. The two forces cancelled each other out, and his body shut down."

"He short circuited." John muttered lowly.

Terrific's mouth pulled and he bobbed his head back and forth in a 'If that's what you want to call it' gesture, or maybe a 'Not really, but if it helps you get what I'm talking abou, sure' gesture. It was impossible to tell. "More or less."

"So . . . it's permanent."

"Not necessarily." The three of them visibly perked, though Terrific's expression remained stony. "The accident that granted Wally's abilities not only changed his metabolic rate, it altered every particle of his being, right down to his DNA. Had it just given him a super fast system, Wally would have died a week later. On top of dehydration, exhaustion and starvation, he would have aged roughly a hundred times faster than a normal person." Terrific clicked off the screen in front of him, and when he turned back to them the feeling of formality had drastically dissipated. The man leaned his elbows on his knees and propped his head in his hands, speaking in a perplexed tone rarely heard from a genius of his caliber.

"In all reality, The Flash shouldn't work. His cartilage – which should be exhausted between his kneecaps after a short sprint – is nothing short of indestructible. Normal people's equipment wears out, wears down. His doesn't. His body manages not to use up its water supply in a few seconds. He doesn't sweat. His rate of aging is actually slower than the average persons." There was a joke there, but none of them even touched it. "And don't get me started on how he manages to move as fast as he does without getting shredded by debris or flattened by landmarks. For Wally and every Flash before him, the laws of physics don't necessarily apply."

"Okay, maybe this is a stupid question," Shayera interjected, "but why don't we just give him another dose of it? If it shocked his system into shutting down, won't another hit jump start it back up?"

"Chemicals work differently than a defibrillator. Especially one as unstable as this appears to be. It could give him super speed, but just as easily send him back into cardiac arrest. And even if it did return his speed, it would likely be temporary. That's not a risk we're willing to take, at least until we know more about it.

"The doctors have done biopsies on most of his major organs and muscle groups, as well as a spinal tap. From what they can tell, body is still equipped to move at super speed, he just doesn't have anything to facilitate it with. If the drug's affect is temporary – and we don't know how long it would take to wear off, a month, a year – Wally will be zipping around just like he was before."

John narrowed his eyes suddenly, muttered. "But?"

Terrific grimaced. "The problem is the blood tests we've been running aren't showing any traces of the drug remaining in Wally's bloodstream. For all intents and purposes, he's a perfectly healthy, perfectly normal human being."

It felt like a giant string of snot. Wally crossed his eyes, couldn't see it over the bridge of his nose. He flicked it, and it swung like a heavy pendulum. With just a second of hesitation, he tugged on it. That he could feel way down in his guts – like someone had just dragged a pencil tip up the length of his windpipe, making him gag and giving his skin a case of the crawls. Not doing that again, knowing that mantra would last maybe twenty minutes before he gave another experimental tweak.

He'd done it maybe seven times since he'd woken up. The first time hadn't been his fault, though -- he just wanted to go to the cafeteria and grab a snack (even though he wasn't that hungry, which was the weirdest thing about this) and he'd gotten maybe two feet from the bed before he was yanked back, almost off his feet. The same way his mom used to do when he was a kid and being obnoxious – an ear snatch and a jerk.

Except this time, it was from his nose.

They shoved a tube up his nose while he was sleeping.

Sure, he had spent the last six days being shuttled between the OR and machines he was more surprised to find out weren't alien technology. And yes, he had spent all of said time with enough drugs in him to be the fifth Beatle (and that was one kind of nice thing -- the 'phines' his system had always negated before finally took, and he spent a lot of time pretty doped up) and slept an average sixteen hours a day.

But a feeding tube in his nose? That was just wrong.

Probably GL's idea.

And he kept bugging them to take it out, and they kept ignoring him and asking stupid questions that were stuck in a loop through the medical staff. No, he wasn't on any illegal substances. No, he wasn't taking any prescriptions at the time. No, he didn't know what chemicals first gave him super speed. Yes, he was absolutely sure he had adequately demonstrated how fast he was now. No, he wouldn't sign a waver so they could pick apart his brain. No, he really didn't remember what happened. Not even a little.

The last thing he did remember was taking Linda to a movie – their third date after she left her purse on the counter at Starbucks and he, the upstanding guy he was, chased her down and returned it. They went to a zombie movie (she was as crazy about them as he was) and she spent the whole time with his arm in a claw grip so tight he couldn't feel his hand. Afterwards they had gone to a restaurant they weren't dressed for and he couldn't afford, and Wally hadn't even blinked as he passed the waiter his 'emergency only' credit card.

And then they had been standing in front of her apartment building, her face all shiny and sparkly from the little bit of make-up she was wearing that he didn't think she needed, grinning at each other in that giddy awkwardness that always comes during the after-the-amazing-date drop-off. The conversation went something like this:

"I had a great time." And he did. He'd only said a few stupid things, hadn't gotten anything on his shirt at dinner and hadn't been reduced to the nearly super speed babble that usually overcame him in instances involving nervousness and beautiful girls.

"Me too."

"I'll call you." And to hell with the three day rule. He was going to call her when he got back to his apartment. Linda didn't look at him like he was an idiot and wolfed down a steak (medium rare) at dinner instead of picking at a garden salad. She loved mocha frappachinos and old Twilight Zone episodes. And she laughed at his jokes – and not that polite, distracted, shut-the-hell-up, people-are-looking laughter.

She'd smiled prettily, touched his arm in a way that made it all warm and tingly.

And then BAM! Exhibit A: Kissing Linda Park.

It was only a peck, because she was that kind of girl, but it was still like kissing an electrical socket with a copper mouth. It made his feet stick to the floor, made the world slow down in a way it never had before.

She had waved again through one of the thin side windows once she was inside her apartment building. He had grinned goofily, returned the gesture in a way he hoped wasn't too eager, or too weird, or too fast; a two fingered easy salute that, in his mind, was cool. John Travolta cool. Lady-killer cool.

He remembered walking home. He vaguely remembered being easy on Boomer later that night because he was in such an awesome mood. But after that everything was foggy, muddy; part of his brain was walled off with curtains that were heavy and black and he was swimming through them, back and forth, back and forth, looking for the seam and starting to seriously suspect there wasn't one to find.

Some part of his brain was wailing he should be nervous or scared or something, because GL had brought him in on Thursday and the date had been that Sunday, which meant he was missing four days, but all he could think was that he had blown it. He had gone at least a week without dropping Linda a line –not that it was his fault— he was pretty sure the only thing he was going to get the next time he saw her was a foot up his ass.

Wally plucked at the nose-tube again, glanced up at the clock mounted on the far wall and mentally staggered. He'd been lost in thought for six minutes.

God. Six minutes used to be an eon.

The absence of constant, gut wrenching hunger -- that was the biggest thing. Other than that, he still felt pretty much the same. Everything around him seemed to be what had picked up speed; people walking by, doctors coming and going, and the pace with which they moved made the distance they crossed seem half what it really was. Hours passed like seconds. Trying to switch into 'fast-mode' -- trying to slow the world around him as he sped his perceptions -- gave him a headache and nothing else. If someone had told him he'd be like this a month ago, he'd have pointed out the Creeper and suggested they hang out, it sounded like they could be buds.

But other than that . . . no difference. The red, thin second hand on the clock across from him seemed to be racing his thoughts, and he thought wildly of that old kid's story – The Tortoise and the Hare. Which one was he now? God, he wasn't sure. Was he the jackass rabbit that just stopped to take a nap, or was he the fuckin turtle plodding slowly along – steady pace wins the race?

He let out a chuckle that bridged on hysterical, pushed the thought away. Far away, hopefully never to be seen or heard or thought again. Another laugh like that was sure to bring someone with a white party jacket and a one way ticket to a long game of darts with James.

Everyone -- all his crime fighting comrades, even the doctors and nurses – were tiptoeing around him as if anything would set him off into full lunatic screaming meemies (he had been on tranquillizers for most of the week, something he wasn't supposed to know, but he was forensic chemist for Gods sake). Worse, they looked even more worried and uneasy that he wasn't eating his hair and shrieking pie recipes in Pig Latin.

Maybe it just hadn't set in yet. This . . . this overwhelming, crushing whatever he was supposed to be feeling. Maybe he was in shock. He was familiar with shock -- nothing else could have lead him through finding the empty costume of his surrogate father, a wake and a funeral dry eyed. And he knew about the break that shattered it; the sound of Barry's voice on the answering machine from some long ago reminder about some long ago event that sent him over an edge he never wanted to see again.

The memory made him shiver convulsively. Was that what they were waiting for? Was that what was coming? He tugged at the nose tube again, hard, gagged.

"Would you stop that?" Wally jumped, looked up. Shayera Hol stood in the doorway, her pretty face turned in a frown, hair plastered to the sides of her face and drooping wings half a shade darker than usual. "It's not there for you to play with."

She entered, grabbed one of the chairs from the across the room and dragged to the bedside. She collapsed into it backwards, legs straddling the base, arms crossed in an X over the support.

"Man, you look like a drowned rat. Y'know . . . if rats had wings."

She almost growled at him.

"And I wasn't playing." He dropped his hand, grinned. "I was testing its durability. Thinking about getting a permanent one. Takes the hassle out of actually opening my mouth and chewing."

She gave her head a little exasperated shake, flicking him with little drops of water. "Yom shigureth. Anything to cut down how often your mouth is open has to be a good thing."

"Shiga-what?"

"Never mind."

Silence, which made the room seem much smaller, much whiter, the stench of antiseptic much stronger. Wally almost laughed – here were the two most claustrophobic and arguably the loudest members of the league, sitting in a tiny sterile room playing the quiet game.

"Forty-six pounds in a day? Two days?" And it was a gruesome boast, but he'd lost seventeen after the speed force and this was a new personal best. "That has to be some kind of record."

"I don't think Guinness will be sending you any prize money."

More silence -- stretching, strangling, funeral silence. He was going to resort to knock-knock jokes to fill the air between them when he caught the look on her face. She was smiling, but all her usual sarcasm had gone out of the expression – it looked like first grader had finger-painted it on. And there it was, that look, the look, and dread clogged itself wet and cold in his chest, and he wanted to beg her not to say what she was thinking of saying, just don't--!

"Wally," she touched his arm. "Are you okay?"

And that was it. For the past six days, Leaguers had tramped through, making him feel like some sort of ghost at his own wake. Everyone was smiles and hugs and "Glad they could revive you before you were brain damaged!" with the same pity making their eyes shine like wet stones. Did you hear? Flash lost his speed. Is it permanent? Are they going to keep him in the League? I dunno, he's not smart enough to be anyone like Batman or Blue Beetle. Man, Wally's going to have a meltdown.

And that's how they'd been treating him, like some bomb they didn't know how to disarm or likewise trigger.

And the worst part was no one had come in to really, really talk to him about it. He'd heard a thousand "Are you okay"s but there had always been that same expression: Tell me your okay, because then I can be okay, because I can't handle this weighing me down. Tell me this wasn't my fault. Tell me there wasn't anything I could have done.

At the same time, he knew he wasn't being fair. He was being bitter, and hated himself because he couldn't help it. Shayera and John were with him as often as they could be (when they weren't on missions, which was most of the time -- neither of them having a secret identity to maintain and all) playing cards, watching movies, and the others dropped in almost as frequently (except for Bats) and part of his mind was murmuring that it was him keeping them out, but . . .

They were just playing their roles and they needed him to play his, so he did -- joking and laughing and pulling on the tube that was shoved up his nose because he was 'severely emaciated' and thinking what's next buddy? What now? Where do we go from here?

Because he didn't think he could do this. Because he was terrified knowing he would have to.

Despair climaxed in a tidal wave and he forced it back, back behind a door marked Later or, better, Never. He commanded his cheek muscles to pull back, and Wally revealed his pearly whites in a way he hoped was reassuring. "I'm okay."

There wasn't any real relief in Shayera's face, just as there hadn't been in Supes' or GL's or Ralph's or GA's, but her mind begrudgingly processed the words with the coattail realization that she wouldn't be able to beat the truth out of him. If he was even lying, which she also accepted she didn't know. Her fingers remained on his arm, a ghost presence.

The cynic of Wally's mind let out a delighted giggle. Batman's got nothing on you, kiddo.

But he was the heart of the League, right? And he wasn't so selfish as to deny them that.

John looked into the room from the hallway, his body sharp but his eyes haggard and lined, and for the first time he looked someone twenty years his senior. There was a towel over his shoulders though his costume was dry – a little special something that came with a suit created from solidified energy, she guessed. Tiny drops of water clung to his beard, shone like clear freckles on his bald head.

Vixen came up on his side, coffee for him, chai tea for her, both in styrofoam cups from the cafeteria. She offered the beverage and he took it with only the smallest of acknowledgements, sipped it lethargically. His vibrant green stare never left the room. She wondered who was the object of his attention, then shoved the petty thought away.

"You know, the league needs someone for that UN assembly in Prague." She stirred her drink with a thin red straw, regarding him with come-hither hazel eyes. "I think Superman is tired of going."

He grunted. Caveman for "I'm listening, sweetheart," she assumed.

"I was thinking I could wear that Romani piece you like, the beige one with the scooped back? We would have to go back to my apartment and get cleaned up, of course. And Prague is gorgeous; I know I can talk a friend of mine into lending me her summer house for the . . ."

She trailed off, stood in silence, waiting with a raised eyebrow. Waiting for a look, a "Go on?" – she would take another grunt. Nothing. John was a million miles away.

Mari leaned against the window, raised the cup to her lips and continued in a offhand tone with a playful smile on her ruby lips: "And my doctor said that my sex change operation was right on schedule for next week."

She drank deeply, watched out of the corner of her eye as he blinked. His eyebrows furrowed as the message slowly processed itself through the churning cogs in his skull. He turned to her, face slowly contorting in disbelief. "Sex change--?!"

"Hmm?" She looked up at him with an owlish expression, "I didn't tell you?"

As his features teetered on the edge of dropping into absolute horror she laughed, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly, careful not to spill her tea down his back. "Gotcha, Beau." And now she had his attention. "But I really think you should come. You've been cooped up in this floating tin can for the last week. Not that I don't like dining under the stars—"

"Vix—"

"—and it looks like Shayera is doing an excellent job mothering Flash, so you can probably take the weekend off."

John's face turned down in an irked frown but after a moment she felt his shoulders roll in a sigh. "Let me go say goodbye." He muttered, stalked into the room.

Wally and Shayera both looked up as the door hissed open and John stepped into the room. He didn't come far before stopping, favoring the younger man with a glare that could have vaporized small woodland creatures and a scowl to match. Wally looked comically from his waterlogged appearance to Shayera's.

"Oh, man! Did the Tower have a pool party and nobody tell me?"

Not even a crack of a smile from the Lantern. "If I come back and you aren't right there, in that bed, I'll knock your head in."

"Aye aye, Captain." Wally saluted, winced as the IV tugged in his arm at the motion. John's expression fell. They remained in a triangle of uncomfortable silence before Wally's quick smile retook its rightful place, "Hey man, did you TiVo Heroes?"

John looked at Wally like he'd grown a second head for a minute, then rubbed his temples with two fingers. "Wally, why do you watch Heroes? No, wait. Don't answer."

"Take that as a no." Shayera advised, and Wally slumped in disappointment.

"I'll ask Vigilante."

"GL, you're my hero."

Shayera rolled her eyes, butted the heel of her hand into her forehead.

"Why do I hang out with you?"

"Beauuuu." John turned, Vixen stood expectantly in the doorway.

Wally snorted. Shayera hid a smirk behind her hand. John muttered something and hastily exited.

"Dude." Wally looked at the woman across from him and shook his head. "Vix has GL whipped."

Shayera left not long after GL did and the cute nurse came in with some meds and the next time Wally woke up, the nose tube was gone. And who said complaining loudly and constantly didn't get results?

On the small table beside the bed was a plate covered in pink plastic wrap. He unwrapped it carefully, exposing a pyramid of dark, moist brownies. He stuffed one in his mouth almost immediately (the first food to be in his mouth in almost a week, and holy shit, this was the best brownie he'd ever eaten) and took the small piece of paper next to the plate.

A Get Well Soon Card, from Ma and Pa Kent.

Wally almost choked on his brownie, suddenly as close to tears as he had been in a long time. He tucked the card under the plate and polished off another slowly. Oh God . . where there chocolate chunks in these? Wally moaned. He was going to feel even worse about this once Supes caught him, now that his folks had fed him and bought him a nice card and all.

Wally swallowed the last bite, and started pulling out his IVs. Which hurt, but the punctures only bled a little and there were only a few of them. Saline, some morphine from the biopsies, though the only one that had really hurt was the spinal tap – and that one hurt like a bastard, and the headache afterward made him think his eyeballs were going to pop out of his skull like those corks jammed in the muzzles of pop guns. Another IV, that one blood, though he couldn't figure out why that one was there.

After they were out, his arms aching and itching and starting to bruise, Wally studied the clip on his right index finger. It looked deceptively like those things Clark had insisted they use to clamp the chip bags closed with on the first Tower, "So they don't go stale, and everyone can enjoy them." Insert pointed glare. This was actually full of sensors and remotely linked to the heart monitor, feeding his vitals to a machine that had driven him slowly insane over his stay with its steady beeping.

Taking it off would either trigger a code blue, which would alert the cavalry, or turn the machine off. He was pretty sure which it was going to be. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, touching his feet to the cold tile (and God did it feel good to move his legs again) he stood slowly. He swayed uneasily for a moment before securing his bearings, and when he failed to become lightheaded or otherwise indisposed, he circled around the bed, hand trailing over the railing just incase his knees got rubbery. The other hand held the back of his hospital gown closed. Contrary to popular belief, the draft wasn't pleasant.

It would have been too much to ask for a gigantic plug behind the machine with a 'DO NOT REMOVE' sign. No such luck, just a few dust bunnies the cleaning crew missed. Must be battery powered. Most of the electrical equipment was – they didn't want to lose power and have someone on life support kick the bucket, right?

That fail-safe was more for when they had the big gun . . . thingy.

"Damn." He was hoping to get out without alerting anyone; get to his room and put on some normal clothes, and either convince some poor civilian to teleport him down or 'borrow' a javelin. He still knew how to drive them, and his key card should still work, though that would give them a pretty good clue he wasn't in--

"What are you doing?" Wally jolted, nearly groaned, prayed for . . . oh hell, prayed for it to be someone that he could just give the finger and walk out around. Just let it be anyone but—

Supes. With that hurt, eight-year-old boy look on his face that just screamed, in Wally's mind, "My parents made you brownies, you bastard!"

Wally laughed weakly, straightened and leaned again the bed, nonchalant. "What? You mean looking behind this lovely piece of machinery with my ass hanging out? . . . Nothin."

"Wally—" Clark crossed the room, came to sit in the chair that Shayera had abandoned a few hours before, backwards as well, which was kind of amusing. He picked up one of Ma Kent's brownies, looked at the other man questioningly. Wally waved his hand in a go-ahead motion as he circled the bed cautiously, coming to sit in front of the man of steel.

"Look, I know being here must be . . ."

"Driving me crazy? Nah. White walls, white ceiling, white bed, TV that can't pick up a decent signal half the time – what's not to love?"

Clark kept going in between brownie bites and swallows, as if he hadn't heard the younger man, "So . . . Bruce and I have been talking . . . and he wants to offer you a place to stay at Wayne Manor." At the look on Wally's face Clark quickly continued, "Or my parents in Smallville would be happy to—"

"Keep an eye on me."

"Wally—"

"No, look." And Wally tried to put all of the serious in his body in his voice, and found he didn't have much to draw on. "I'm touched that Bats is willing to sacrifice both his and Jeeves' sanity for my sake, but I'm not gonna kill myself. I'm not gonna go crazy and while I'm probably going to do something stupid, it's going to be normal Wally stupid stuff – not anything that's going to put me or anyone else in danger. I'm okay." After a moment of Clark's unwavering blue gaze, Wally sighed. Lying to Supes was nothing short of impossible, at least for him. "Okay, I'm not okay, but I'm dealing with it. There's nothing we can do, so I'll sit on my hands until there is something or it turns out there isn't going to be anything."

Wally looked down at his hands, his voice falling an octave. "Because this could be permanent. You won't do me any good keeping me under lock and key, because what I am now might be what I am for the rest of my life. And Wally West has a life he has to get back to."

Clark slowly chewed the final bite of his treat and swallowed. He reached up and touched his ear, said quietly, "You get all that, Bruce?"

A small, distant voice replied, "Cut him loose."

Wally decided that if Bats were not indeed male and creepier than a Ted Bundy convention, he could have kissed the guy.

Clark sighed heavily. Wally grinned, knowing that he had won but also knowing he had to be delicate with the big guy. "Now, is someone gonna go get me some clothes or am I gonna have to walk to the teleporters buckass naked?"

Woooooo . . . chapter accomplished. Thank god. Okay, the next chapter should be out pretty soon – much sooner than these last couple have been coming, and the action is going to start picking up. And I think I'm finished with 'R' titles. Maybe. I also hoped I cleared up some confusion from last chap . . .

A lot of Wally this chapter . . . but it'll diversify a little next time. I just love writing Wally. He's such a great character.

And . . . I love T. And Vixen. She doesn't have many fans (being 'the other woman' and all), but I love her spunk.

Anyways, review!

------Okay, finally got around to fixing this chap!: Thanks to Nike
Beau/Boo: Okay, Beau is the French word for beautiful (for a guy) and Vix's pet name for John. It's pronounced the same.

Oh, and did anyone else notice they forgot Flash in the character drop-downs for sorting? Super lame.