"What do you mean, nobody got pictures?" Maxwell Kihara demanded. "Here we had reporters swarming all over the place, and this never-before-seen metanthrope zooms up and asks if she can help fight the fire, and nobody thought to take a picture of her?"

"Well, Boss, you've got to understand how quick it all went," said Liz Wolfram. "I mean, she just came out of nowhere, and she only spent a few seconds talking to Smith…"

"That ought to be more than enough time to snap a shutter," Kihara retorted.

"Ordinarily, yes," Wolfram admitted, "but I think we were all a little nonplussed by seeing a girl there when we expected to see the Flash. You know, it takes a few seconds to adapt your brain to that, and then to think, 'Oh, yeah, I ought to take a picture…'"

Kihara groaned, and ran his hands through his hair. "Dear God in Heaven, what is the Picture-News coming to?" he said. "When I was a cub back in the '50s, a Picture-News reporter's camera was practically part of his body. We whipped them out and took fifteen snapshots of anything that looked remotely newsworthy, without even bothering to get our conscious minds involved. That was what made us the envy of photojournalists worldwide; 'The Eyes and Ears of the Midwest', they called us."

"Yes, sir, I understand that," said Wolfram. "But…"

"And now," her editor continued, betraying no indication that he was either aware of, or interested in, her attempted comment, "this young woman who fancies herself a worthy heir to that tradition comes into my office and tells me, if you please, that Central City's newest heroine materialized right in front of her, and she couldn't even be bothered to take a picture." Fifty years' worth of outraged pride blazed in his dark-brown eyes. "I should just call up Heat Wave and have him burn the place down right now, you know that?"

Wolfram swallowed. "Yes, sir," she said. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll try to do better. We all will."

Kihara sank back in his chair, suddenly deflated. "Go on, get out of here," he said.

Wolfram nodded and scurried out of the office, and Kihara spun his chair around and gazed up wistfully at the wallful of historic articles and images behind him. He remained in this position for several minutes, until he heard a gentle tapping on his office door, and, craning his neck around, saw Iris West Allen poking her head inside. "Knock-knock," she said with a smile. "I've got that riverboat story you wanted, Max."

Kihara returned her smile with a quiet one of his own. "Thanks, Iris," he said, and spun his chair around to take the sheaf of pages from the Picture-News veteran.

"I met Liz Wolfram on the way in here," Allen said conversationally. "You must have really done a number on her; she was still trembling."

Kihara snorted. "That piece of fluff would tremble at anything," he said. "So would most of the rest of the new staff. They don't make reporters like you anymore, Iris."

"Flatter me all you want, Max," said Allen. "You still won't get an Inside-the-Ice-Fortress exclusive out of me."

"No, I mean it," said Kihara. "You're just about my last remaining link with prouder days. Time was, we had a whole breed of girl reporters like you: tough, brassy, confident women who would chew through barbed wire to get the stories they believed in, and could give as good as they got when it came time to face the editor. And now the only people I can get to cover the top stories are scared little kittens like Liz Wolfram. Honestly, what's happened to the newspaper business?"

Allen shrugged. "The brassy, confident wire-chewers decided they'd rather write blogs than deal with editors," she said. "I can't blame them. If I were twenty years old again and knew a macro from a smiley, I'd probably do the same thing."

Kihara shot her a look out of the corner of his eye. "Well, you're just full of good cheer this evening, aren't you?" he said.

Allen laughed. "Sorry, Max," she said. "I forgot: never say the word 'blogs' in Maxwell Kihara's office. Tell you what, just to make it up to you, I'll get you that picture of Sparkle that the Wolfram types let you down on."

Kihara shook his head. "No, Iris, you don't have to do that," he said. "A Kihara honors his word. I told you when you came back on that I wouldn't make you cover Flash stories."

"Of course you did," said Allen. "But you never said anything about Sparkle stories."

"That was implied," said Kihara. "No Flash stuff, no Flash-substitute stuff. It's the least I can do, after everything you've been through."

Allen leaned across the desk and pointed a half-inch fingernail at her editor. "Now listen here, Max," she said. "You were just talking about how much you missed the old brassy, self-confident kind of girl reporter. Well, this brassy, self-confident girl reporter is telling you that you are going to have a picture of Sparkle on your desk, with the Iris West Allen byline on it, by this time next week. Now stop complaining and start looking grateful."

And she turned and strode out of the office, leaving Kihara alone to wonder whether a staff of scared kittens was such a curse, after all.

"Sparkle," said Captain Cold reflectively. He let the word hang in the air for a long moment, and then said, "Well, I suppose it's better than 'Kid Flash'."

"So what are we going to do about her?" said the Trickster. "Personally, I say we should set a trap and lure her in. I was working out a scheme as I came over here…"

Captain Cold raised a hand. "Now, James, there's no need to get ahead of ourselves," he said. "We don't know yet whether she's enough of a threat to merit such drastic measures."

"Cap, I was there," said the Trickster. "Trust me, this girl's the real deal. Anyone who could dive into a blazing fire like that…"

"Oh, I don't doubt that she has courage," said Captain Cold. "What I'm wondering about is her staying power. I've seen dozens of people who had the nerves, the skills, and the powers to be among our greatest enemies just run out of energy after their first feat of heroism. The same way that I've seen people who would have made excellent Rogues just lose interest after the Flash had locked them up once or twice."

The Trickster hesitated. He respected the Captain's judgment, of course – all the Rogues did – but he was pretty sure that Sparkle wasn't the type to fade away that easily. "Well, okay, Cap," he said, "but, even if you're right, shouldn't we at least stage some sort of crime as a test for her? Something where, if she is the real deal, she wouldn't be able to resist intervening?"

"We certainly should," said Captain Cold, "but, if you'll forgive my saying so, James, it shouldn't be one of your crimes. Your mind just works too deviously; this is a job for one of the more straightforward Rogues – Harkness, perhaps, or Rathaway. Give her a simple bank robbery to foil – don't confuse her with the umpteen twists and turns and new gadgets you wouldn't be able to resist throwing in – and then, if she doesn't swoop to the rescue, we'll know she was just a flash in the pan."

The Trickster was forced to acknowledge the logic of this. Still, he was crestfallen – and he also felt a pang of anticipatory resentment towards Captain Boomerang or the Pied Piper, or whichever unsubtle Rogue the Captain would end up tapping for the job. There he was, the rightful heir of Jesse James, the great modern American outlaw, and he would just have to sit and watch as one of those simple-minded clowns got to be the first criminal apprehended by Sparkle. It wasn't fair.

Excuse me? said the rational part of his mind. Not fair? It might not be fair to Captain Boomerang, because he's going to be in jail and you'll be free – but just how exactly is it unfair to you, Mr. Jesse?

Well, he might actually beat her… the rest of him argued.

That wasn't what you were thinking a second ago, said Rational. You were thinking it was unfair that he would get arrested by Sparkle and you wouldn't. Now, honestly, do you think Jesse James ever thought that about Allan Pinkerton?

The Trickster had to admit that it didn't make much sense. Still, it was how he felt. He wasn't sure why; desire for historical distinction probably had something to do with it ("In her first struggle against Captain Cold's Rogues, Sparkle successfully overcame the wiles of James 'Trickster' Jesse"), but he was pretty sure that wasn't all of it. There was something about the new speedstress in silver that made being captured by her seem more exciting than escaping from the Flash; whether it was novelty, mystery, or something else entirely, he didn't know, but there it was.

He became aware that Captain Cold had already left the room – presumably to make his plans for the Great Sparkle-Testing Bank Robbery. He rose from his chair, activated the air jets on his shoes, and drifted out of the hideout, softly humming "Hotter Than a Two-Dollar Pistol" to himself as he went.

The Flash vibrated through the door of the Madison Hotel's Room 212 and came to rest at the foot of the bed, his arms folded and his face as stern as he could manage. "All right, Zee," he said. "Care to do some explaining?"

Zatanna glanced up from her copy of Playbill and arched an eyebrow. "You know, Flash," she said, "it's generally considered polite to knock before entering a lady's room. Or at least to open the door."

The Flash ignored her. "I was just listening to the Central-Keystone evening news on WBLH," he said, using the common League nickname for Oracle, "and about the only thing the anchors could talk about was this teenage speedstress who saved the Castle's African collection this afternoon. Sparkle, they called her."

"Really?" said Zatanna. "Well, that's a nice name. Not the best I've ever heard – I've always been rather fond of 'Green Lantern', truth be told – but…"

"Zee," said the Flash, "yesterday morning you were trapped in a statue in Central City. By your own admission, the person who freed you was a girl about fifteen years old. Today, a girl about fifteen shows up in Central City with the power of the Speed Force. Now, you want to look me in the eye and tell me that's a coincidence?"

Zatanna sighed. "I told her you'd react this way," she said.

"How do you expect me to react?" the Flash demanded. "If I wanted to, I could go back in time and arrange for Leonardo da Vinci to have a few extra kids, so there were half a hundred people walking around with that backwards-words power of yours. But that wouldn't be fair to you, so I don't do it. I figured you'd at least be polite enough to return the favor."

"Flash, you don't understand," said Zatanna. "This girl freed me from a magical prison. If I hadn't granted her some favor in return, my powers would have started to ebb away within the hour – and your speed was the only thing she could think of that she really wanted. You should take it as a compliment: it means she admires you and wants to be like you."

"I think you're the one who doesn't understand, Zee," said the Flash. "The last thing I need is an obsessive fan running around C.C. with my powers. If you'd ever been the major superhero in a place, you'd know what I mean – or even if you'd ever read that one Stephen King book…"

A faint smile played around Zatanna's lips. "I think I know what you mean anyway, Flash," she said. "I also think you're doing Sparkle a great disservice. I know I'm not as good at reading people as Batman or J'onn, but I can at least recognize basic goodness of heart when I see it. If the girl I met yesterday is a stalker or a John-Hinckley type, then I'm Despero."

The Flash hesitated. "You're sure about that?"

Zatanna nodded. "Give her a chance, Flash," she said. "She's not trying to steal your limelight, and she doesn't have any designs on your personal well-being. She just wants a chance to do what her hero does for a little while." Her smile broadened, and added, "In a way, she reminds me of a young man your predecessor once told me about. It seems there was this boy in Blue Valley who was head of the Flash Fan Club there, and he…"

"Okay, okay, I get the point," said the Flash. "Have it your way. But if…" He trailed off, as a phrase that Zatanna had just used belatedly revealed its significance to him. "Hang on… what do you mean, 'for a little while'?"

"Just what I said," said Zatanna, her smile broadening yet further. "Sparkle agreed to a time limit. At the end of thirty days, her connection with the Speed Force will expire, and she'll go back to being a perfectly ordinary Ohio teenager."

"Well, why didn't you say that in the first place?" said the Flash. "I wouldn't have been worried about her, if I had known she was that reasonable."

Zatanna rolled her eyes. If the Flash's own powers had been suddenly found to have an expiration date attached, he would, she felt certain, have fallen into a positive tizzy of despair. Yet this other young woman only became "reasonable" when he learned that she had agreed to just such a condition. Superhuman powers, she reflected, were no guarantee against quintessentially human foibles.

"Thirty days, huh?" said the Flash. "Just until the beginning of May, then. I wonder if we'll run into each other."

"Probably," said Zatanna. "The two Fastest People Alive, living practically next door to each other for almost a month? I don't see how you could avoid it."

The Flash nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he said. "But will we hit it off? That's the real question."

Zatanna shrugged, and returned her attention to her magazine. "That I wouldn't dare to guess," she said. "You'll just have to wait and see."

The Flash sighed. "I hate waiting."

Somewhere in the depths of the Speed Force, the personality imprint that was all that the mortal realm retained of Barry Allen stirred. "Do you feel that, Atalanta?" it – he – said. "Another of our race has touched the Source. A girl, by the feel of it."

Another personality imprint, immeasurably more ancient, roused the remaining wisps of itself into some semblance of coherence, and hearkened. "So it seems," it – she – replied. "Well, what of it? These things will happen from time to time."

"Yes, but this is different," said Dr. Allen's ghost. "Her transformation doesn't seem to be lasting, as yours and mine were. There's something strange about it; it reminds me of a woman I knew, when I was a living man and served with the other heroes of my era."

"Well, and if so?" said Atalanta. "Let the living contact the Source however they choose; what difference does it make to us? What difference does anything make to such as we?"

"None, perhaps," Dr. Allen conceded. "But I wonder what the Hunter will do when it learns of this new development."

There was a pause, then, as Atalanta's all-but-deteriorated "mind" processed that thought. "Oh," she said at length. "Oh, I see. Yes, that is an interesting question indeed."

"The girl should be warned," said Dr. Allen. "She probably has no idea of the danger awaiting her; she should have some chance to protect herself."

"Perhaps," said Atalanta, "but how can we warn her? Being what we are, we cannot leave the Source, and she can scarcely learn in time how to come here. Unless the gods work a wonder for her, she would seem to be at the Hunter's mercy."

"I'm not sure about that," said Dr. Allen thoughtfully. "If I spend a good while building up my strength, I might be able to impress myself on the Source-aware part of her subconscious mind. I just might be able, that way, to give her the knowledge she needs to survive."

Atalanta's own strength was beginning to ebb, and her voice became fainter as she slowly unraveled back into semi-nothingness. "Well," she said, "if you must, go ahead."

"I think I will," said Dr. Allen. "After all, I was a hero once; it would be disrespectful to my own memory if I didn't at least try to save an innocent girl from certain doom."

There was no reply, and Dr. Allen turned his attention to the laborious business of absorbing and storing the energy of the Speed Force. It would take him, he estimated, about nineteen of the material world's days to gather the strength his plan required. There was no time to be lost.

Sarah Palmer knelt beside her bed, oblivious to the turmoil she was causing in the minds of newspaper editors, criminal masterminds, superheroes, and Speed-Force ghosts. "Now I lay me down to sleep," she whispered. "I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Guide me safely through the night, and bless me with the morning light. Amen."

She crossed herself, pressed the "Play" button on her tape recorder, and crawled into bed. As the opening strains of "The Music Is You" began (Sarah had always found John Denver soothing to fall asleep to), she snuggled under the covers and smiled to herself. "Well, that's one down," she murmured. "Only twenty-nine to go."