Prologue
If there was one thing that he was good at, it was running.
He could run for hours without tiring at all. He could run around the world in less than two seconds. He could even run fast enough to negate gravity and run across water. He could run away from all his problems until he left them in the dust.
But this kind of problem was not something he could so easily run away from.
There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He knew that, sooner or later, he would be taken into custody. There would be a swarm of news reporters, shoving microphones into his face, desperate to get at least one response to their questions.
He turned the corner, breathing heavily as the bark of police dogs followed him through the back alleys of the city.
He didn't mean for any of it to happen. He was just doing his job; trying to help out. But now the blood was on his hands — literally. Looking down at them, he was met with the sight of a dark red liquid that was the reason why he was being hunted down.
Shouts of the police officers could be heard as they came closer to him, and the sound of a helicopter's blades had joined into the symphony. The bright LED of its floodlights shone between buildings as they continued to search for him.
He was running out of time. Eventually he would come across a dead end, and he would have no choice but to give himself up. It was also likely that, since they now knew who he was, that the D.E.O. had gotten involved, lending some of their hi-tech weaponry to the officers to help hunt him down.
He looked up at the dark sky, the moon partially covered by clouds. The sound of about a dozen boots running towards him got louder until the area was illuminated with the searchlight of the helicopter.
"Stop!" One of the heavily armored officers yelled at him. "Get down on the ground with your hands on your head!"
Knowing he was caught, he reluctantly obeyed the orders, kneeling on the rough concrete, placing his bloody hands on the top of his head.
They rushed him, roughly bringing his hands behind his back and locking the handcuffs on his wrists with a click. Dogs barked in the foreground as he was roughly jerked to his feet and pulled along, weaving their way through the alleys to the Main Street, where about twenty patrol cars and even a SWAT truck were haphazardly parked along the curb. As he was pulled along, he looked to the side to find crime scene tape around the general area of the body. Crime scene technicians were taking pictures of the site while a detective knelt next to the body, and another group of officers were trying to hold back the slew of civilians trying to get a better look at the scene. Blue and red lights flashed on the brick walls of the buildings, giving objects an almost sinister looking appearance.
A young cop with a notepad approached the car he was sitting in, pulling the door open. Looking him up and down, he said, "you are under arrest for the murder of the Senator of Kansas. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?"
"Yes," he replied glumly.
"With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?"
"I didn't kill him."
The officer looked at him sideways. "Good luck telling that to the judge…" he looked down at his notes for his name, "…Barry Allen." Looking back up, he said, "they say that you are the Flash. Is that true?"
Barry stared at him. "Those guys don't care if I'm just an average Joe or fucking Superman. I'm still sitting in here."
The young cop nodded solemnly. "Neither does the courts," he said, before closing the door on Barry.