T1 = 05.16.48
Fighting an earthquake in Canada, the Flash dodged between falling buildings and cracking pavement to reach survivors, wishing he knew how to stop these disasters. When the wave finally subsided, though, and Barry was sprinting south across the nations to fight a hurricane in Central America, he felt something.
It made him stumble, and he tripped—skidded and rolled across six miles of Mexican scrubland.
When he finally stopped, and pushed himself up onto his knees, he put a hand to the lightning emblem on his chest. He didn't know—couldn't know where the feeling came from, but it was like a muted, wrenching pain. The dull ache of an old agony, in his head, in his chest, in his feet—in the lightning.
"You. You can feel it, can't you?"
The Flash started in surprise and looked up at the figure suddenly standing over him. It was a man with lilac hair and black irises, wearing a green cloak. His voice trembled. He was crying.
"The death throes of the multiverse," the man clarified. "In all of creation, only you can feel its passing." There was pity in his voice—the man felt compassion for Barry.
"Wh-why?" said the Flash, confused. Scared. "Who are you?"
The stranger knelt down beside him, covering his eyes to stem his tears.
"I am the Pariah," he said. "Any other name is meaningless. I am cursed by all creation to watch the death of the multiverse, one universe after another, unable to help, but I no longer matter. The last hope for eternity rests with you."
"Why?" Barry repeated. "Why me? What's happening?"
"Only you have the power to restore the world. You can repair the damage, remake the worlds as they were meant to be—as one."
"I don't understand," said Barry, but even as he watched, the stranger—the Pariah—was fading away.
"I'm being pulled to witness the next calamity," said the Pariah, looking down at his evaporating form. "You must fix this! Save it! Save us—"
He was gone.
Barry trembled with that terrible combination of confusion and fear—helplessness.