The desert winds whipped past me as I tore through the arid wasteland. Freedom was finally mine. Lane's slimy grip and that infernal collar couldn't hold me anymore. With each stride, I moved so fast that the world blurred into streaks of color. Guided by the sun's relentless path across the sky, my heightened vision mapped the way.
This wasn't a straight path home. I had to head west, across a goddamn ocean. But I'd do the backstroke in molasses if it meant I could flip the bird at my captors.
With speed as my ally, I couldn't afford to be reckless. I was careful not to break anything or anyone in my mad dash. I'd seen the not-so-pretty side of my powers, and "cautious" didn't even begin to cover it. My feet thumped on the desert floor, each step a careful dance of stealth and velocity. I kept my senses sharp, scanning for any prying eyes, though they'd need my vision to even stand a chance to catch me.
As the miles vanished beneath my feet, I couldn't shake the images of devastation I'd caused, the human collateral of my forced rampage. It wasn't me, not really, but it had been my hands, my powers, that had done the damage.
A man crushed in a vice-like grip, a painful reminder of a childhood accident that haunted me. Trucks and jeeps tossed like leaves, fiery explosions triggered by a mere flick of my eyes. I had become a walking cataclysm.
Then there were the threats against Lane's innocent daughter. Deep down, I knew I'd never harm a child. The guilt of making such a sinister vow felt like a stain on my soul. Necessary evil, they call it. But the taste of those words clung to the back of my throat like a poison.
In captivity, I'd felt powerless. Utterly, gut-wrenchingly powerless. Survival was all that mattered, my thoughts stripped down to pure instinct. It had brought out the worst in me. Fantasies of using my abilities for vengeance. Those dark thoughts scared me more than anything else. I had tasted the heady rush of power. Now, I had to lock those demons in a mental vault, pray they never found the key.
I trudged onward, toward Gotham, toward home.
Finally, after hours of pounding the ground, I stood at the Atlantic's edge. Not a drop of sweat on my brow. No huffing and puffing. Freak. I'd lost count of the countries I'd blitzed through. I hadn't paused to read the postcards in the cities and villages I'd zoomed past. I wasn't exactly in the mood for sightseeing.
The vast expanse of water was like a beast waiting to swallow me whole. This was leagues away from my high school swim team days. Yet one thing I'd learned —nothing was impossible. Not for me.
I didn't have time to catch a fancy yacht or a cruise liner. I was faster than any boat. Sharks and sea creatures couldn't do jack to me. Let's do this. I climbed to the edge of the cliff, and then I took the plunge. The frigid waters enveloped me and I welcomed it with open arms. Freedom tasted just as sweet as that salty Atlantic water.
After hours of pushing through the icy waters, I finally reached the mainland. I was so close. I could practically smell Mom's lavender-scented hugs. But showing up in that ragged military gear, riddled with bullet holes, didn't exactly scream 'welcome home.' A quick change of attire was in order.
As I trudged onwards, I kept a keen eye out for some fresh threads. I needed to blend in. Luck seemed to be on my side as my eagle eyes spotted a small store tucked away in a quiet corner. It had a few clothing items on sale displayed outside.
I swooped in, grabbing a handful of garments, and ducked into a discreet back alley. My uniform clung to me, still damp from the sea, and my boots were hanging on for dear life with soles that looked like they'd seen better days.
Swiftly, I stripped out of the soggy gear and into the new clothes. It wasn't a fashion show, but it'd do the trick. With a flick of focus, I set the old army uniform ablaze. Watching it burn felt strangely cathartic. As the fabric turned to ashes, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd grown way too comfortable using this fire from hell.
Now, I was back on track, racing towards Gotham at full throttle. I never thought I'd ever feel so happy to reach the Narrows, that gloomy maze of graffiti-laden walls that had once seemed like a prison. No time for idle chit-chat with Mr. Sanchez and his yappy dog in the alley. My focus was on one thing - home.
Finally, I stood at our front door. It was right there, but there was a problem. I had no key. For a moment, I was tempted to bring the door down. But the mental image of Mom's stern face held me back. She'd kill me, not to mention the mess I'd have to clean up. It made me wonder if my time under Grodd's influence had messed with my impulses. I didn't recognize myself.
I opted for a more civilized approach and gave the door a cautious knock. I was a bit out of practice after my little lab stay, and I didn't want to accidentally splinter the thing into kindling.
Several seconds passed without a response, prompting me to cock an ear for any hint of movement. At the same time, I scanned the interior of the house, my vision peeling away walls and furniture. Mom wasn't there. Instead, I spotted a skeleton-like figure crouched in the broom closet. The bones morphed into flesh, and I recognized Jake.
I cursed under my breath. So much for sparing the door. With a casual flick of my finger, I pushed the lock in, and then I carefully placed the frame back where it belonged.
I slowly made my way to the closet, anger building inside me. With a determined breath, I ripped the closet door open. Sorry Mom.
There he was, Jake. He was huddled inside, clutching a knife with both trembling hands. Fear filled his eyes. But it didn't stop him from lunging at me with a primal cry that was more pathetic than menacing.
"Raaaah!" he roared, the knife aimed straight for my abdomen. I didn't bother dodging. Upon contact with my body, the blade bent at the tip. Jake ended up ramming into the knife's thick handle, belly first, letting out a painful grunt. Stumbling back, he winced, clutching his bruised stomach.
"P-please, C-c-c-clark," he stammered, quickly backing away. His hands shot up in a placating gesture, eyes darting around as if searching for an escape route. "Y-you have to understand, I—"
"You sold me to a lab," I cut him off, my voice ice-cold. Jake continued retreating, dropping the now useless knife and casting furtive glances over his shoulder, as though hoping for some miraculous intervention.
Before he could make a break for it, I was right in front of him, stopping just short of body-slamming him. My chest brushed against his, causing him to stumble back a few steps.
He turned to flee, but I grabbed his wrist, my fingers locking around it like a vice. Then I noticed a flash of metal encircling it. A brand new watch. Gleaming and undoubtedly expensive. My eyes flicked to the side, and I spotted a massive Panasonic TV that looked like it could swallow the entire room. Other signs started to click into place — Jake had struck a sweet deal. A briefcase full of cash or some other valuable exchange for me and my secret.
Reflexively, Jake reached for his pocket with his free hand, but the stone wasn't there anymore. He had sold it to S.T.A.R. Labs, just like he had done with me. A surging wave of anger gripped me. The grip I had been trying so hard to control tightened involuntarily, and the watch crumbled under my fingers, cogs and gears clattering to the floor.
I could feel the hard ridge of Jake's bone beneath my palm, and I forced myself to take a deep breath, invoking every self-control technique I'd learned in the Batcave to stop from crushing it to splinters.
I heard liquid trickle to the floor, and looked down — the disgusting pig had pissed himself.
I gave him a gentle shove, to get him away from me, careful not to send him rocketing into the next county. Jake still flew a few meters, frantically flailing for solid ground. He hit the floor with a graceless thud.
"P-please," he pleaded once more.
"You do know I could have pulverized you at any given moment, stone or not," I stated calmly.
"I'm faster," I sprinted to him to emphasize my point, "Stronger," I lifted him up by his collar with one hand.
"Not killing you is probably my biggest exploit," I mused, glancing at his sorry, swinging feet. "It often felt like you were begging for it."
"I-I did it to protect us," Jake's voice quivered, on the verge of tears.
As if I'd ever lay a finger on my own—
"Where is Mom?" I demanded.
"I... she..." his response faltered.
"I said, WHERE is MOM!" I roared. The kitchen window rattled and Jake grimaced in pain, his hands shooting up to cover his ears.
He couldn't have, he didn't... My eyes blazed, casting a red hue on his sweat-soaked face.
"If you hurt her, I swear to God," My grip shifted from his collar to his neck, fingers squeezing with increasing pressure.
"She... She's... at Gotham... General... Gotham General Hospital," he croaked out, barely able to utter the words.
"You did not!" My face contorted in pure rage, the fire behind my eyes burning hotter, begging for release. But I couldn't let it. It would bring the whole damn house down. I dropped Jake before I inadvertently snapped his neck. He tumbled to the floor, terror in his eyes, and scrambled away, whimpering.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, grunting, trying to rein in that stupid fire. The house door slammed shut, resonating in my head like a gunshot. Every instinct screamed at me to chase him down, to make him pay for whatever he had done. But my skull felt like it was about to explode from the pressure. I collapsed to my knees. I had to pull myself together. Get. It. Together... I couldn't waste any more time. I needed to see her.
Mom...