The chemistry lab was quiet, bathed in the pale morning light filtering through the tall windows. Long, sturdy tables lined the room, each equipped with gas burners, sinks, and rows of neatly labeled glass bottles filled with various chemicals. The faint smell of cleaning supplies lingered in the air, along with the usual chemical tang that always seemed to hang around. Shelves filled with beakers, flasks, and graduated cylinders were meticulously organized against the walls, alongside diagrams of atomic structures and reaction processes pinned to the bulletin boards.

I'd arrived early—so early, in fact, that even the teacher hadn't shown up yet. The classroom was eerily silent, almost surreal without the usual hum of chatter and clatter of lab equipment. I'd been planning this for a month now. Today was the last class of the week: chemistry. I needed access to a very specific set of chemicals, and timing was everything. With the room to myself, I had a few precious moments to make sure everything went exactly as planned.

I moved quickly, scanning the shelves for the three compounds I needed. My eyes landed on the iodine trioxide—a rare and powerful oxidizing agent that could stabilize high-energy electron fields. The bottle sat behind several others, almost as if it had been forgotten. Carefully, I reached for it, the weight of the glass container feeling heavier than it should. Iodine trioxide wasn't something you handled lightly, and as I slipped it into my bag, I made sure to secure it in the padded pocket I'd brought just for this.

Next was the nitrogen gas. I found the small canister on a lower shelf, its label faded but still legible. Nitrogen would prevent any unwanted combustion during the reaction—essential for what I had in mind. I added the canister to my bag, double-checking that the valve was tightly sealed.

Finally, I grabbed the dimethyl sulfoxide, or DMSO. The solvent was known for its rapid cellular absorption, and I could see how it shimmered slightly in its clear, unassuming bottle. This one needed to be handled with care, too. I slid it into the bag, tucking it alongside the other two chemicals.

Just as I was zipping my bag, the door creaked open. My heart skipped a beat as I turned to see Mr. Bill, the chemistry teacher, step into the room. He was holding a stack of papers, his eyes immediately catching mine.

"Wally? You're here early," he said, raising an eyebrow, clearly surprised to see a student in the lab before class had even begun.

I froze for a second, my mind racing for something to say that wouldn't sound completely suspicious. My bag felt like it weighed a ton slung over my shoulder, the chemicals inside practically burning a hole through the fabric with how guilty I suddenly felt.

"Uh, hey, Mr. Bill," I stammered, forcing a weak smile. My voice cracked halfway through, making the greeting sound even more awkward than I'd intended. "I, uh… just wanted to… get some extra study time in, you know? Chemistry's not really my, uh, strongest subject." Another life didn't help my conversational skills.

He gave me a long, skeptical look, the kind that made it obvious he wasn't buying my excuse for a second. His eyes flicked to the bag at my side before they zeroed in on the bruise forming around my eye. I hadn't done much to cover it up—didn't really see the point.

"You alright there, Wally?" Mr. Bill's voice softened as he gestured vaguely to my face. "That's a pretty nasty shiner. You get into a fight?"

My stomach twisted, and I instinctively raised a hand to my face, fingers brushing the tender skin around my eye. "Oh, this?" I mumbled. "Nah, I, uh… I just tripped. Fell, y'know? Hit the corner of a table, clumsy like that."

Mr. Bill didn't say anything at first, just kept looking at me with concern that made my skin itch. His silence was worse than any interrogation.

Ever since Uncle Barry died, Dad had been more chill—probably because Aunt Iris, his sister, was in a bad place and he was busy keeping her steady through her grief. He wasn't a complete piece of shit, but that didn't stop him from punching me in the eye yesterday when I defended Mom.

I shifted awkwardly, feeling the weight of the chemicals in my bag as Mr. Bill's gaze lingered on my bruised eye. I tried to look casual, but the silence was unbearable.

Mr. Bill didn't look convinced, but after a moment, he nodded, though his frown remained. "Be careful, okay? That's nothing to joke about."

I nodded quickly, "Yeah, yeah, definitely." I started inching toward the door, eager to escape the situation before he asked anything else.

"Alright," he said finally, turning to his desk. "Class will start soon. Make sure you're ready."

Relief washed over me as I slipped out of the conversation without him pressing further. I took my seat just as a few other students shuffled in, and within minutes, the room filled with the usual hum of conversation. Mr. Bill began his lecture, and I tried to focus, but my mind was elsewhere. I had everything I needed now.

As soon as the bell rang, I grabbed my bag and slipped out of the classroom before anyone could stop me. I didn't linger in the hallways, weaving through the other students with my head down, and made my way toward the front entrance.

The fresh air hit my face as I stepped outside, the weight of the stolen chemicals heavy in my bag. School was over, and now, the real work would begin.

I reached Aunt Iris' home and paused at the front door, gripping the cold doorknob. Locked, just like always. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, I bent down and lifted the corner of the doormat. Sure enough, the key was still there, tucked in its usual spot. I let out a sigh, the tension in my chest loosening just a bit.

I unlocked the door and quietly stepped inside. The living room was dark, the curtains drawn, and the faint smell of alcohol lingered in the air. The moment I saw her, my stomach dropped.

Aunt Iris was sprawled out on the couch, completely knocked out, her red hair a tangled mess around her pale face. An empty wine bottle lay on the floor next to her, and I could tell just from the way she was breathing that she had been out for a while.

I swallowed hard, my heart aching for her. Ever since Uncle Barry died, she'd been like this more often than not—drowning herself in alcohol to numb the pain. I'd seen her in this state too many times, but it still hurt every time.

Gently, I grabbed the blanket draped over the back of the couch and carefully covered her, tucking it around her shoulders. Her face was peaceful, but it didn't hide the deep lines of grief etched into her expression.

"You don't deserve this," I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She didn't stir. I doubt anyone deserved this, I never wanted to really become a superhero in this life and I was happy Barry was the Flash, I never accounted for him dying so soon.

Once I was sure she was comfortable, I quietly made my way upstairs to Uncle Barry's room/lab in the attic. My hands shook slightly as I opened the door, the familiar scent of his cologne still lingering faintly in the air. His room was untouched, just as he'd left it before he died. The bed neatly made, his desk still cluttered with notes and papers, as if he could walk in at any moment and pick up where he left off.

I closed the door behind me softly, standing there for a moment, letting the weight of everything settle over me. I came here for a reason, but now that I was in his space, all I could think about was how much I missed him, I might have been in this body for 2 months but I had the memories of the 16 years Wally had lived.

This was the man I was going to ask for help, the one person I trusted to make everything right. But he was gone. And now, it was just me, trying to piece everything together without him.

I took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling the gravity of his absence more than ever.

I finally stood up, shaking off the lingering sadness, and made my way to the attic. Uncle Barry had always kept a small chemistry set up there near the large, circular window, his personal project space. The faint light of the setting sun filtered through, casting a golden hue across the cluttered table, dust particles dancing in the air.

I reached into my bag and carefully laid out the stolen chemicals, one by one.

First, *Iodine trioxide (IO)*—a rare oxidizing agent. Its dull, reddish crystals shimmered in the light, and I knew just how dangerous it could be if handled wrong. I placed it at the center of the workspace, far enough from everything else to avoid accidental reactions.

Next, *Nitrogen gas (N)*—stored in a small, airtight canister. It hissed faintly as I checked the seal, the inert gas meant to keep the reaction isolated and safe from the surrounding air. I set the canister next to the iodine trioxide, making sure the valve was secure.

Then came the *Dimethyl sulfoxide (DMSO)*—a clear, colorless liquid in a small vial. Known for its ability to absorb rapidly into the skin, it was a key component for my plan. I twisted the cap open briefly, the faint chemical smell tickling my nose, before sealing it tight and placing it beside the others.

With everything out, I took a step back and stared at the assortment of stolen chemicals. It felt wrong somehow—using this space, using Barry's equipment for something like this. But I didn't have a choice. I had planned this too long to stop now.

It was obvious the universe was basically screaming at me to become the new Flash. The Rogues were robbing Central City more than ever, the Justice League didn't have a speedster, and God knows from the comics I've read that they needed one. I've never been the most ambitious guy, but even I know what to do when you've got great responsibility like that.

I needed super speed.

I'd already tried the formula—*3X2(9YZ)4A*. Said it out loud, hoping for something, anything. But nothing happened. No lightning, no burst of energy. I even tried it almost immediately after I heard about Barry's death, thinking the universe might intervene. It didn't.

Then, a month ago, I found some of Uncle Barry's old notes. Papers where he documented how he replicated the experiment that gave Jay Garrick his speed all the way back in the 1930s. That's when I started planning. Piecing together what I needed, how I could recreate it.

This had to work.

The experiment had to do with faster-than-light particles and their theoretical interactions with bioelectric fields—the naturally occurring electric fields in living organisms.

Barry, while working in the Central City Police Department's forensics lab, stumbled upon the formula *3X2(9YZ)4A* in some old research papers on particle acceleration and bioelectrics. The formula was theorized to alter the quantum vibration frequency of matter, allowing it to interact with tachyonic particles without destabilizing. In theory, it could create a bridge between a person's bioelectric field and faster-than-light particles, granting super speed or something like that.

But here's the thing—either the formula didn't work like it did in the comics or it was just a plain old formula in this world. Still, I knew if I could recreate Barry's experiment, I could test it properly.

I needed to replicate this experiment and see if I could finally unlock the speed force.

The rain was coming down in sheets, heavy droplets hitting the roof like a drumbeat. Thunder rumbled in the distance, signaling the approach of the lightning storm I'd been waiting for. It was the first time in a month Missouri had seen this kind of weather, and it wasn't just any rainstorm—this was a full-blown lightning storm. The perfect conditions.

I had everything set up on Uncle Barry's old chemistry set near the window. The chemicals sat in the beaker, perfectly measured, just like Barry had described in his notes. He hadn't known what he was creating when he mixed them under normal room conditions, and when lightning struck that night, it triggered a quantum excitation field, completely transforming him. That was my goal.

I stirred the mixture carefully, trying to steady my shaking hands. *3X2(9YZ)4A*—the key to everything. According to Barry's papers, the atomic configuration created by the chemicals had a specific resonance with his bioelectric field. When lightning struck, the tachyonic particles surrounding him bombarded his cells, transforming them in an instant. That's how he became the Flash.

I'd already opened the window, letting the cool breeze carry the scent of rain into the attic. The air was charged, electric. I was ready. All I needed now was the strike.

Then, I heard it—the soft creak of the attic door opening behind me. My heart skipped a beat.

I turned to see Aunt Iris standing in the doorway, her red hair disheveled from sleep, her eyes still puffy from all the grief she'd been carrying. She looked at me, confused at first, then her gaze shifted to the chemistry set and the open window. Her eyes widened with realization.

"Wally—what are you doing?" she asked, her voice thick with worry as she stepped into the room.

Before I could respond, she glanced at the chemicals and the storm raging outside. Panic flashed across her face. "No... no, no, no. You can't—Wally, stop! You don't understand what you're messing with!"

She took another step toward me, reaching out, but it was too late.

A blinding flash of light filled the room, and the air exploded with the deafening crack of thunder. The lightning bolt struck directly through the open window, arcing towards the beaker.

Everything went black.