EDITED: February 24th, 2025.
You know you have done it when one of your favorite authors has favorited your story. So many thanks to Marcus S- Lazarus, and to Khiori for your lovely review—I hope you keep enjoying it!
I think I've mentioned it before, but almost everything in this story is based on old comic lore. This version of Karen Starr was created to fit the Arrowverse canon, including the Supergirl show. So her backstory and future plots are an amalgamation of different counterparts (most notably Power Girl, SG!Linda Danvers, and Matrix). If it feels a little farfetched, please, bear with me a little.
NEW EDIT: March 10th, 2025. This chapter was re-uploaded due to issues with the site and not appearing at all.
19 - The Burning Man
Karen didn't panic.
That wasn't how she operated.
Panic was for people without options.
She had options. She just didn't like any of them.
The glow from the monitors flickered against the walls, casting shifting shadows across her war room—a space built for control, for strategy, for staying ahead. Half of it was a high-tech command center, an array of monitors, cables, and servers humming softly in the background. The other half was a personal archive, cluttered with evidence, files, and classified reports she shouldn't have but needed to keep.
Karen had spent years curating it all. Years keeping the world at arm's length, always two steps ahead.
But now, her world was shrinking.
The League knew she had survived.
Eiling was circling.
Wells was watching.
Mason Bridge was closing in.
And she had nothing on him.
That was the problem with good men. You couldn't buy them, you couldn't blackmail them, you couldn't nudge them into taking the easy way out. Bridge had integrity, and that made him dangerous.
Which meant Karen had to get creative.
Her fingers drummed against the desk, eyes flicking between the screens. She had looked—she had really looked—but Bridge's record was annoyingly clean. Not spotless, but too clean for the kind of leverage she needed.
She wasn't a stranger to burning down threats before they became problems. If Mason had been anyone else, she'd have thrown him a bigger bone—buried him in a manufactured scandal, tanked his credibility until no one would believe a word he wrote. He was an ass, so it wouldn't be coming out of left field... much.
But Bridge wasn't just anyone. He was good. Too good. He didn't chase stories recklessly—he chased the truth. If she gave him something to dig into, he would dig until his fingers bled.
And right now? The truth was pointed directly at her.
Karen exhaled through her nose. If she couldn't bury him, she had to misdirect him.
Her gaze flicked to another screen. LexCorp.
The thought had been there, coiling at the edge of her mind ever since Mattie mentioned her file. If anyone could make Mason Bridge disappear—not dead, just... inconveniently occupied—it was Luthor.
But at what cost?
She clenched her jaw and deleted the search tab. No.
Luthor wasn't an option. Not now. Not ever.
If she wanted to fix this, she had to do it herself.
Karen leaned back, tapping her fingers against the desk, staring at the monitor displaying Harrison Wells.
Mason had made his demand crystal clear. He wanted her to dig into Wells, to confirm whatever suspicions he had. He had backed her into a corner, and she hated it.
But the worst part?
She had already been looking.
Karen wasn't stupid. She knew when someone didn't add up, and Wells didn't just not add up—he actively erased any attempts at making sense.
His public history was too perfect.
Too clean, too structured. A man of science, a brilliant mind, a tragic past—the face of progress. But his accident, the particle accelerator explosion, felt off.
Karen would like to say she had kept an eye on him from the very beginning, but... that would be a lie. She had actively been trying to ignore him (because of Barry). But when Eiling came to town for the first time, she had thrown every doubt out of the window and dug into the man's past with a very fine toothcomb, just to calculate how much of a danger he would be to her.
Not much, she found out. But in the process, she also... didn't find a lot. And that was telling.
Dates that didn't match. Records that led nowhere. Personal history that felt like it had been written for a script. An autobiography filled with so much bullshit she couldn't believe it cost thirty bucks.
Mason had made her look. But Karen was now worried for an entirely, non-altruistic reason—and even if that reason had two walking legs, a badge that opened doors, and was stupidly, emotionally involved with the people he loved but somehow managed to skip her—she would go a mile further.
She turned back to her setup, pulling up the encrypted files she'd been sitting on.
A few strokes of the keyboard, and she bypassed STAR Labs' security with an unsettling ease. If anyone else had set these firewalls, she might have had trouble. But this? This was Wells. And for someone so secretive, he wasn't nearly as careful as he should be.
(What if it's bait?)
A list of lab records flooded her screen. Karen's eyes flicked over timestamps, security footage, log entries. She skimmed through months of activity, looking for patterns, for anything that stood out.
And then she saw it.
Stagg Industries.
A security clearance request. Filed under Wells' personal credentials.
The same night Simon Stagg disappeared.
Karen sat back, her heart hammering in her chest. That was the in. That was the crack in the foundation.
But it was so fucking obvious. Was it a callout? It felt a lot like he was screaming to the skies, here, look at me!
Well, Mason Bridge had looked. Not like Wells expected—perhaps not even the man he wanted. So who did he want? What was Wells waiting for?
This was the game now.
She rubbed her temple, fighting a headache.
Karen had always been a strategist. A survivor. She wasn't above bending the rules, lying through her teeth, spinning truths into something new. It figured she would have to be the one to even the field.
Mason Bridge wanted a story? She'd give him one. She just hoped she wasn't sending him straight to the gallows.
000•000
Quentin Quale shivered as he locked the doors to Concordance Research, his breath clouding the frigid air of February. Another late night, another stack of reports barely touched. His fingers fumbled with his keys as he adjusted his coat, already eager to put distance between himself and the dimly lit parking lot.
Then, the heat hit him.
Not the kind that came with a faulty radiator or an overheating car. This was wrong—a sharp, oppressive wave rolling in against the winter cold, pressing into his skin, curling at the edges of his nerves.
His grip on his keys tightened.
A shadow flickered near the streetlamp.
"Quentin Quale."
The voice was rough, frayed at the edges—like it had been burned down to the last ember.
Quentin stopped short, every instinct telling him to turn, get in his car, and drive. Instead, his feet stayed planted. Carefully, he turned his head.
A man stood just beyond the reach of the streetlight, his form hunched, ragged, flickering like a mirage against the cold night. The dim glow of the lamps caught the edges of his face—hollowed cheeks, wild eyes, fire licking at his fingertips.
Not metaphorical. Real fire.
Quentin swallowed hard.
"Can I help you, young man?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.
The man let out a hoarse chuckle. "Haven't been called that in a long time."
There was something familiar in his tone, but Quentin couldn't place it. He took a slow step back, toward his car. "Do I know you?"
The man's lips twitched upward. "You did. Once."
Quentin frowned. "Sorry, but I—"
"We went to school together." The man's voice cut through the still air, his words deliberate. "University of Chicago. Class of '74. We protested the war. Make love, not napalm. Ring any bells?"
Quentin's stomach dropped. The memories—hazy, distant, buried beneath years of academic clutter—suddenly clawed their way to the surface.
Impossible.
"I don't know if this is some kind of joke," Quentin started, forcing a chuckle, "but—"
"I know about your brother."
Quentin froze.
The fire in the man's hands flared higher, twisting and curling around his wrists. "He didn't just disappear. He killed himself." His voice turned sharp. "And you found the body."
Quentin's pulse spiked. His vision tunneled, his world shrinking to just this moment, just this man—because no one knew that.
No one.
His hands curled around his keys like a lifeline. "I never told anyone about that."
"You told one person."
Quentin's mouth went dry.
"…Martin?"
The flames dimmed, just slightly. The man's lips pressed into a thin line.
He didn't look like Martin. Hell, he had a completely different face—but the way this stranger looked at him made Quentin feel like it was Martin Stein, his old classmate.
"I need your help," Martin said, and the streetlamp above them shattered.
A blast of heat rolled off him, searing the air between them. Quentin stumbled back, shielding his face as the asphalt beneath Martin's feet cracked from the sudden spike in temperature.
Then, just as quickly, the fire pulled back—sucked into his skin like it had never been there.
Silence.
Quentin's heartbeat thundered in his ears. He let out a shaky breath. "Jesus Christ. What the hell happened to you?"
The man's shoulders rose and fell rapidly, his entire body wired too tight, like he was barely holding himself together.
"I need you to tell me everything you know about The Matrix."
Quentin stared at him, then shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Fire flickered. "You've never been a good liar, Quentin. I know you were part of the military's investigation team. Please... it's my last hope. Tell me what you know. I beg you."
These words swayed Quentin.
The words—begging—made Quentin hesitate.
After a long pause, he exhaled sharply and turned back toward the building. "Come inside."
Despite his years of seniority, his office was the smallest in the building. Cluttered with old books, faded documents, and forgotten research notes, there wasn't much space for the stranger—Martin—to settle properly. Dust settled in thick layers across his desk, and the air smelled faintly of stale coffee.
Now that he thought it, his office probably held all items flammable possible. If Martin didn't like what he heard, there was a high possibility Quentin would die burned alive. But his old colleague stood by the door stoically, his hand curling and uncurling... perhaps holding onto his control.
Quentin didn't need to search. He unlocked a file cabinet, yanked out an old folder with yellowed edges, and tossed it onto the desk. His finger ran along the bolded title on the cover:
PROJECT SUPER MAN – SUBJECT MATRIX.
"The Matrix wasn't some fancy tech," he said, flipping through the pages. "It was a quantum-based neural splicing device, designed to merge completely incompatible biological and genetic structures into a single entity. It didn't just combine—it rewrote them at the cellular level."
Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're looking in the wrong damn place." He gestured at the file—at the picture that showcased its initial design. "The device wasn't designed to separate. It was built to force fusion. CADMUS didn't just merge tissue types—it blurred the lines between what was human and what was engineered."
Martin barely reacted. "I'm not looking for perfection, Quentin. I'm looking for a way to pull myself apart before this thing rips me to pieces."
"You want to use that?" Quentin scoffed. "Are you out of your damn mind?"
Martin's fists trembled. "The Matrix worked. I've seen the files. We just need to tweak it—reverse the process, use its quantum properties to induce nuclear fission instead of fusion."
Quentin laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Do you have any idea what this did to the original subjects? It didn't just blend them. It warped them. Changed them into something… unnatural. Some of them didn't survive. Others—" His jaw tightened. "They weren't the same when it was over."
Martin's jaw clenched. "I don't have a choice. But I need names. Who were the members of the project?"
"All dead, Martin. The one person who can help you is untouchable—you wouldn't get ten meters close to him."
"Luthor, I know!" Martin snarled. "But who else? Anyone, Quentin! There must be a missing link."
Quentin studied him for a long moment, then sighed.
"A girl came to me months ago. She wasn't a scientist, but she knew exactly what to ask. Too precise. Too damn specific." He hesitated, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "She wasn't looking for research. She wanted to know the physical effects. The risks." He didn't look at Martin. "I believed she was one of the many test subjects."
"Who?"
000•000
Karen first thought she was imagining things.
But no. Barry Allen was flat-out avoiding her.
Sure, she'd called his idol a fraud; maybe his ego needed time. But a full week—well past Valentine's—had gone by, and Barry was still acting weird.
They could be in the same room, practically touching hands when she dropped off reports, but he'd barely speak. No jokes, no rambling science talk. Just tense silence, though he never stopped looking at her, like he was daring her to confront him.
Then the pattern changed.
He'd do these weird about-faces every time they were about to cross paths, cheeks flaming. In meetings, he'd tilt his chair away so he wouldn't see her. One morning, they nearly collided in the hallway, and Barry, instead of just stepping aside like a normal person, threw himself against the wall at superspeed with a resounding slam that caught Singh's attention.
At first, Karen was amused. But soon, it started to get under her skin.
As usual, Ramirez had the scoop.
"Yo, Starr," he said, sidling up to her desk one afternoon with a conspiratorial grin. "How's it feel being the old model?"
Karen didn't even glance up from the email she was typing for David, but Ramirez persisted— he let out a weird little whistle, rocking on his heels like a gossiping grandmother until she finally looked at him.
"Baby Face's got a date," Ramirez announced gleefully. "Hot girl. Journalist. Loves sports. West's daughter hates her—so you know it's serious. Seven dates so far. Dude's about to hit third base."
Karen stared, her brain briefly stalling.
From across the bullpen, Kristen groaned. "Ramirez, that's seriously creepy. How are you even figuring out how far they've gone?"
He scoffed. "It's obvious. Just watch."
Right on cue, Barry emerged from David's office, folders in hand. Ramirez nodded meaningfully. "Check out the outfit."
Karen took one quick look. Converse—same. Flannel—same. Skinny jeans hugging his legs a little too well? Unfortunately, also check. But then she caught sight of that red handkerchief peeking from his pocket.
Her stomach dropped. She remembered him blushing while telling her he only wore that handkerchief on dates—real dates.
She looked away before Barry could sense her staring. He glanced around, brow furrowing at how Kristen was gawking at the ceiling, Rodrigo was whistling some Les Mis tune, and Ramirez was pretending to read a paper upside down.
For a split second, Barry almost turned toward Karen, but she saw his ankle tense, like he was physically stopping himself from bolting at superspeed. Then, with a stiff nod to no one in particular, he hurried off.
The group in the bullpen let out a collective sigh.
"He always dresses like a hipster," Kristen said, shrugging.
That was true. But the handkerchief was something else.
It all clicked. She'd been too busy digging into Wells to notice that Barry had been dating—seriously dating—for weeks.
A part of her wanted to needle him about it. Maybe tease him for finally breaking his drought. But a deeper part of her just felt…
Quiet.
Not angry, not sad—just a low hum of something that she really didn't want to examine too closely.
"You okay?"
Kristen had left, which meant Rodrigo was starting his shift. He was tall and broad-shouldered, the type who might've been better suited to a uniform than a suit, but life hadn't been fair. Karen knew he worked a second job just to cover hospital bills for a sibling who'd been among the particle accelerator's many victims. Despite everything, Rodrigo had a kind face, and it made her want to be honest.
"Not really," she admitted, staring at the blank email draft on her screen. "I guess I didn't think it would happen so soon."
They'd been broken up for over a year—technically, since Barry had been in a coma all that time. Did that mean she was supposed to start dating, too? The mere idea made her stomach twist.
Rodrigo nodded, like he understood. "It's normal to feel weird about it." Then, with a frown: "Ramirez really shouldn't have thrown it in your face like that."
Karen let out a dry chuckle. "It's Ramirez. That's practically his love language."
Rodrigo didn't look amused. If anything, he seemed more annoyed on her behalf than she was. Another thing to add to the list of what normal people considered unacceptable.
And then, because she couldn't talk to Mattie or David about this, she asked, "If I was the one who broke things off, is it fair to feel like someone stomped on my feet and shoved them in the freezer?"
Rodrigo blinked. "That's, uh… really specific. Wouldn't your feet need to be, like, cut off first to put 'em in there?" She shook her head. "All right, all right," he said with a laugh. "Are you sure you want my opinion?"
She folded her arms and waited. Rodrigo took the hint.
"Okay. It's normal to feel bad when your ex starts dating again—especially when you two were pretty into each other—"
Karen's expression didn't change. "We weren't that close."
Rodrigo gave her a look. "You sure about that? Because from where I was sitting, it sure seemed like you two were heads over heels for each other. Maybe you didn't go shouting it from the rooftops, but it was there."
Karen said nothing.
Rodrigo shrugged. "Either way, the way things ended wasn't really on either of you. Then the particle accelerator happened and… well, here you both are, trying to be cordial at work. But there's still a spark, right? That usually means one of two things."
She braced herself. "Which are?"
"One: you two need to actually talk it out and end things properly. Or two: you need to talk if you still want something more."
Karen blew out a slow breath. "So basically… talk."
Rodrigo gave her a pointed look. "Have you, though? And I mean actually talked? No distractions, no half-finished conversations?"
She sucked on her cheek, then slowly shook her head.
She bit her lip and shook her head. Slowly.
"We've had moments," she said. Moments when Barry first became the Flash, or after Tony Woodward sent her to the hospital. After that metahuman messed with Barry's mind. Christmas. She'd figured those talks were enough to salvage their friendship.
Apparently, she'd been wrong. Again.
She sighed, sinking lower in her chair. Why did playing human have to be so complicated?
000•000
When Mattie got roped into covering a shift at Iron Heights for one of her classmates, she complained. Loudly. But her professor was a hard-ass who conveniently lost his hearing every time she argued, so it was Karen who bore the brunt of it. She nodded at all the right moments, hummed in sympathy at the right pauses—because, well, Mattie was her ride, and Karen wasn't about to get stranded over principle.
The car—affectionately (or sarcastically) dubbed The Love Bug—had been a late surprise from the Johnsons. Mattie usually avoided accepting too much from her foster parents, but even she had to admit that she (and Karen, by proxy) desperately needed a reliable mode of transportation. It was a red Volkswagen Beetle, pristine and practically glowing, and though Mattie had initially scoffed at it, she couldn't hide how much she loved the ugly little thing.
Mattie had one rule: The Bug came first.
"You're becoming invulnerable," Mattie had pointed out once. "You can take a couple of hits. My car can't."
So now, Karen sat perched on the hood of said car, arms crossed, glaring at the prison entrance like it had personally wronged her. Another downside of Mattie being her driver? Karen's schedule had been flipped on its head. Instead of getting home by nine, she was stuck waiting until eleven.
And after the absolute disaster of an afternoon she'd had, she needed sleep. She needed peace. But, of course, the universe had other plans.
The gates groaned open, and Karen barely spared them a glance—until she saw who was walking out.
Barry.
At first, she thought she was imagining it. But no, it was him—dressed differently, more casual, more relaxed. A gray tee, a navy zip-up, jeans… the date night look. But he wasn't in a rush. No frantic phone-checking, no fidgeting, no flowers stuffed under his arm.
So, no date today.
Or maybe he'd already been and was coming back from overtime? Called in for an emergency?
Then why ditch the blazer but keep the damn handkerchief?
The little flash of red in his pocket drew her eye like a beacon. Stop obsessing, she scolded herself. Not your problem. Not your business.
Barry slowed when he spotted her, his steps hesitating. The sight of her—sitting on the Bug, skirt riding up slightly, arms crossed, hair shining under the streetlights—seemed to throw him. His gaze flicked between her and the car before settling on her face.
"Karen," he said, cautious.
She tilted her head. "Barry," she drawled, dragging out the syllables. "Fancy seeing you here. You taking a weekly prison tour now, or did someone finally have the heart to lock you up for all that caffeine theft?"
He rolled his eyes. "That's Ramirez's fault, not mine."
"Tell it to the jury."
Barry huffed but didn't argue. Instead, his eyes flicked back to the Bug. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for Mattie. She's covering for a classmate."
Barry's expression tightened. "I know."
Karen arched a brow. "Did you? And how exactly did you know that?"
His jaw flexed. His gaze slid away, pressing his lips into a thin line.
"Mattie didn't tell you, did she?" he muttered, almost like he was talking to himself.
Karen straightened slightly. "Tell me what?"
He exhaled through his nose. "My dad. He was stabbed a few weeks ago. She was the one who treated him."
Her stomach dropped.
"...Oh."
She didn't know what else to say.
Barry gave her a humorless smile. "Yeah. Figured you didn't."
She barely had time to process that before the explosion hit.
The ground shook. A shockwave of heat ripped through the air, rattling her bones, making her ears ring.
For one stretched-out, frozen moment, Karen felt weightless. Stuck in place.
Then her body caught up.
She jumped off the hood just as Barry moved, both of them rushing toward the gates.
Smoke billowed up in the distance, curling against the night sky.
Karen's chest constricted.
"Mattie."
Barry was already gone. No hesitation, no second-guessing—just a streak of red and gold tearing through the gates, leaving a rush of displaced air in his wake.
000•000
Flames licked at the walls, thick black smoke curling toward the ceiling as alarms blared through the prison corridors. Barry skidded to a stop in the middle of the chaos, heart hammering in his chest as he took stock of the situation.
The guards were already scrambling, some ushering inmates into secured areas while others fumbled with fire extinguishers. He didn't have time to assess the damage—his dad was somewhere in here. That thought alone sent a bolt of panic straight to his gut.
Dad. Where is he?
A fire-scorched guard stumbled in his path, coughing violently. Barry grabbed him before he hit the ground.
"Where's Henry Allen?!"
The man blinked through the haze, barely registering him. "C-wing… still locked down…"
Barry didn't wait. Barry forced himself to focus. He moved in a blur, dousing flames, clearing debris, guiding people out of danger. But even as he worked, his mind kept circling back to his father, picturing him trapped, injured, bleeding out.
Then, in the middle of the swirling heat and confusion, he saw them.
A figure moving fluidly through the fire, cutting through the smoke like a ghost.
Not just a figure.
Ronnie. Firestorm.
And in his arms—Mattie.
Barry's stomach twisted into a knot so tight it hurt.
She was unconscious, her body slack, arms draped limply over Firestorm's shoulder. Her dark braids trailed over his chest, her face unnervingly pale against the violent glow surrounding them.
For a split second, Barry's mind couldn't process it.
Why?
Why was Ronnie here? Why was he carrying Mattie? Had she been caught in the explosion? Had he caused the explosion?
"Ronnie!" Barry shouted, stepping forward. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Firestorm turned, his wild eyes meeting Barry's through the smoke.
Then, before Barry could take another step, the fire moved.
A surge of heat exploded outward, the flames twisting unnaturally before rushing toward him like a living thing. The force slammed into Barry like a sledgehammer, sending him stumbling back as his vision went white-hot.
The world blurred. Heat swallowed his senses.
By the time he could see again, they were gone.
Barry's breath came in short, sharp bursts. His ears rang, his skin burned, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess.
What the hell just happened?
Why would Ronnie take Mattie? Was she hurt? Did he think she needed help? Or—
Barry's hands clenched into fists.
No. If Ronnie had been saving people, he wouldn't have run.
This wasn't a rescue. This was a kidnapping.
Barry forced the thought down. Later. Figure it out later.
He turned sharply, the fear in his gut flaring hotter than the fire around him.
Find Dad. Now.
And beneath that, another thought clawed its way into his mind—one he really, really didn't want to deal with.
How the hell am I going to tell Karen?