EDITED: February 2nd, 2025.
SECOND EDIT: February 19th, 2025.
Woohoo! Me updating this fast since the last? It has to be a record. Huge thanks to Freyja Morkkriger, Janet Emily and marshagorshe524 for your kind words—you really blew me away with your support.
And now, here we are. When I started this story, I didn't know how I would tackle the reveal of Karen's story. Flashbacks, like it is done in the Arrowverse? Just outright telling? I didn't quite get the balance of those, but here we are. I always knew that 'The Nuclear Man' and 'Fallout' would be the episodes where Karen's past (at least in regards to her powers) would come to play, so this is the buildup—the moments in which the events happening in the series start to connect with hers. I hope I did it justice.
18 - Things You Can't Outrun
It took Karen two weeks of sheer stubbornness to admit that Mrs. Stokes wasn't just a storm—she was a natural disaster with a handbag. Tiny and old, sure, but with the energy of a wind-up toy on overdrive and the voice of a caffeinated drill sergeant. Karen could swear her eardrums were still vibrating from their last encounter.
Wedding planning, it turned out, wasn't about love or joy or even cake. It was about survival.
"Why," Karen hissed at David, "did you unleash that woman on me? Do you want me dead? Just say the word, David. I'll save us all the trouble."
Still, she managed to slap on a toothpaste-commercial smile when an officer passed by, blatantly ogling her red blazer. David caught it, too. Without a word, he stood and yanked the blinds shut with the precision of a man who dealt with idiots daily.
"Because," he said, his tone infuriatingly calm, "if we don't keep Leslie busy, she'll hijack the entire wedding." He and Rob had been swamped with the paperwork. Same-sex marriage was legal in Central City, sure, but the process still felt like jumping through twice as many hoops as a straight couple would face. It had eaten up a lot of their time, and David had confided that Rob was pretty crushed when their first wedding venue turned them away. That's when Mrs. Stokes swooped in with her 'help.'
Still, it did not, in any way, excuse the fact that Karen had been saddled with Rob's misogynist mother.
"Then don't let her. She's not the one tying the knot—you are." The files in her arms groaned under her grip. "Don't tell me Rob's letting her plan this whole thing for you."
David—no longer her wise, pseudo-father figure but now her official nemesis—sighed like a man twice his age.
"No. But she has connections, and we need them. Thanks to her, we've locked down the new venue, the catering, the photographer—and let's not forget the florist. That was your task, by the way."
Karen barked out a short laugh, her hand flying to her chest. "Oh, right. My task. When you conscripted me into this disaster, I thought I'd be doing normal wedding things. You know, picking suits, double-checking contracts, maybe filling out the invites while drinking wine. Not running tactical drills with a tiny dictator."
"Don't be dramatic," David said flatly.
"I'm not being dramatic!" Karen stomped a heel for emphasis. It was satisfying, even if David's unimpressed glance completely undercut the effect.
"Really?"
"David, please." She didn't care she sounded whiny like a child. Karen was desperate. "Don't make me deal with her. Every time we're in the same room, she either insults my clothes, my hair, or the way I breathe—or she starts giving me orders like I'm her intern. I can't do it."
"She's just a little... old-fashioned."
"Try 'living fossil,'" Karen snapped.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I'll talk to her. Get her to tone it down."
Karen's shoulders dropped about an inch. "Thank you. You're still a sadist for dragging me into this, but thank you." With that out of the way, she gestured toward the door, where the buzz of chatter had been steadily growing. "Now, what's with the crowd out there? Did someone throw a crime rave in reception?"
David didn't bother checking. The blinds were still drawn, but he didn't need to look. Karen had ducked into his office the second the reception started crawling with reporters.
"Dr. Wells asked to hold a press conference here. Something about the Particle Accelerator explosion."
Karen's eyebrows shot up. "Here? What, STAR Labs doesn't have a podium?"
David shrugged. "Maybe he figured it'd look better to do it here after all the heat he's been taking. Especially with Rathaway breathing down his neck."
The day before, Dr. Wells had been attacked at his home. Detectives West and Thawne hadn't been able to identify the culprit, but earlier today, Wells revealed that Hartley Rathaway, heir to Rathaway Industries, was responsible for shattering his glass ceiling. Rathaway had threatened him with blackmail—but whatever the leverage was, Wells refused to disclose it until representatives from every available news station were present. "What juicy, skeleton-filled closet does Wells have to feel cornered by a walking trust fund?"
David shot her a warning look—the kind of don't push it glare she knew all too well.
"Not that I care," she said, keeping her tone airy. "Or want to get involved."
David squinted at her.
"Back to your post, Ms. Starr," he said, clipped and final.
She huffed but took the folder he handed her. Orders were orders. And while playing hall monitor wasn't her idea of fun, she had a job to do. As she returned to her desk, she spotted Barry leaning stiffly against the doorway. His arms were crossed like they were welded in place, and his eyes tracked the room like a hawk's.
When their gazes met, Karen gestured toward Wells, who was maneuvering his wheelchair into position between the two reception desks, with Detective West following closely, a worried frown etched on his face. Then she turned her hand palm up in a sharp What's going on?
Barry shook his head, his face drawn.
Karen rolled her eyes and cleared her throat.
The reporters quieted almost immediately, though several of the men in the room didn't waste the chance to openly check her out. She felt their stares like heat lamps, and one guy even nudged his buddy with a grin. Disgusting.
The reporters fell silent—though not before a few of the men gave her a once-over, one even nudging his buddy with a smirk. Karen bit back a sigh.
"Good morning," she said with a tight, polite smile. "Before Dr. Wells begins, I'll need you all to sign the visitor's log."
A woman up front frowned. "We already signed in downstairs."
Karen's smile didn't waver. "That's for security. This is for legal purposes. Standard procedure."
The group muttered and grumbled but eventually complied, passing the clipboard down the line. By the time the last name was signed—Iris West—Karen stepped back to let them set up their equipment. Cameras clicked on, microphones were positioned, and the hum of quiet conversations filled the air.
Barry hadn't moved. His posture had loosened slightly, but the resignation in his stance was impossible to miss. Karen slid up beside him, leaning against the wall with practiced ease.
"So," she murmured, keeping it casual, "any clue what this is about?"
Barry shook his head, but his eyes had that faraway look, the kind that meant whatever was going through his mind wasn't good.
Karen let out a slow breath. "O-kay." She flipped open the visitor's log and started fanning herself, slow and deliberate, just enough for Barry to notice the writing.
His brow furrowed. "Are those phone numbers?"
Karen bit back a smirk and turned the clipboard toward him, feigning surprise. "Huh. Would you look at that? Half of these guys left me their numbers. Mason Bridge from CCPN even wrote 'YOM.'"
Barry's frown deepened. "What does that mean?"
"It means 'You Owe Me.'" She shot a glance toward Bridge, who was studiously ignoring West. "The underlines? That's his way of telling me when he'll call."
Barry let out a sharp breath through his nose—somewhere between irritation and disbelief. "And do you? Owe him?"
Karen shrugged. "Sort of. But not exactly my biggest problem right now."
As if on cue, the audio tech adjusting the microphones called out, "Dr. Wells, can you test the mic?"
"Hello, testing," Wells said smoothly.
The tech gave him a thumbs-up. "We're live in five, four, three, two…"
The cameras turned on, and Wells leaned into the moment like the seasoned showman he was.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," he began. "And for those of you who actually read the ten-volume report issued by the Norris Commission, I commend your perseverance."
A few chuckles rippled through the room, but the atmosphere remained taut.
"You already know the official findings regarding the explosion of the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator," Wells continued, his smile fading. "Or at least, you think you do."
The room stilled. Even the faint hum of the cameras seemed to disappear.
"The Commission concluded that the catastrophe was the result of a chain of unforeseeable events—factors that no one, including myself, could have anticipated. But the truth is… I was warned."
The murmurs started immediately, low and uneasy. Karen felt Barry's tension spike beside her. His leg started to vibrate, the motion subtle but noticeable. She placed a hand on his arm, steadying him.
"I was warned," Wells repeated, his tone deliberate, "by a former colleague. A friend. And I chose to ignore that warning. In doing so, I failed all of you."
Karen's gaze flicked to Wells, and the chill in his eyes hit her like a bucket of ice water. He scanned the room slowly, methodically, until his gaze landed squarely on Barry.
Her instincts roared to life. Something about the way Wells was looking at him made her want to step in front of Barry, to block him from sight.
"As a… new friend recently pointed out," Wells said, "I failed this city. I failed those who trusted me the most. By coming forward today, I hope to take the first step toward regaining that trust."
He turned his focus back to the cameras, his expression somber. "And your trust as well. Are there any questions?"
A reporter in a red blouse raised her hand, and Wells gestured for her to speak. But before she could even open her mouth, Mason Bridge stepped in with his trademark impatience.
"Doctor, do you have any intention of rebuilding the particle accelerator?"
Wells sighed, his gaze shifting briefly before it settled on something—or someone—behind Bridge. He paused, then spoke again.
"Ms. West. Do you have a question for me?"
Barry leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of Iris, but her voice rang out loud and clear across the room.
"I don't believe you answered my colleague's question, Dr. Wells. So I'll ask again: Do you have any intention of rebuilding the particle accelerator, now or in the future?"
Karen raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Nice." Iris's delivery was ice cold, especially considering how Wells had helped Barry after the explosion. But there was no hesitation in Iris's question. No sugar-coating. Just the facts.
Wells blinked, caught off guard by the pointed tone, and his response was immediate. "Of course not."
Iris nodded, offering a brief, professional smile. "Thank you for your answer, Doctor."
Wells returned a tight smile of his own, but before he could add anything, more reporters clamored for his attention. He raised a hand, signaling the end of the interview. "No further questions." With that, he wheeled himself toward David's office, dismissing the rest of the press with a curt wave.
As the reporters filed out, some straggled behind, sorting through their notes. Karen's ear buzzed—then the whirring sound of machinery filled the silence. Voices followed, getting louder, and Karen leaned in slightly, picking out bits of conversation.
"What happens now?" Detective West asked, his tone serious. "It sounded an awful lot like a challenge, Dr. Wells."
"It is. Hartley always had to have the last word. I'm hoping this won't be any different."
David's voice broke through, dry as usual. "Even if we catch him, Dr. Wells, we can only charge him for property damage on your home. The Rathaways aren't pressing charges. In fact, they've said they could sue you—for emotional and physical damages against their son."
Wells let out a humorless chuckle. "So, they've finally decided to care about Hartley. A little late, though. But I'm not worried about myself, Captain. Hartley's not in his right mind. He could hurt someone… or worse."
"We can't just wait for him to make a move, Doctor."
Karen's ear rang again, and she winced, rubbing the spot behind it. Then everything went silent. For a few seconds, she couldn't hear anything—except her own name being called.
"What?" she snapped, irritated as the pressure in her ear eased.
Barry's gaze flicked to her hand, understanding dawning in his eyes. "What were you listening to?"
Karen let out a huff, turning back toward her desk. "Wells' little 'suicide mission.'" She tossed the visitor's log onto her desk and shot Barry a look. "I'm guessing you knew all about it already."
Barry exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It takes a lot of courage to admit when you're wrong," he said quietly. "Let alone when that mistake cost lives."
Karen snorted. "I'd be a little more convinced if he actually meant it."
Barry's head snapped toward her, his expression shifting from irritation to something darker. Disgust.
"That's pretty damn insensitive," he bit out.
Karen blinked. That struck a nerve.
"Barry, that apology wasn't for the city, and it sure as hell wasn't for Hartley Rathaway." She met his gaze head-on. "That was for you. He didn't believe half the words coming out of his mouth until he saw you in the crowd!"
"You know what? I'm not up for this."
And with one last look of disappointment, he left.
000•000
Almost three years ago, Detective Ralph Dibny had called in a favor from Mason Bridge. At the time, Bridge had just won his second Pulitzer. He wasn't one to waste time on what he called "mood pieces," but something Ralph said had gotten his attention. Karen never got the details, but soon enough, Mason showed up at Reagan Gimlin's school, where he'd been principal, and churned out a fluff piece about him. Meanwhile, he and Ralph kept digging. When Ralph was fired, it was Karen Mason turned to.
He sent her flowers and a fruit basket after Reagan attacked her, along with a note saying she owed him an exclusive. Karen had been livid—so much so that she tore apart the basket but gave the flowers and fruit to the other patients on her floor. Since then, Mason had shown up a few times, but she never took him seriously—until he called that afternoon.
"Did you know Simon Stagg was involved in Project Super Man?" Mason asked, full of that smugness she'd grown to loathe.
No finesse, but that's why she kind of respected him. Still, Karen felt a familiar tightness in her gut as a shiver worked down her spine. The image of tanks filled with water—people locked in them—flashed in her mind, but she shoved it away.
When she stayed quiet, Mason pressed on, practically glowing. "I knew that would get your attention. Meet me at CCPN."
Karen barely contained a snort. "Thought you were all about staying low-key," she shot back, scanning the room. Opposite her, Kristen quickly looked down, avoiding her gaze.
Mason's voice came back, dripping with that same cocky tone. "Yeah, you're right. So, how about you take me to that fancy apartment of yours? The real one—not the decoy your friend keeps for you."
Her eyes narrowed. "You've been following me?"
"Naturally." Mason didn't even try to hide it. "Eight o'clock. I'll bring pizza. My treat."
He hung up before Karen could say anything else.
000•000
Karen supposedly lived in the worst part of town.
Gotham had taught her that was a lie. Unless you were in Bruce Wayne's inner circle, everywhere was trash. The loft she and David had shared back in Gotham? A glorified dumpster. And that was in a decent part of the city.
Her current place wasn't luxurious, but it had the advantage of being forgettable—just a row of brownstones no one looked twice at. No street numbers, no obvious markers. The kind of place where people kept their heads down and minded their own business. She liked that.
Bobby's garage across the street was a bonus. If anything sketchy went down, Bobby would clock it—not out of concern, but because he loved making life inconvenient for people.
Apparently, the lack of identifiers had thrown Mason Bridge off, too. She spotted him five doors down from her actual building, bundled up like an overstuffed scarecrow, shivering violently.
When she loomed over him, he glared up.
"How the hell are you not freezing?" he snapped. He was practically drowning in layers—thick coat, scarf, gloves—while a pizza box sat steaming on his lap, either keeping him warm or slowly burning his thighs. Not her problem.
Karen smirked. "Take a guess."
Bridge scrambled to his feet, the pizza box rattling as he hustled after her. She could hear him muttering, counting the buildings they passed, trying to figure out which one was hers. Rookie mistake.
Instead of the front door, she veered toward the service entrance and pulled out a key. Mason eyed it, unimpressed.
"A key? Seriously? What is this, the Stone Age? Any idiot with a bobby pin could crack that."
Karen snorted. "They'd have to get through my security first."
She pushed the door open and motioned for him to step inside. A second later, she heard him trip.
Waiting in the hallway, gripping a wooden bat, was Star.
The old woman stood slightly hunched, dark glasses covering her sharp eyes. A cloud of unruly white curls framed her face, and her dark skin was surprisingly smooth for her age. Karen was relieved she hadn't swung—Star had a habit of hitting first and asking questions later.
"Hello, Star," Karen greeted.
Bridge blinked. "Your housekeeper has the same name as you?"
Karen shook her head as Star snapped, "I ain't her housekeeper. And who the hell is this pasty-ass fool?"
Mason cleared his throat. "Mason Bridge. I—"
"Didn't ask."
Karen smothered a grin. "Business, Star. Anything I need to know?"
Star shrugged. "Unless you count the naked guy runnin' down the street screamin' he's Benjamin Franklin's long-lost brother? Nah."
Mason, to his credit, barely blinked. "Which one?"
Karen shot him a warning look before pulling a wad of cash from her bag. "Thanks, Star."
The old woman snatched the money with a grunt, then made a point of bumping into Mason as she left. Karen bit back a smirk before turning to him.
"You rolling in cash now, Starr?"
Mason glanced around the hallway—plain walls, dim lighting, nothing remarkable except for the framed artwork. Most were comic-style sketches, but one caught his eye.
A busty blonde in a white suit and red cape.
His eyes narrowed. The exaggerated, cartoonish style masked the details, but the hairstyle and black headband were unmistakable. His gaze flicked to Karen, then back to the sketch.
Karen ignored him and headed upstairs. She didn't wait—she knew he'd try to snoop. Not that it mattered. Anything important was locked away.
When they reached the kitchen—a cozy space dominated by a massive island—Mason leaned against the counter.
"You still haven't answered me."
Karen pulled out a chair, arms crossed. "Simon Stagg."
Mason exhaled through his nose and set the pizza box between them. Then, to her surprise, he unbuttoned his coat and pulled a manila folder from a concealed pocket in the lining.
He tossed it onto the table. Karen hesitated, then flipped it open.
"Danton Black," Mason said, tapping a photo. "Used to work for Stagg Industries."
"I know." She skimmed the documents. "Charged for attacking Stagg, 'died while fleeing from the police.'" She huffed. "Except it wasn't the cops chasing him—it was the Flash. And if West didn't completely rewrite the script, Black took his own life."
"Right. But no one stopped to ask why."
Karen flipped to the next page, scanning the text. "Stagg stole his research. Somatic Cell Nuclear Transfer for Organogenesis."
Mason held up his hands. "I dunno what that means, but I do know Black was trying to save his wife. When Stagg pulled the plug on his research, she died."
"It's cloning. Therapeutic cloning. For regenerating organs."
She was about to shut the folder when something caught her eye. A photo of Harrison Wells.
She frowned. "Why do you have a picture of Wells?"
Mason didn't answer. He just plucked the page from the folder and set it aside. "We'll get to that."
Karen narrowed her eyes but kept flipping.
Then she froze.
The next photo was of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl. Smiling.
Karen hadn't seen that smile in fifteen years.
Mason watched her carefully. "Sapphire Stagg. Simon's daughter. Terminal heart disease. No cure. So Stagg signed her up for an experimental treatment. The kind CADMUS was working on."
Karen didn't move.
Mason flipped the page.
A young Reagan Gimlin smirked up at her.
Flip.
A sketch of her and Clark. One she recognized instantly—Clark had drawn it when the treatments had gotten unbearable.
Her stomach twisted.
Mason continued. "Everyone involved: Simon Stagg. Lex Luthor. General Wade Eiling. Dr. Somya Spears. Dr. Thaddeus Sivana. Jason Trask." He paused. "Only Luthor and Eiling are still alive."
Karen stared at the names, the weight of them pressing down on her.
Mason leaned in, smirking. "This is the story of the century."
Karen's voice was flat. "Are you trying to blackmail me?"
Mason scoffed. "I'm not stupid."
Karen arched a brow.
He cleared his throat. "Look, I'm not publishing anything. Yet."
"What do you want?"
Mason hesitated, then slid Wells' photo back in front of her.
"This was taken the night Stagg disappeared. Wells was the last person to see him alive." He let that sink in before dropping the next bombshell. "Yesterday morning, Stagg's body was pulled out of the Gardener River."
Karen's jaw tightened. "You think Wells killed him."
Mason shrugged. "Guy's shady as hell. He admitted to running the particle accelerator without full data. If he was willing to risk that, what's stopping him from getting rid of Stagg?"
"And you want me to dig into him."
"You've got an in."
Karen didn't react, but she knew exactly where this was going.
"Barry Allen," Mason said, triumphant. "My protégé's foster brother. Your ex." His grin widened. "Between the two of you, I know who's actually going to get me results."
000•000
"Your noose is tightening."
Mattie stood behind Karen's chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on the monitors. The cold blue glow sharpened her features, casting deep shadows under her cheekbones. She didn't move, didn't blink—so still she looked carved from stone. Karen knew that look. It was the one Mattie wore when things were bad.
And this was bad.
Karen regretted dragging her into it, but Mattie would've found out anyway. If not from her, then from David, or worse—Mason Bridge himself. Mattie was the one person Karen couldn't keep secrets from, no matter how hard she tried.
She exhaled sharply. "You don't say."
Mattie's glare didn't waver. "I told you. The second Eiling started sniffing around, we should've packed up and left. Metropolis, Midvale—hell, even Gotham would've been better."
Karen leaned back, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Wouldn't have changed a damn thing."
"Maybe. But at least we'd have had home-field advantage."
Mattie started pacing, her steps silent against the concrete floor. "We've been flying blind here for months. Every time we think we've got a grip on things, some new freak crawls out of the woodwork. And now this Bridge guy's got his hands on your CADMUS files?!"
Karen raised an eyebrow. "I don't know… the same way you did?"
Mattie didn't rise to the bait. Karen had expected as much. Mattie's patience for bullshit had evaporated the moment she walked into Karen's war room—a space that didn't match the rest of her life. Upstairs was all sleek minimalism, carefully curated to be forgettable. Down here? Controlled chaos.
The cellar was divided into two worlds. One half was a graveyard of hoarded intel—old case files, half-built tech, evidence she probably should've turned in years ago. The other half? A high-tech command center. A dozen monitors stretched across the far wall, each feeding data from sources Karen had patched together over the years: CCPD's encrypted channels, STAR Labs' external logs, satellite feeds from places she had no business accessing. A mechanical keyboard and a touchpad sprawled across her desk, a quiet hum filling the room from the servers stacked against the back wall.
This was her real life. The one no one was supposed to see.
Karen tilted her head at Mattie. "He doesn't have anything on me, per se. Just a drawing Clark made. I don't look much like I did then."
Mattie let out a bitter laugh. "And how the hell did he even get that? That whole building was vaporized. Nothing should've survived that blast."
Karen's expression darkened. "Yeah. I was there, remember?"
Mattie flinched but pushed forward. "I just—I don't get it. How the hell did we let it get this far?"
Karen didn't answer.
They both knew the truth.
This was her mistake.
David had worked miracles erasing her past, burying her name so deep it shouldn't have resurfaced. She was the one who planned every move, every contingency. She never should have let her guard down.
Yet here they were.
Mattie exhaled sharply. "You could go back to Gotham."
Karen's body went rigid. "No."
And just like that, Mattie snapped.
She grabbed Karen's chair and spun it around, fingers digging into her shoulders.
"For God's sake, it's been five years! He didn't die because of you—it was that psycho clown! Do you think he'd want you to just sit here, waiting for them to close in? What about Clark?"
Karen shoved her off. "Don't."
"You know I have to say it."
Mattie's voice cracked.
"Your head hasn't been in the game since Jason Todd."
The name landed like a punch to the gut.
Jason.
Losing Clark had been different. Clark was a childhood memory, distant and faded around the edges. But Jason? Jason was real. He had seen her—all of her—and never looked away.
He had been hers.
Maybe something more.
She would never know.
Rao, she was so fucking tired.
Karen's hands curled into fists. "Why do I keep running?"
Mattie frowned. "What?"
"Clark gave his life so I could live. But the way I've been living—does this even count? Always hiding, always running, always biting my tongue before I say something I shouldn't. Is that even a life?"
"Karen—"
"And then Jay—" She stopped, throat tightening. Just saying his name hurt. "And yeah, maybe I jumped the gun with Barry, but I just… I wanted to feel something. To be human. Just once."
Mattie's voice was steady. "Karen, you are human. You always have been."
Karen laughed, but it was hollow. "Am I?" She tapped her chest. "You know what they did to me. The things I did. Can you really call that human? I can keep running, Mattie. I can keep pretending to be normal. But what the hell have I actually done? What have I done that makes this—" she gestured wildly around them "—worth it?"
Mattie's lips pressed together. "You want a list?"
Karen didn't respond.
"You saved me."
Her stomach twisted.
"You saved PJ and me from that hellhole. You gave David the courage to love freely, without fear. That's worth something. That's worth everything."
Karen stared at the monitors, eyes unfocused.
Mattie knelt in front of her, forcing her to look at her.
"I didn't risk it all just so you could sit here, feeling sorry for yourself."
Karen still didn't move.
Mattie cupped her face.
"Clark did what he did to protect you and his family. And from what I've gathered, when it came down to it, he didn't regret a damn thing, even when he knew what it would cost."
She softened. "And I don't regret you either."
Karen's throat tightened.
"So pick yourself up. And start thinking."