Chapter Text
2193
Central City was a monument of gilt. Shining and sleek, its white walls stretched upwards, meeting in points high against the sky. Neat black streets laid between the buildings in a tidy grid. Pollution-free, waste-free, white surrounded by green. Free of nuisances, like pests or dissents or freedom. Central was false and shallow, brittle, glistening gold embalming a city that died decades in its past.
Beneath the facade, people lived, worked, and died without so much as a glimmer of hope. The tyrant of this world, the Crime Society, had long since settled into an undisputed, parasitic relationship. Resistance was impossible against a super-powered regime that had been founded well over a century ago. Even the thought of rebellion put one at risk, because the Crime Society had eyes and ears everywhere, even inside the heads of their subjects.
So Eobard Thawne never thought about rebellion. What he thought about, in the winding, broken, glass-grit corkscrew of his mind was speed, and a theory. Just another crackpot theory from another washed-up academic. No possible threat here, especially since drug-addled Johnny Quick has always been considered the least imposing member of the original Crime Society’s lineup.
And if sometimes Eobard dreamed of lightning, well, he never dreamed about it striking anyone but his own self. Those who listened chalked it up to a bizarre phobia, and moved on.
—
2013
Central City is a monument to guilt. These streets have seen better days, these buildings lean on each other for support in a way that the people never do. In Metropolis, crime is corporate, it is covert and attractive, and it is protected by an alien brute. In Gotham, crime is organized, it moves like a well-oiled machine made from the blood and tears of a broken family and the anger of the boy who survived. In Central, crime is dirty.
Johnny Quick is erratic, greedy, and lecherous. His inconsistency spreads, the economy destabilizes, and trust is broken between the people and the government. Johnny Quick is pure impulse; his plans are childish and incomplete. At least in Metropolis, a business can pay for protection, and function smoothly knowing that that protection will not be reneged unless the payment stops. Central lacks reassurance.
And because it lacks reassurance, it suffers a slow, strangling death. Barry Allen knows this, as surely as he knows that the Crime Society is not just an urban legend fabricated to terrorize people into cooperation. He watches the decay around him with a detached eye; he’s young, but he isn’t stupid. He knows that displaying too much interest, too much investment, will end him. Johnny Quick is stupid, but he isn’t blind.
There are nights, though, where Barry dreams of a storm that shakes this city apart and grants it a merciful death. From the ashes, something new and terribly wonderful rises.
—
2193
Eobard worked at the Quick Museum. Museum being a misnomer, as there was very little of true substance or information within. It was more of a themed attraction, a guided storybook tour of Johnny Quick’s delusions. Visitors entered, shuffled single-file along the designated path through the building, and then left no wiser than before.
Remember me, Johnny Quick’s dead, recorded voice commanded every time the doors opened. I was the greatest. I was the fastest. I owned this city. I owned Keystone too. I made Central what it is today. I founded the Crime Society. They owe me. They owe me. Remember me. rememberme–
Eobard had a choice to make, in his younger days. Sacrifice conscience, and follow his aptitude for the sciences. Let his research and his inventions serve the glory of the Crime Society. Or sacrifice ambition, and let his days trickle into this waste of a job. For him, it had been an absurdly easy choice. He was stubborn, a law unto himself; it was not within his character to ever betray his principles, and his ambition fixated on a different, and far loftier goal than any of his peers.
Johnny Quick had used a lot of different suits. His fickle tastes demanded an impressive array of costumes, with no unifying color scheme or theme beyond the lightning bolts that represented his power. His power, and that of every successor to his mantle, came from a special drug whose origin was unknown. But Thawne saw the lightning, every time he maintained the displays, and he had a better idea. It was dangerous, but everything he dreamed about was dangerous.
“Late night?” Professor Drake. Not a bad man, about as kind and lenient an employer as one could find these days. He tolerated Eobard’s quirks and obsessions, asking in return that Eobard take whatever tasks Drake deemed too dull for his intellect–which was nearly all of them. Some scandal or other had chased Drake away from his prestigious position at the Gotham Institute, and he’d landed here, where his only long-term employee was an eccentric prodigy who practically lived within the museum. Usually, they left each other alone.
Eobard closed the display case and stepped back. “I’m usually here at this time.” The costumes room was round and large, thick glass containers hovering in a spiraling formation toward the center, where a lifelike hologram of Johnny Quick played during open hours. Drake peered in from the far entrance, his voice faint and body mostly hidden from Eobard’s line of sight.
“Oh?” A trace of uncertainty in Drake’s voice. The man barely knew Eobard, even after all of these years. “Right. Yes, then, I wanted to show you something. Our newest acquisition–temporary, of course!–I thought you’d be interested in it.”
Eobard was, partially because he had not been aware they were gaining any new material this week, or even this month. Drake seemed to be waiting for a cue, so Eobard prompted, “What is it?”
Drake stepped farther into the room, and Eobard finally saw the box he was carrying. “Fresh from the Gotham Institute. I’ve still got a few friends left there, but no matter. Look at this, but carefully. It’s on loan.”
Curiosity spurred Eobard into moving, to meet his boss halfway. The label on the box curled at the edges, needing replaced at least a few decades ago. The print had faded, barely legible. What could be discerned nearly stopped Eobard’s heart.
QUICK UNI--RM
2-14
S.-T.A.R. -AB- VERS. ALP-A
To Drake, it was just another suit acquisition. One that had remained frustratingly elusive for their museum. The year, the manufacturer, meant nothing special to him outside the history. To Eobard, it was everything. It was a step forward. His hands itched to yank the box out of Drake’s hands.
This version of Johnny Quick’s uniform had been created a few months before the activation of the particle accelerator, and retired a few months after. And what happened in between?
Only the closest that Quick had ever come to being killed.
—
2013
Barry Allen earns a reputation for fairness. He’s as corrupt as every other member of the CCPD, because if you aren’t crooked, you don’t last. There are no heroes inside this system; heroes die. So, Barry takes bribes, just like everyone else. Unlike everyone else, he is selective, in the sense that his loyalties are not bought by the highest bidder. Barry cannot be bribed with cash. Barry barters. For example:
This case is open and shut. Johnny Quick was here, people are dead, and tribute has been claimed. The CCPD will not investigate any further. Barry still marks the scene, takes pictures, examines the evidence. There’s an elderly woman, weeping, standing just off to the side. Barry finishes doing his job–with Chyre shaking his head at him, like he’s a veteran watching a rookie overcompensate–and then the forensic assistant makes eye contact with the victim.
“My granddaughter,” she says. Her voice shakes, like she barely remembers how to talk. She smells like the burst guts of her husband, which still stain her clothes. “Please, my baby girl.”
“She’s missing?” Barry asks.
“He took her.” The woman sways, wringing her bloody hands. There are still families in this city, still people who actually care about each other. Some days, Barry forgets about that.
“Who?” Chyre interrupts loudly. “She must’ve run off after seeing her grandpappy off himself.”
Barry looks at the scene, at the dismembered body, the destroyed shop. Items scattered in a pattern, with an intensity, that indicated a small whirlwind had torn through the bakery. The owner now exists in seven large pieces, with smaller chunks liberally strewn. It’s a horrorshow. It’s Johnny Quick’s work, which makes it an open and shut case, which means it, on record, is a case of temporary madness and suicide on the owner’s behalf. Barry knows all of this, and yet…
He steps closer to the old woman. His coworkers all tease him for his youthful face, but it works wonders when dealing with other victims. If he tilts his head at just the right angle, looks up through his eyelashes, smiles in just the right way, he can convince almost anyone of his sincerity, his trustworthiness. “Do you want to see her again?”
The woman chokes on a sob. “She’s only seven. She’s already lost her parents, please.”
Barry nods. Glances around, again. “Those brownies smell divine.” It’s impossible to smell anything but death, but the desserts--those that haven’t been wrecked--look good.
She understands, just as anyone else in Central would. Ten minutes later, Barry walks out with a tray of brownies in his hand and a mission.
Captain Singh knows where Johnny Quick’s current hideout/mansion is located, but he isn’t eager to share that secret with anyone, especially not a young and relatively new lab assistant. “Why do you need to know, Allen?”
“Because he kidnapped a little girl, and I’m going to take her back.”
Singh leans back in his chair, looking unimpressed. “Heroes die, rookie. I don’t need another death on my hands.”
“I’m not a hero, sir. She’s a bargaining chip, I swear. I know what he’s been doing with these kids.” Barry tries, as best as he can, to look older, more knowledgeable, less like a boy in over his head.
He’s met with a frozen silence on Singh’s end. They’ve all seen the bodies, more and more over the last few months. Children, ranging in ages from four to twelve, all found horribly mutilated. Friction burns, broken bones, and in one case, nothing but a blackened, charred corpse.
Barry presses on. “He doesn’t mean to kill them. I’ve been taking blood samples–I know you said I shouldn’t, but I had to–listen, these deaths don’t fit his usual modus operandi.”
“Allen, you are out of line,” Singh begins, his voice already rising.
“They don’t, because if he wants someone dead, we’ll find the body at the scene of the crime. Not a day or two later, somewhere else in the city. That’s not how he works.”
“Do you want to lose your job? I took you in as a favor to Joe. But Joe’s not here anymore, is he? Do you know why that is?”
Barry pauses. After a moment, Singh lowers his eyes in shame. He thinks he said too much. Barry feels… nothing. He’s surprised by how little it hurts. “I know. But, listen, please. He’s not trying to kill them. He’s trying to make them like him. They all had a certain drug in their veins, like a, a speed juice or something. For whatever reason, he can’t get it to work, but I could. He needs me, and I need the girl.” And this city needs to stop seeing those small, desecrated bodies on the news, every few days like clockwork. That kind of hit on morale is lethal, hastening their decline.
Another long silence on Singh’s end, so long Barry almost gives up. The address, when it comes, surprises him, but he knows better than to look startled or grateful. He leaves without another word.
That was the easy part. The hard part comes when he’s actually standing before Johnny Quick, watching the depraved hedonist recline on his lush, grand throne. At his feet sits a little girl, and her age looks about right for the bakery woman’s missing granddaughter. Quick stares at him, twitchy and sluggish all at once. One of his eyes droops half-way shut, and his mouth works restlessly, teeth grinding, interspersed with rapid clicks of his tongue. “Whatdoyo...oooouuu mean?” He talks too fast, forces himself to slow down. His own power will devour him alive.
Barry feels uncomfortable, trying to meet that uneven gaze, but he won’t let that show on his face. “I can help you. The formula that gives you your power won’t work on them. They’re just… too young. They need something different.”
“I knnnow, I know whatthey need. They’re my children.” Quick laughs. His hand shoots up, lightning-fast, then sweeps in a broad, slow gesture. “Youareall, allll my children.”
Barry smiles, like he’s relieved by that promise. His head dips, like he needs a moment to recover. Quick chuckles tolerantly, enjoying his role as benevolent, paternal dictator. Barry takes a deep breath, and says, “Of course you always know what’s best. You are so much more powerful than any of us. You’re like a god.” Quick’s eyes roll up at the praise, gloating smile, but Barry isn’t finished. “Let me relieve some of your burden. Give me the authorization to take over your experiment–”
He doesn’t get to finish. Quick is on his feet and in Barry’s face in a flash, and his face contorts with rage. “You can’t take anything from me! Iknowwhatyouwant, I kno--ooowww, youwantmypower.”
Barry shakes his head, cowering on cue. “No! I don’t, I swear I don’t. But I have a chemistry degree, and I have time, and I want to help you with…” His eyes flicker over to the girl.
Quick settles down, and in the blink of an eye he’s squatting next to the girl, stroking her hair. “You don’t know what Iiiii want.”
“A child,” Barry says quietly. “Someone like… like you.” He doesn’t know why yet, but of that much, he is certain.
“Owlman has sidekicks. He’s had a whole string of them, lovelylittleTalons and Owlgirrrllssss all lining up for his approval. Heeee has something, I don’t have, and it’snotfair.” Quick’s fingers curl, incidentally tugging at the girl’s hair. She lets out a small whimper, but quickly, wisely, controls herself.
“It isn’t fair.” Barry kneels too, trying to catch the girl’s eyes while Quick isn’t looking. “Please, let my tribute to you be fixing this injustice.”
Quick grins. “I’m gonna name her Jesse. Jesseeeee, Jessemygirl. Jesse Quick.”
“Of course. Just, just let me find a volunteer to raise her, until the formula is ready.”
“It’s ready now.”
All those dead kids. Barry swallows and carefully shakes his head. “I’m sorry. They keep dying.”
“I keep picking theweak onessss. The formula is ready! I take it, and Iiii am strong. I need a child myownchild who is strong like meeee.” Quick’s movements are jerky, he stands and walks like a badly formed puppet, like every part of his body wants to move at a different speed.
Barry suddenly understands that, left to his own devices, Quick will continue to kill for the sake of his search for the perfect sidekick. “The formula you have works for you. Fate chose that formula for you.” He’s grabbing at wild leaps of logic. Quick has a god complex and a massive ego, if Barry can appeal to that… “I can make a drug that works for her.”
Quick stares at him, chest heaving in giant breaths, mouth still noisily working away at itself. Between one millisecond and the next, Barry finds himself holding the girl, while his shoulders are clutched in Quick’s bruising grip. “Doitttt, do. It. I command you. You can’t have my drugsssss, but youcan make one forher, my Jesse.”
Barry holds the girl close; she buries her face in his shoulder, rendered mute with terror. “I can. I will,” he promises.
With exquisite tenderness, Quick’s hands cup his jaw, the back of his head, and Quick lays a kiss on his forehead. “Seeyousoon, Barry,” he murmurs against the skin.
Barry doesn’t shudder, or flinch, or close his eyes. He stares woodenly at Quick’s vulnerable throat, and one of his hands rubs the girl’s back in a constant, soothing motion. “As you wish,” he says. Then he is released, and he doesn’t sigh in relief because the girl does that for him.
He returns to the bakery and delivers the girl to her weeping grandmother. The damage inside is still intense, but he scours it for appropriate payment, anyway. There’s a way that things are done in this city, and he has to play by the same rules as everybody else.
“Thank you,” the woman repeats, over and over, hugging her grandchild and crying. Neither she nor the girl can stop crying now.
“Don’t thank me. Unless…” Barry pulls something from the rubble. A small glass fox, with a round metal clip extending from its back to hold receipts. It’s one of the few objects to escape wholly intact. “I like this fox. And your scarf.”
He leaves with both in his hands, and a new purpose in his step. Barry stands apart from the rest of the CCPD, but only because he takes different bribes for different tasks. He won’t let himself be seen as a hero.
—
2193
Eobard researched the Central City Police Department of the early 21st century. His job included constant revision and expansion of the museum, to better reflect the glory of Johnny Quick. The old CCPD had basically turned into his enforcers, paid to protect him and his assets. Quick’s assets included all of Central City, and he had demanded the right to plunder it at will. At some point, however–very, very briefly–there had been a turning point. Someone had changed the rules, just slightly.
Barry Allen. His paycheck was much smaller than anyone else who worked for the CCPD, even though he took bribes just like everyone else. He was notable for establishing a barter system, and that, for a few years at least, became the only true justice system in the city. Allen had eventually been killed for failing to complete some unknown task for Quick; there were some who said that he’d been killed not just for failing, but for openly defying the city’s CSA dictator.
His mother had been killed in an armed robbery; his father died in a car crash; his foster father had been an honest cop who couldn’t adapt to the changes in the CCPD. Barry Allen was intelligent, resourceful, driven, and he had lived by his own moral code, one that remained intact despite the corruption surrounding him.
He was perfect. Eobard opened a new exhibit on the cops of the original Johnny Quick’s time, with one small picture, accompanied by one small plaque, denoting Barry Allen’s place as a cautionary tale for those who foolishly failed to meet Quick’s demands. After that, it became hard not to dream about Barry Allen. He managed, mostly by forcing his mind to another subject: Harrison Wells.
The great founder of S.T.A.R. Labs. The man whose particle accelerator gave the CSA all they needed to create their greatest weapon. From the moment Wells achieved his dream, the CSA became invincible, unstoppable.
Eobard’s obsessive interest in this man looked like idolization. He acted like a man who had failed in the sciences, who envied a historical figure who had so greatly succeeded. And he deepened his research into speed and time, which further cemented his reputation as a jealous and delusional academic clinging to his pipe-dream.
To the outside world, his greatest triumph arrived in the form of acquiring the Cosmic Treadmill. “Lost, for well over a century,” he said, beaming with pride.
The museum’s previous curator, Professor Drake, paced around the treadmill, a dubious look on his face. “You’re sure this is it?”
“I am. The Rogues’ raid claimed many of Quick’s most prized possessions. Most of those disappeared overnight, but they weren’t all destroyed, like so many have assumed. This endured, over all these years.” Eobard could not stop running his hands along the industrial belt, feeling out its shallow grooves.
Drake huffed in disbelief. “You found this in an antique store. It’s a fake, like every other supposed ‘Cosmic Treadmill’ that’s ever turned up. You’ll soon learn the difference between a real find and a bogus one. I thought I left my museum in good hands.”
“The museum belongs to Johnny Quick,” Eobard said. “And this is real. Look here, it has Quick’s insignia: the dual-lightning bolts. And the metal along one end has been warped from extreme temperatures, that kind of damage most likely came from cold and heat guns during the raid.” He gave Drake an indignant look. “You know I can distinguish between the real Quick symbol and even the most clever of forgeries.”
“Even if you miraculously discovered the real Cosmic Treadmill, 150 years after its disappearance, you still couldn’t display it in the museum.”
“Why not? The treadmill belonged to Quick, therefore it belongs in his museum.”
Drake’s impressive mustache quivered, his contemptuous gaze became hard to bear. Eobard’s stubbornness set in, and it must have shown in his body language, because Drake sighed. “Thawne, don’t be so naive. You know what the treadmill is. A speedster can use it to travel through time, and you want to lock it in a display case. The CSA will never allow that. They will come for it, and you will die for not telling them about it in the first place.” Drake attempted to soften his tone, completely misjudging the disappointment in Eobard’s eyes. “I know what this means to you, and what it would mean for the museum. But if you value your life, you will let it go.”
“If I don’t tell them… you will.”
“Of course I will. Because if I don’t and they find out on their own, I’ll die too for knowing before them. Do the right thing, man!”
In his own thoughtless way, Drake meant well. Eobard knew that.
Even so, his knife slid into Drake’s side. Eobard stepped close, supporting the dying man’s weight long enough to whisper in his ear. “I need more time. Just, a few minutes longer, then everything will change.” He needed Drake to know that his death wasn’t in vain. As soon as the body hit the floor, the countdown began. Eobard had to rush through his half-formed plans very quickly, or he would never see his dreams come to fruition.
First, he fetched one of Quick’s old uniforms, S.T.A.R. Labs’ alpha suit. He kept the original, and created a nearly perfect replica to send back to Gotham. That had been his most nerve-wracking bit of subterfuge so far. Months ago, he’d doused it with a combination of chemicals meant to awaken the dormant Speed Force particles clinging to it. If the CSA had ever realized those still existed, he never would have gotten this far.
Then he threw together another batch of the same, untested formula. He was taking far too much on faith here, but destiny had granted him the treadmill. It had been his own mistake to bring Drake in too soon, but perhaps he could still turn this around. Perhaps it was time for him to act. Eobard drank his concoction and kept going, ignoring the strange heat that spread through his body, the doubling of his vision. He shook violently while he put the suit on, staggered onto the treadmill in a daze.
It was almost impossible to move, let alone run. Pain flared throughout his body, in his gut, his head, his feet. His heart hammered so hard and fast he thought it might burst. If he was wrong, and destiny wasn’t on his side, he may have just poisoned himself. The double insurance of applying the formula to his suit and then drinking it would not be enough to grant him speed, not if he’d gotten it wrong. One foot in front of the other. It felt like he was walking on spikes.
The belt rolled beneath him, gaining momentum slowly. Beneath it, primitive explosives clicked together, friction igniting their fuses and sizzling. The sound inspired him to move faster. The drug would kill him, or the bombs would, or his plan would work, but no matter what, he would not be taken alive by the CSA. He had no doubt that they were already on their way.
Hissing and creaking under his feet, burning beneath his skin, throbbing in his head; none of it mattered when Eobard ran.
And ran.
And ran.
It seemed that he raced forever, that the seconds had turned into centuries. He had chosen an impossible task. The world warped around him, blue around the edges, as he hallucinated strange memories of people he’d never met and places he’d never been. After his initial, bleary confusion, he realized what was happening, and snapped into focus. Barry Allen. 2013. Harrison Wells. Barry Allen. 2013. Harrison Wells.
Fire burst from underneath him, the treadmill heaved with violent force, and Eobard was thrown forward. He fell through flashing lights and a strange sensation that the universe itself was grabbing at him, trying to hold him back.
Then he lands, and everything from before stops. For a very long time, he simply lays flat on his face. When he finally collects himself, the pain still exists, but the nauseating disorientation is gone. He pulls himself to his feet, then makes a small noise of dismay. His suit has been shredded. The belt is, thankfully, still intact, but little else remains. His first priority must be finding a new change of clothes, an amenity he had not had time to pack before leaving his old world behind.
He finds a newspaper and checks the date: April 24, 2013. Eobard found the right year, at least. He takes that news as consolation, and staggers out of the alley he landed in. After successfully escaping and destroying the only means of following him, he has time to prepare for his next move.
Harrison Wells dies three weeks later.
That December, lightning strikes twice.