Crash

     The canopy of the flight simulator hissed and snapped open. Hal jumped out, furious as he walked across the darkened hangar toward the door to the briefing room. The other eleven simulator pods opened and the other students sat up, watching Hal.

     Cowgirl sighed with sympathy. Hal had taken out the entire remaining enemy force in his maneuver, but he'd also been the only one on the team to "die."

     Carol frowned disapprovingly. Idiot, she thought.

     Hal stormed into the briefing room.

     "Why couldn't I move?!"

     Carl seemed surprised. "The simulator's programmed with all the physical limitations of the real world. If you couldn't pull off a maneuver like that in there, you couldn't do it in real life."

     "Yes I could! I know what it feels like when you push a plane to its limits, and that wasn't it. It just stopped moving."

     "Perhaps I could explain," a smarmy voice said from behind Carl.

     Hal leaned around Carl to see a tall, skinny man in his early twenties.

     "Who the hell are you?" said Hal.

     "Hector Hammond," the young man said, extending his hand.

     "Hector is the one who designed the simulation," Carl said.

     "The reason you couldn't bank that hard," Hector explained, "is that you were pushing the F-35 beyond its safe limits. Any farther and you'd be risking a loss of control at best, and damage to the craft at worst."

     Hal scowled. "So that's it? You programmed in the safety precautions? You have no idea what flying's even like, do you?!"

     Hector cleared his throat and straightened his tie, a smug grin on his face. "Well, I might not have your, uh, hands-on experience, but I know a thing or two about how the things you think you're flying actually work."

     Carl could see Hal's temper flaring and intervened. "Let's calm down for a minute. Hal, are you saying that the forced safety parameters were actually putting you in greater danger?"

     "YES," Hal said exasperatedly.

     Carl thought about it for a minute.

     "Alright. Hector, I want you to redo the simulation. Take the training wheels off."

     Hector looked like someone had insulted his mother. "What?! Mr. Ferris, you can't seriously—"

     "Do it, Hector."

     Hector suppressed his anger. "Sir, if Mister..." Hector checked the name on Hal's flight suit. "...Jordan hadn't tried a completely unsafe maneuver, this wouldn't have mattered!"

     "Tell ya what," Hal said. "You actually become a pilot, you learn to fly, you get into combat, THEN you tell me what does or doesn't matter."

     Hector half-sneered and half-chuckled. "You pilots are what won't matter in about five years."

     Hal rolled his eyes. Hector was one of those "automated drones will dominate warfare" people. The ones who assumed that technology was the real important factor, and pilots were too subject to human error.

     "That's enough," Carl said. "Hector, get to work on that sim. Hal, take a break. Now."

     Not far from Ferris Air, a stone pillar stood atop a small grassy hill. That pillar contained a radio antenna that picked up air traffic control signals from both Ferris Air and the nearby Broome Airfield, pumping out the audio through speakers. This was a mildly popular park, especially for plane enthusiasts.

     Hal sat atop the hill alone, staring out at Ferris Air.

     "Somehow I knew you and Hector wouldn't get along," Carol's voice said from behind him.

     "What are you doing here, Carol?"

     Carol sat down next to him. "You're under my command. It's my job to make sure you're good enough to fly."

     Hal glared at her. "Carol, drop it. I don't need your bitchy attitude any more than I need Hector being a smug jackass about how pilots are obsolete."

     Carol was surprised. "He said that?"

     "'You pilots won't matter in five years;' yeah."

     Carol rolled her eyes. "He told me the exact opposite yesterday when he asked me out to dinner."

     Hal raised an eyebrow. "What'd you say?"

     Carol smirked. "I told him to screw off."

     Hal chuckled. "Wish I coulda seen that."

     Carol sighed. "Hal, I'm sorry for treating you the way I have. I've just... I've just been so... buried under all this responsibility my dad's been giving me."

     "Why's he doing that, anyway? I mean, you're the squadron leader and apparently your dad's assistant? On top of being a cadet and a high school student?"

     "...He wants me to take over."

     "Take over what?"

     "Ferris Air."

     Hal wished he was drinking something so he could dramatically spit it out. "FERRIS AIR?!"

     "...Yeah. When he retires, he wants me to be his replacement."

     "I thought you wanted to be a pilot."

     "I do. I did. Maybe I still do. That's why I'm in the training program. But I also know that my dad needs my help."

     "Why does he need help?"

     Carol was silent for several seconds.

     "...Carol?"

     "...He's sick, Hal."

     Hal wasn't sure what to say.

     "Carol, I'm sorry. What is it?"

     "Cancer, we think. We don't really know yet; they're still doing tests."

     "Remember when we were kids?" Carol asked. "And our dads would bring us out here?"

     "Yeah."

     "I miss those days."

     Hal felt a sting of loss. "Me too."

     "You know, if your dad were... still around... my dad would have probably given the company to him instead."

     Hal turned to Carol, a little shocked. "...It would've taken a lot to get my dad out of a pilot's seat and behind a desk. But for your dad... he'dve done it."

     Carol gently grabbed Hal's arm. "We miss him here. We always have. He was a really good man."

     "I know."

Seven Years Ago

     The crowd cheered as the Javelin-1 soared three hundred feet above. Ten-year-old Hal Jordan could barely contain himself.
     "Control, this is Highball," a voice crackled over the radio.
     Carol rolled her eyes. Hal always got excited whenever his dad flew in one of these air shows. But it was always the same every time. Hal's dad would pull off all kinds of amazing stunts that only he could do in only the best Ferris prototype jets, the crowd would go crazy, and her daddy would be happy afterwards because of something he called "new investors."
     Hal couldn't believe how amazing his life was. He had the coolest dad in the world. Seriously, what did anyone else's dad do? Drive a bus? Do someone else's taxes? Coach soccer? Hal's dad flew at Mach 3 in jets that no one else had touched yet. He even brought Hal up with him once or twice; it was the most thrilling feeling Hal could imagine.
     "Control, I have a problem here. I'm leaking oil and the last of my torque pins just failed."
     Carl turned away from the crowd and spoke into his radio. "What?! We just sent it in for repair..."
     "It's coming down, now."
     "Alright, bring her in safely."
     "Can't risk it. The crowd's too close to the runway. I'm bringing her down right here."
     Hal watched as the Javelin, with his father inside it, crashed nose-first into the nearby field and became a fireball.

Maverick

     Hal felt a rush of familiar adrenaline as he drove through the gate at Ferris Air. The same feeling he felt as a boy when he'd sneak in and watch his dad fly. Being a pilot was in his veins, and this place was his heart. It was good to be back in Coast City.
     Hal parked in front of the brand-new building labeled "Academy" and hopped out of his Challenger, not even bothering to lock the door. People here were basically like family. When Hal walked inside, there was no receptionist like at the Wayne-Ferris Academy near Metropolis. Instead, clearly-marked hallways led to the main offices, where Hal was supposed to meet Carl Ferris.
     Carl was Hal's father's best friend and boss. He was also the one who founded Ferris Air, and somewhat of a legend in the aircraft engineering business. He wasn't an engineer himself, merely a businessman, but he was smart enough to let the engineers and pilots lead the way while keeping them in line when necessary. Hal always thought of him like an uncle. Probably was closer to Carl than to most of his real family anyway.
     Hal stopped at the door with Carl's name on it, knocked casually once, then opened it. Instead of the slightly rotund and aging man Hal expected to see, he found a dark-haired, gorgeous young woman with piercing blue eyes.
     The girl almost did a double-take. "Hal?!"
     "Carol?!"
     Carol Ferris stood up and walked over. "I... what are you doing here?!"
     "I transferred here after the thing in Metropolis. Didn't your dad tell you?"
     "...No. He didn't."
     "That's weird; I thought you'd be the first person he'd tell."
     "We were friends when we were eight, Hal. We weren't married."
     "Yeah, but still... wow, Carol, I barely recognized you for a minute there."
     Carol squinted. "Why?"
     Hal glanced her up and down for a second. "Well... you're all hot now."
     Carol slapped him hard enough to echo down the hallway.
     "I'm your boss now, Hal. Don't you dare try to flirt with me."
     Hal rubbed his cheek. "Wait, boss? How? Id've thought you'd be a pilot cadet."
     Carol reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her Ferris Air ID. "I am. But I'm also in charge of the entire team of cadets. Including you."
     Hal couldn't resist grinning at her.
     "What?!" said Carol, frustrated at Hal's complete lack of respect.
     "Nothing," Hal replied, "you're just as bossy as you were when you were eight."
     Carol might have slapped him again if not for Carl Ferris suddenly walking up from behind Hal.
     "Hal!" Carl said, shaking Hal's hand. "Nice to see you back in Coast City!"
     Carl eyed the red patch on Hal's face. "I see you and Carol have been catching up."
     "Yeah," said Hal. "Fun times."

     "Your targets are F-22s," Carl said. The display screen behind him showed a 3D diagram of an F-22 Raptor.
     "You'll be flying F-35s. As you probably know, F-22s are superior to F-35s in air-to-air combat, but not by a lot. With enough skill, you might be able to take them down."
     The room full of cadets focused intently on Carl's instructions, but Hal wasn't even looking at the screen. Across the darkened briefing room, he'd spotted Jillian Pearlman—Cowgirl—the blonde country girl he met at Wayne-Ferris. Apparently she'd transferred, too. Hal wondered if she followed him on purpose. Then he wondered if that thought made him a narcissist. It probably did.
     "Mr. Jordan?" Carl said, snapping Hal's attention back to the front of the class. "Perhaps you'd like to tell us some of the technical specifications of the F-35 in comparison to the F-22."
     "Yes, sir," Hal replied quickly. "The F-22 is approximately 50% faster than the F-35, with twice the altitude limit. The F-35's only real advantage in air-to-air combat is its larger fuel supply, which probably won't come into play in most combat situations."
     "That's right," Carl said, suppressing a grin. Hal might not be one for strict behavior, but he sure did his homework. "You'll be at a disadvantage in nearly every way, so be ready. Dismissed."
     Hal and the rest of the cadets made their way to the hangar, where they strapped into their cockpits and ran through startup procedures. Ten minutes later, they were in the air and ready for combat.

     The sky was a mess of chaos. Hal rolled his eyes; most of these cadets had no idea what they were doing. They knew how their planes worked, but they didn't have the feel for them that Hal, Carol, and Cowgirl did.
     This is ridiculous, Carol thought. We're flying against automated pilots and we still can't get a shot on them.
     "Sapphire, this is Highball. What do you say you, me, and Cowgirl split off and take these guys on by ourselves?"
     "Negative, Highball," Carol replied, "we stay with our group."
     Hal read the subtext in her voice: Or they'll all get shot down without us.
     "We can't avoid target locks and keep using countermeasures forever," Hal insisted. "If we stay on the defensive, we'll never win."
     Cowgirl's voice crackled over the comm channel. "Ah'm with Highball on this one, Sapphire."
     Carol sighed inwardly. They were probably right. "Okay. Highball, Cowgirl, with me. The rest of you, try to keep yourselves safe."
     The trio broke off from the tangle of planes circling each other and curved back around from a different angle.
     Hal fired a burst of machine gun fire over the top of an enemy craft, then immediately pitched down and fired a missile. Sure enough, the F-22 ducked reflexively under the brief hail of bullets but slammed right into the missile's path. Hal let out a whoop, and Carol was happy enough to have at least one target down that she didn't scold him.
     Cowgirl let a Raptor get on her tail, then dipped, cut the engines, and flipped her plane end-to-end without stopping, effectively flying backwards. She fired off a missile and hit her target dead-on.
     "Fancy moves there, Cowgirl," Hal said. "Where you learn to fly like that?"
     "My daddy was a stunt pilot; I learned from the best."
     "Cut the chatter, ladies," Carol interjected as she landed a hit on an enemy F-22. "Highball, you've got one on your tail. Watch it."
     Hal dodged back and forth a bit, diving into a few corkscrews and even a couple of those drifting tricks that Cowgirl made look so easy, but this particular pilot couldn't be shaken. All the usual options were out; it was time to try something a little crazy. Hal let the enemy creep up on him from behind, slowly closing the distance. Hal cut his engines and pitched up slightly, suddenly dragging backward along a path that would take him right over the enemy. But, of course, Hal knew that wouldn't work. This pilot seemed a bit too good. He wouldn't fall for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Instead of letting the plane fall behind the F-22, Hal punched his engines to maximum thrust right as he flew over the target, blasting the Raptor with 34 tons of fiery force. The F-22 spun downward like a swatted fly and exploded before it hit the ground.
     Something clicked in Hal's mind. These enemy pilots were literally unable to account for more than a few potential threats at a time. They were completely unprepared for unorthodox tactics. Hal turned back toward the tangle of fighters and dove in, skipping from target to target, firing a missile here and a burst of cannon fire there. He pushed the F-35 to its limit, running at full speed while twisting in every which direction. Eventually, Hal tried to pull the plane into a sharp climb but the plane simply stopped, drifting forward. Hal pulled and pulled on the stick, but it wouldn't move. Finally, Hal's plane slammed into an F-22 and exploded.

Speed Skating

   Iris ran up the stairwell and made her way to Snart's apartment.
   "Score!" she thought. "Got here before the cops."
   But someone else had gotten there, too, apparently. The door was open; its broken handle on the floor. Iris cautiously opened the door. She found the room cluttered and dark, with a gigantic chunk of ice sitting in the middle of the room. Iris looked around, confused. The ice dripped and melted in the warm room, leaving a puddle on the floor.
   Iris moved closer to the ice, rubbing away the frost covering it. She jumped back when she saw what was inside: a man in a red shiny ski mask. Suddenly, she felt the floor vibrate and saw the man inside the ice turn into a dark blur. The entire block of ice quickly melted, leaving the man behind.
   The masked man fell to his knees, breathing heavily. Iris crouched down to help him. She noticed his jacket: red, shiny, slick... the wheels in her head started turning.
   Barry looked up into her eyes, grateful he was still wearing his mask.
   "...You're the red blur, aren't you?" Iris asked.
   Barry nodded, still barely breathing.
   "What... what happened here? Who are you?!"
   "Snart built a gun. Freezes stuff, apparently."
   "How did you get... um... un-frozen?"
   "Vibrated my body really fast."
   "...You vibrated yourself?"
   Barry took one last deep breath and stood up.
   "I've gotta go find Snart before the cops do, or things'll get messy."
   "Where's he going?" Iris asked.
   "Don't know."
   "So then where are you going to look?"
   "Everywhere."
   Barry zoomed out of the apartment.

   Snart stood in the center of an intersection, blasting away at the police that had surrounded him. In less than a minute, he'd built up a wall of ice sealing off the police. He might actually get away...
   "Nice parka, Captain Cold."
   Snart turned around to see Barry.
   "What?! I left you frozen!"
   "Uh-huh. Now seriously, we need to talk about this look of yours. Blue parka with white fur? Really? What are you, Eskimo Man?"
   "...You're wearing a... a shiny ski mask!"
   "...Okay, yeah. You have a point. I guess I do need to revamp my look now that people are actually seeing me and all."
   "Are you just going to sit there and talk?!"
   "Nope."
   Barry rushed forward like lightning, then felt his footing slip. Snart had already coated the street around him with a thin sheet of perfectly smooth ice. Barry fell on his back and slid past Snart, into the ice wall on the other side. Snart aimed his gun and shot a burst of cold at Barry; Barry quickly got his body moving to keep from freezing, jumped to his feet, and tried running again. This time, when Barry put his foot down, he slightly vibrated it, melting the ice underneath and giving him traction. But as Barry moved closer to Snart, he felt himself get slower and slower. He eventually realized that he wasn't even moving at super-speed anymore.
   "Heh. Feel that?" Snart taunted. "That's your molecules slowing down. Cold affects everything."
   Barry did everything he could to keep his teeth from chattering.
   "You seem pretty smart, Leonard. Why'd you resort to stealing?"
   "Don't you judge me, 'Blur.' I have my reasons."

   Barry was stuck now; he couldn't move an inch closer, and he was losing heat fast. He raised his arm and moved it in a circular motion as fast as he could. It acted like a fan, blowing the cold blast back in Snart's face. Snart yelled in surprise, brushing off the layer of frost on his body. Before he could blink, however, he felt Barry's fist slamming into his face.
 

   Barry, back in his normal clothes, met up with Forrest at the icy crime scene.

   "Do we have a motive?" Barry asked. "It seems like someone with his brilliance could do better than simple theft."

   "His sister is in the hospital. She's got some kind of rare illness; the working theory is that he was going to use the tech to get money for her treatment. Kind of a crazy way of doing that, but I guess with a gun like that he figured he'd be invincible."

   Barry suddenly felt guilty, even though he knew he shouldn't.

   "...What's going to happen to his sister now? If he doesn't even have a job, then..."

   "I'll pay for her treatment."

   Forrest and Barry turned around to see Darwin Elias walking up.

   "I remember interviewing Leonard for a lab assistant position; I rejected him because he didn't have the practical experience. If I hadn't, then maybe he wouldn't have tried stealing. I'm not saying what he did was right, of course, but there's no reason his sister should have to pay for that with her life."

   Forrest smiled. "That's awfully kind of you, Dr. Elias."

   Barry sat at the coffee shop waiting for Iris. The irony was not lost on him. Suddenly, a newspaper fell into his lap, and Iris fell into the chair across from him.

   "Guess who just made the Central City Citizen front page?!" Iris said, her face beaming.

   Barry looked at the title story:

   THE FLASH VS. CAPTAIN COLD

   Barry frowned. "The Flash?"

   "Yeah! 'The Red Blur' was just so nondescript. And after having actually seen him move, with the way lightning sparkles... I'd say he's definitely more of a Flash."

   Barry rolled his eyes. Sometimes he felt like Iris was more of an annoyance than anything else. And sometimes he felt like he could spend the rest of his life with her.

Absolute Zero

   Over the last year, a lot of things have happened to me. After I got hit by a bolt of lightning and drenched in a random bunch of chemicals, I ended up connected to something I call the Speed Force. It's like this energy that's constantly running through me. I don't know if I'm drawing power from it, or if I'm generating it, or what, but whenever I move at all—especially when I run—it feels like it's getting more powerful. It does some cool things. First of all, I can move incredibly fast. I've never been able to accurately time myself, but I'd say that I'm easily breaking every speed record known to man. I can even run across water. My body heals really fast, too. Every time I've been burnt, cut, or bruised since the accident, I've been perfectly fine after only a few minutes. I think the Speed Force protects me from friction and impact a little while I'm moving at super-speed, too. Lucky, since I've run into a few walls here and there.  Lastly, I made this cool red jacket; it's coated in a slick polymer that cuts down on air friction and acts like a conductor for the Speed Force. I keep it with me wherever I am and put it on every time I run, so whenever someone looks at me, all they see is a red blur. Iris even wrote an award-winning story about me, though she doesn't know that it's me, of course. Just "the Red Blur." Speaking of Iris, I need to be across town right this second...

   Iris sat quietly at the outdoor café waiting for Barry. He was late. For anyone else, this would have been merely a minor annoyance, but Iris prided herself on speed and impatience. It was what made her a good reporter; why she was the only person in the city to be able to get a decent story on the Red Blur. She tapped her foot under the table as she sipped her coffee, eyes darting back and forth for a sign of her date. She waited a while longer, then called his phone. He didn't answer. Finally, she grabbed her purse and started to get up.
   "Leaving already?"
   Iris looked up across the table and saw Barry sitting there. Iris did a double-take. She could swear he wasn't anywhere in sight two seconds ago.
   "You're late."
   Barry checked his watch. "I'm exactly... two minutes and two seconds late. So... I'm sorry?"
   Iris frowned a little and checked her own watch. Had it really been only two minutes? It had.
   "Huh," she said, sitting back down. "Felt like longer."
   "Tell you what," Barry said, "I'll make it up to you. You're probably almost done with that, right?"
   Iris looked into her cup. Sure enough, she'd nearly finished the entire thing in those two minutes. She wondered if she could be classified as a drug addict.
   Barry got up. "A triple-shot house blend, right?"
   Iris lightly smiled and nodded. Barry was a little dorky, being a science geek and all, but he was sweet. And pretty hot. But that wasn't for him to know.

   Iris's phone buzzed. She looked at the screen. "Rudy West." Iris rolled her eyes. It was her older brother's phone number, but it was almost certainly not him calling. It had to be Wally, Rudy's five-year-old boy. Iris loved her little nephew, honestly, but he did get a little bit annoying at times with the way he always followed her around and asked her questions about the Red Blur.
   Iris sighed and answered the phone.
   "IRIS!" a tiny voice yelled from across the line. "THE RED BLUR JUST STOPPED A BAD GUY AT THE BANK!"
   Iris shot up from her chair, purse in hand. "Which bank?!"
   Barry walked out of the café, steaming new coffee in-hand.
   "Sorry Barry, I've gotta run!" Iris said quickly, running off.
   Barry stood in place, awkwardly unsure of what to do.
   Iris suddenly appeared at his side again, gently lifting the coffee out of his hand.
   "Thanks! I'll, um... see you later."
   And she was gone again.
   Iris felt a little bad about ditching Barry, but work always came first for her. Besides, it wasn't like Barry was her boyfriend or anything. They'd just gone out a few times.
   Barry's phone rang; he answered it.
   "Mr. Forrest?"
   "Barry. I'm on my way to a crime scene."
   "The one at Ducard National Bank? Sure; I'll be there."
   "No, not that one. Apparently that was a decoy robbery; another quieter theft happened over at Elias Labs."
   Barry stood in silence for a few seconds. It was a decoy? It seemed real enough. Was it there to distract the police, or to distract him?
   "Barry?"
   "Sorry, Mr. Forrest. I'll be right there."

   "What was taken, specifically?" Detective Curtis asked.
   "Just one thing, oddly enough," the doctor replied. "An absolute zero module."
   "A what?"
   Barry's eyes widened. "You finally completed work on it?"
   Barry had been standing quietly out of the way and doing nothing but observing until now. Curtis liked it that way. But Barry was very familiar with the work of Dr. Darwin Elias, and couldn't stop himself from excitedly opening his mouth.
   Dr. Elias smiled. "A fan, eh? Yeah. I finished it. I hadn't announced that I was done; only my assistants actually knew it was completed."
   Curtis wasn't happy with being left out of the loop. "What exactly is this..."
   "Absolute zero module," Elias said. "It's a small metal device, around three inches long and two inches wide. Roughly shaped like an oblong sphere, with angular sides. When it's activated, the sides of it glow blue."
   Curtis nearly rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but what does it do?"
   "With nothing more than the simplest electrical current flowing through it, the module creates an internal temperature of absolute zero. There is literally no way to make anything any colder than that."
   "And that would be useful to a criminal because...?"
   Elias shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe to sell it? The tech could fetch a price of millions if sold to the right foreign country or organization."
   "Gotcha. Okay, so which one of your assistants would you say most likely did it?"
   "Oh, none of them!"
   Curtis rolled his eyes. "Really, doctor..."
   "No, honestly! I only hired people I knew I could trust. All of them truly love science. Their motives in being here are purely altruistic. I'm sure of it."
   "But you said no one other than them even knew the module was done."
   "Yes... I don't know how anyone else would have known."
   Barry looked around. Since being given the Speed Force, he'd had to hone his observational skills. Too many instances of tripping and hitting walls otherwise. Barry glanced around the room, taking in every detail. Something caught his eye.
   "Dr. Elias," he said, "what about the janitorial staff?"
   Elias slapped his forehead. "Of course. We tend to forget they're there; we're so focused on work, you see. But yes, now that you mention it, I don't recall seeing the normal morning janitor today."
   "Do you know his name?" Curtis asked.
   Elias thought for a moment. "...Leonard. That's the name on his tag. I can find you his records."

   As soon as Leonard Snart's information was given to the police, Barry took off. In case Snart was dangerous, there was no reason for the police to put themselves at risk. Barry zipped up his jacket and pulled on a mask made of the same slick red material. The mask was more of a cowl, actually, covering everything but his mouth, nose, and eyes.

   Just as Barry was about to run, his phone rang. It was Iris.
   "Hey! Barry!" Iris said as soon as Barry clicked the answer button. "Is there any chance you coud give me the exclusive on the perp behind the Elias Labs robbery?"
   Barry really did not want to tell her, but it'd be easier just to give her what she wanted and get on his way. "The suspect's name is Leonard Snart. He's a janitor at the lab. The police are on their way to his place now."
   Barry and Iris said their goodbyes then hung up. Barry took a deep breath then started sprinting towards the opposite side of town.

   Barry reached Snart's apartment and knocked. There was no answer. Barry slammed a super-speed fist down onto the doorknob and it broke apart. Barry rubbed his sore hand, then slowly pushed the door open.
   It was dark; every curtain was pulled shut and every blind closed. On the kitchen table, a layer of frost covered a collection of various metal parts and tools. Snart had clearly toyed with and activated the module, but it was nowhere to be found.
   "Looking for this?"
   Barry spun around to see the voice behind him. Snart, dressed in a full hooded parka, stood with a strange gun pointed at Barry's head. Snart pulled the trigger, and Barry felt a wave of cold nothingness wash over him. The water in the air crystalized in front of his eyes, turning thick and solid. Barry quickly realized that he couldn't move. In a mere few seconds, Barry was completely encased in a gigantic chunk of ice, a look of pale lifelessness on his face.

Runtime

   Barry snapped awake. An officer he didn't recognize was crouched next to him, yelling. Barry squinted; the lights in the room had gone out, but the officer was shining a flashlight straight into his eyes.
   "Woah, kid! What happened?!" the officer asked.
   "...Lightning bolt. Window," Barry groaned, rubbing his head.
   "C'mon! We gotta get you to a hospital!"
   Barry shook his head. "Why?"
   The officer took a step back and shined the light across Barry's body. The burn scars were completely gone. If not for the charred holes in Barry's clothes, you'd never know anything had happened. The chemical soup had suddenly dried as well, leaving only dust behind.
   Barry checked his watch: 11:48 PM.
   "Oh, man! Sorry, officer, curfew's in ten minutes! I gotta get home!"
   Barry jumped up and ran out the door, leaving the officer confused and questioning his own sanity.

   Barry ran through the entrance doors of the CCPD, skipped down the front steps, and turned down the street towards the suburbs. If he ran the whole way, he could make it home and only be five minutes late. Maybe.
   Central City always had a thing for speed. Pedestrians were always pushing past each other to get where they were going as fast as possible, cars were always zooming through the streets at all hours of day and night, and virtually everyone seemed to be addicted to caffeine. But tonight, as Barry sprinted down block after block, he half-noticed that the city seemed a lot... quieter. Calmer. Slow, almost. It was odd, but Barry didn't really have time to stop and stare at the traffic.
   Finally, Barry reached his front door. He quietly turned the key and opened the door, hoping his mother would have already gone to sleep. She hadn't.
   Barry heard her voice from across the living room. "Hmm. Eight minutes to go. Good job."
   Barry frowned and looked at his watch: 11:50 PM.
   That's weird, he thought. Must have not read my watch right the first time...

   The alarm clock buzzed. Barry hated that alarm. He groggily reached over and slammed the snooze button.
   As Barry slowly sat up, he tried to remember last night's events. He looked down at his clothes, burnt and torn in a few places. Did he really get hit with a bolt of lightning? Or did it just hit near him? He couldn't be sure. He probably should have taken up that officer's offer to go to a hospital, although he really did feel perfectly fine at the moment—just tired. In any case, it was nine in the morning on Saturday, and he needed to get ready before meeting up with Forrest again at eleven—except that it wasn't nine; it was eleven.
   Barry felt a panicked shock run through his brain; how could he have slept this late, through two straight hours of his alarm ringing? He jumped out of bed and threw his clothes on—then took them off again, remembering that he still needed to take a shower—showered, dressed again, then took off out the door. His mother had taken their only car to work, and Barry didn't have a bike, so his only option was to get there on foot.
   Barry began running and focused very intently on doing so. Maybe he'd get lucky again and somehow get there on time. As he pushed himself, however, he noticed an odd feeling. He wasn't getting tired; he was getting more energized—he was getting faster. Every time his foot hit the ground, it seemed to burst forth with some kind of energy. Barry felt it crackle as he ran, like static. He felt himself surge forward, not realizing what was happening. His legs moved one in front of the other like the spokes of a wheel; he couldn't stop running. The world around him blurred into a maelstrom of golden light and wind. He felt himself instinctively moving around large objects, but still moving forward like a blind jet engine.
   At this point, Barry started to freak out.

   Eventually, Barry stopped trying to force his legs to be still; it wasn't working. He did his best to calm his focus and clear his head. He felt like an engine that was simultaneously generating and being pushed forward by a kind of force. Like electricity, but made of literal motion; a speed force. Instead of trying to control his body, Barry focused on that energy. With all the will he could find, he mentally guided the speed force through himself and slowed it to a crawl.

   Barry found himself standing in a grassy area behind a few trees. He looked to his left and saw a city street; he looked up and saw a billboard: "Welcome to Coast City! Pop. 4,015,026."
   Coast City was in California. Central City was in Missouri. Barry probably should have been panicked, but he was a little more astonished. His mind raced at the possibilities. Did he now have some kind of special ability? Was this connected to that lab accident last night?
   Barry heard a girl yelling over his right shoulder; he turned to see a teenage boy and girl in front of a high school.
   "HOW COULD YOU, HAL?!"
   "Diana, I was just—"
   "NO. FORGET IT."
   Diana stormed off into the distance. Barry thought he heard a slab of concrete crack as she stomped away.
   Barry slowly walked out of the trees and toward the school. He wasn't really sure he could get back home the way he came, so he decided it'd be best to see if he could grab a phone and call someone. He began making his way up the front steps when he felt himself fall. It was like he was a pitcher of water that someone had tipped over, and now he was losing energy fast.
   "Woah, you okay?"
   Barry felt a firm hand grab his arm, holding him up.
   "...Yeah, thanks."
   Barry looked up; it was the boy from earlier.
   "You're Hal, right?"
   "Yeah. Do I know you?"
   "No, but I think everyone in a mile radius heard your girlfriend's yelling."
   Hal winced. "She's not my girlfriend anymore."
   "Sorry about that."
   "Nah, I deserved it."
   Hal looked Barry over. "So are you okay, really?"
   "Yeah, I just... went running, and got kinda winded."

   Sirens echoed off in the distance. From here, Barry and Hal could see two police cars and a van in pursuit of a single blue Mustang. Hal smirked a little at the car; it was a 2006 model, the same one that Mischa—a girl from Hal's school—drove. Hal rubbed his neck; that car's backseat was really cramped. The Mustang driver did a few quick turns and dodged around a corner of thick bushes and trees where the police cars couldn't see him. As it turned out, that spot happened to be right in front of where Barry and Hal were standing. By sheer coincidence, Mischa was also driving her Mustang on the same street. The unknown Mustang driver pulled over and parked on the side of the street between two SUVs, well-hidden from glancing eyes. When the police arrived and saw Mischa's car turning around the corner, the police followed her instead. Once the police had left, the other Mustang zoomed off in the opposite direction towards the highway.
   Hal felt a heavy weight in his gut when he realized what was going on.
   "We have to go after them."
   Barry blinked. "What?"
   "That armored car was from Border Patrol's bomb squad. That car's carrying a bomb, and the police are going the wrong way."
   Hal grabbed Barry's shoulder. "COME ON!"
   Barry just went along with it.
   Hal jumped into his car—which was conveniently parked in the reserved space of a teacher who was out sick that day—and waited a split-second for Barry to get in before gunning the engine and screeching out of the parking lot.
   Barry reached for his phone to call 911, but his pocket was empty. Barry slapped his forehead.
   "What?!" Hal asked.
   "I left my phone at home. Do you have yours?"
   "My phone's out of minutes."
   "Doesn't matter; a 911 call will still go through."
   "Okay, um..."
   Hal shifted gears hard and skidded around a corner.
   "THERE! That's them!"
   The blue Mustang was right ahead of them, just entering the on-ramp for Broome Highway, aimed straight for the city.
   "Where's your phone?" Barry asked.
   "Um, it's in my pocket."
   Hal reached for his pocket, but quickly threw his hand back onto the gear shift as he swerved around a car and downshifted.
   "I need both hands! You get it!"
   "...You want me to take your phone out of your pants pocket?"
   "YES!"
   "...Really?"
   "YES. WE DON'T HAVE A CHOICE. Just... don't tell anyone after this."
   "Trust me, I won't."
   Half a second later, Hal felt something leave his pocket, and Barry was already holding the phone.
   "That was fast."
   "Didn't wanna spend more time in your pants than I needed to."
   "Thanks."
   "...Hey, Hal, shouldn't we be, I don't know, more discreet? I mean, you're chasing them down like it's the end of the world. I bet they know we're following them."
   The Mustang's passenger window rolled down and a man leaned out. A man holding an AK-47.
   Barry and Hal's eyes went wide as the gun erupted in flashes of fire and a hail of bullets. The boys ducked down, barely missing getting their heads torn apart.
   Barry glanced down at the phone; it had a bullet-sized hole torn through it. Well, now they were out of options. Barry opened his mouth to yell that Hal should turn around when he froze. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the skyscrapers of downtown Coast City, right where they were heading. The sign Barry had seen earlier read the city's population as over four million. If these people they were chasing really had a bomb, then over four million people could die unless they were stopped.
   "Hal, keep the car steady."
   "What? Why? What are you—"
   Barry slowly opened the passenger side door, pushing it forward against the wind. He put one foot outside the door, then quickly threw himself outside and started his feet moving before he hit the concrete.
   Barry felt his feet moving like pistons in an engine, driving themselves forward. Summoning all his will, he took control of his body entirely. This "speed force" was his to own now.
   Barry ran forward, easily catching up to the Mustang. A trail of golden lightning followed in his wake. Barry grabbed the rather confused man holding the gun and pulled him through the window, throwing him off the highway and into the waters of the harbor below.
   Barry ran around the front of the car toward the driver's side. He made eye contact with the driver, who seemed more than a bit bewildered. When Barry saw the driver pull out a gun, Barry decided to try something crazy. He'd noticed that his legs hadn't shattered from pounding the ground at a thousand miles an hour, so maybe the speed force gave him some kind of protection against hitting things at high speeds? Barry punched straight through the glass like it was made of sugar, knocking out the driver in the same move. With his arm inside the car, Barry gently turned the wheel towards the highway's concrete divider and moved out of the way. The car drifted towards the divider and hit it, slowly grinding to a halt from the friction. Barry zoomed back to Hal's car while it was still moving, opened the door, and sat down inside.

   "...Barry?"
   "Yeah?"
   "...What was that?"
   "Um... I don't really know yet."

Flashback

One Year Ago

   This is just so cool.

   Sixteen-year-old Barry sat in a corner of the Central City crime lab, completely overjoyed. He'd been shadowing James Forrest, a CSI with the CCPD, as a special project for his A.P. Chemistry class. The project actually ended two weeks ago, but Barry conveniently failed to mention that to Forrest. Forrest knew what Barry was up to, but didn't mind. Forrest liked Barry; he was a very bright, very good kid who soaked up every detail of forensic work like his life depended on it.
   Forrest liked to give Barry little projects to work on, just so he'd get a taste of what real CSI work was like. One day, he had Barry use nothing but a pocket calculator, a pencil, and paper to determine the exact angle that a hypothetical bullet would have traveled along in order to hit a specific target. Another day, Barry's task was to cross-reference around three hundred photos and fifty pages' worth of information on knife wounds to figure out exactly what type of weapon was used on a dead body. Tonight, Barry was working on figuring out a specific chemical combination to reveal a unique type of Chinese hidden ink. Barry managed to complete every single task to absolute perfection—sometimes above the standard of most of the actual CSIs in Central—but he worked very slowly. It was a trade-off, Forrest thought. Barry might take forever to find a solution, but once he did it was a sure bet that he was right. If he ever became a CSI here at Central, he'd be a good balance for the rest of the lab, who valued speed over accuracy.
   Barry felt a tap on his shoulder.
   "Hey, Barry, it's time to go. It's ten-thirty."
   Barry looked at his watch and sighed loudly. He hated the fact that he worked so slowly.
   "Mr. Forrest, I'm almost done, if I could just have a few more minutes..."
   Forrest glanced over Barry's written progress thus far.
   "Looks like you've got around a half-hour of work more to go."
   Barry nodded sullenly.
   "But..." Forrest began, "I guess I could let you stay here by yourself a bit longer. You've been around here long enough to know the rules. Just be careful and don't touch anything on your way out."
   Barry sighed with relief.
   "Thanks, Mr. Forrest!"
   Forrest nodded and left.

   As it turned out, Barry needed another 45 minutes to finish his assignment. By the time he was done, he felt like he'd merged with the office chair he was sitting in. He stood up, stretched, and gently put all the chemical bottles back into the glass cases lining the shelves.
   Lightning cracked outside the window. Barry was a little bit startled. He'd been so enveloped in his work that he hadn't even noticed the huge thunderstorm outside.
   The CCPD lab had an entire wall of windows overlooking the city; Barry had been working was at one corner of that wall; the adjacent wall was the one lined with chemical shelves.
   Barry felt the hairs on his neck begin to stand on end.

   An insanely bright flash of light rammed through the window, through Barry, and into the glass shelves. Before Barry could even take a split-second to finish thinking "so that's what getting struck by lightning feels like," the chemical bottles shattered, drenching him in a maelstrom of burning liquid.

   A few seconds later, Barry was found unconscious, drenched in a multicolored soup, covered in burn scars from head to toe, and intermittently sparking with electricity.

The Hooked Man

   "You're sure about this? A hook for a hand?"

   "Definitely. It just took me a bit to remember."

   Bruce and Crispus stood outside a small shop. The crackled neon sign above read "CUSTOM GUNS." Bruce glanced at Crispus; he didn't appear to have any memory of being possessed by Boston. Definitely for the better that way.

   Bruce and Crispus entered the shop. Crispus resisted the urge to sneer at the very air inside. It galled him that with all the violent crime in the city, this shop was allowed to remain open—especially here in North Gotham, where murder was more commonplace than birth.

   The shop owner was alone in the store; it being the daytime, most of his customers were nowhere to be found. At the sight of Crispus, the owner seemed to stiffen. Good, Crispus thought. He recognizes an out-of-uniform detective; he's connected.

   "How can I help you?" the man said, his eyes nervously looking back and forth between Bruce and Crispus.

   "Detective Allen," Crispus said, lifting his badge. "Have you sold any rifle attachments to accommodate an amputee?"

   "An amputee?"

   "For instance, a man with a hook on his left hand?"

   "...Wh-why would you come to me about this?"

   "We have reason to believe that a man with a hook on his left hand used a rifle to commit murder last night. You machine custom gun parts, is that right?"

   "Y-yes—"

   "So tell me."

   Bruce watched the shopkeeper's brain working rapidly behind his eyes, weighing the options. Bruce guessed it was between risking jail time and risking retribution from his customer.

   "Okay," he said, leaning in close. "Listen, I normally don't like to ask questions. I just make what the customer wants and leave it at that. But this guy... he scares me, man. He came in last week, with a big shiny hook on his left, like you said. Said he needed something to help him hold his gun. Gave me a blueprint for the design and everything."

   "You still have that blueprint?" Crispus asked.

   "Yeah." The man rummaged through a drawer near the front desk. "Here." He laid out the blueprint. The design showed an addition to the underside of a rifle; it had a circular hole with precise dimensions, as well as an intricately-carved design. It looked like a crest of some sort.

   "He wanted you to carve this into the gun?" Crispus asked, pointing to the crest.

   "I told him that wasn't my thing; I could make the piece, but I ain't an artist. He kinda sneered at me. Real creepy-like. Told me to just make the piece then. Then he left and came back two days ago to pick it up."

   "You get any information on him?"

   "So, like I said, I don't normally ask questions, but this guy was different. I asked a few of my buddies, and they said they heard about some kinda secret society meeting up at Walker Pier, in the East warehouse."

   "Secret society?"

   "That explains the crest," said Bruce.

   Crispus thought it all over for a few seconds. "Alright. Thanks for your cooperation. Mind if I take this?"

   The shopkeeper nodded vigorously. "Yeah; sure. Take it," he said, handing the blueprint to Crispus.

   As Crispus turned to leave, Bruce stopped. "Why are you so eager to help?" he asked the man. "You're five blocks from Crime Alley; surely you don't rat out all your customers like this."

   "...Like I said, man. This guy was creepy. And if he's really part o' some secret society... nobody needs that in Gotham. 'Sides, I hear about what they do to people like me. Outsiders who find out about 'em. They turn up dead. So, way I see it, you blue boys take 'em down, everyone's happy."

   "So what now?" Bruce asked once they were outside.

   "Now I call Montoya and have her do a check on Walker Pier. See if there really is anyone there. If there is, we might sweep in as early as tonight. Don't wanna risk them skipping town."

   "I want to be there."

   "No."

   "What?!"

   "Bruce, no. There's no way I'm letting you tag along in what's probably gonna be a gunfight."

   "I deserve this!"

   "You don't deserve a thing. You've helped, and I appreciate that. But you're also not a cop. You haven't taken that oath; you're not trained. Go home; I'll let you know if anything happens."

   Bruce turned and walked away.

   Bruce walked through what was now called "Old Gotham." It wasn't actually the oldest part of the city, but it the lively nature of the place had entirely disappeared in the last ten years, mostly replaced by corruption. The buildings were cracked and rotting; parents kept their children indoors. Most of the people in this part of the city were too poor to move anywhere else; they just did what they could to keep a living. Bruce passed an old movie theater that had long since shut down. He merely stared at it for a while, standing under the dark shadow of a nearby balcony. The street was entirely deserted.

   "You still here?" he said.

   Boston suddenly appeared, floating at his right. "Yeah. Now that Zatanna showed me it's possible, I can control whether or not people see and hear me in my ghost form. So, hey, you're not gonna just let them leave you outta this, are ya?"

   "What choice do I have?"

   "We go get this hook man before the cops show up."

   "...How?"

   "I can go float on over to the GCPD. See when they're planning their raid. Then you an' I can sneak in before they get there and grab that sonofa—"

   "Why do you need me for this? Couldn't you just go in yourself and possess the guy? Make him walk into the police station?"

   "...Hey, I'd be lyin' if I said it hadn't crossed my mind. Hell, I'd probably make him walk off a cliff. But I figure I owe ya for helpin' me track him down. And besides, it seems like you've got somethin' personal to deal with here. I know how that can weigh on your conscience. So I wanna help."

   Bruce wanted to say thank you, but he couldn't quite at the moment. "Alright. We'll meet up later. I have something to do first."

   Bruce turned down an alley near the theater. Halfway down the path, he stopped and knelt.

   Here, he thought. This is where it happened. I promise you, mother, father... I'll make it right.

   Bruce peered at the docks from the shadows of a nearby fire escape. The sun had set an hour earlier; it was perfect. Only moonlight and a few street lamps illuminated the area. Bruce knew enough of Gotham to know that this was truly when the city woke. When the few good people of Gotham slept, and the rest—the dark underbelly, the true power of Gotham—arose.
   The image of Boston appeared at Bruce's side.
   "They got ten guys spread across the docks keepin' watch. All of 'em armed. Then there's twenny more in the main warehouse. Sharp-lookin' guys, those. If I had'ta guess, I'd say they're the brains of this whole thing."
   "Did you see the man with the hook?"
   "Nah, but I heard two of 'em sayin that somebody was comin'. I figure it's gotta be him."
   As if in answer, a car pulled up to the docks. From here, Bruce and Boston could see a man step out. Bruce strained his eyes to see if... yes. There it was. The same glint of metal on his hand. This had to be him.
   Boston gritted his teeth and clenched his translucent fist.
   "I got him."
   "No," Bruce said, instinctively reaching for Boston's arm and passing right through it.
   "No?!" Boston said.
   "This whole thing is bigger than just him. If we stop him now, we'll never find out what this whole group is up to—or why they've been targeting circus performers."
   Boston struggled with himself for a moment.
   "...Fine. We do it your way."
   The hooked man walked down the docks and entered the warehouse.
   "How can I get in?" Bruce asked.
   "I saw a blind spot in the security over near that stack o' crates. You said you've been trainin'; think you can vault over the fence?"
   "We'll find out."
   As Bruce began to move, Boston put a ghostly hand in front of him. "Wait a second. Where's your magic friend? We could use 'er help."
   "No. I don't want to "
   Bruce silently ran across the street, dodging the light as best he could. Taking a deep breath, he jumped on top of a pile of crates and flipped neatly over the fence, landing squarely on the other side—his shoes slapping the concrete a little harder than he would have liked. Bruce winced. That was too loud. Any moment and—
   One of the armed men turned a corner, gun drawn. As his eyes began to fall on Bruce, they suddenly rolled back into his head, as if he were passing out. He flinched, and suddenly looked fine. He winked at Bruce and walked away.
   Bruce smirked. Thanks, Boston, he thought.
   Bruce stalked his way towards the warehouse. He climbed up a forklift and made his way toward an open window near the roof. He squeezed inside, then, finding himself on an upper level, made his way towards a single light and the sound of voices. Eventually he reached the other end of the warehouse, where the floor gave way to a wide view of the ground floor. A half-circular table was illuminated by a single light from above. Twenty men in business suits sat along the table, staring at one man in the center. One man with a hook on his left hand. Bruce felt a rush course through him. This was the one. He glanced up at the other side of the roof; Boston briefly turned visible and gave Bruce a thumbs-up.
   "Care to explain why you failed?" one of the seated men, a large, deep-voiced African-American, said. From his body language, Bruce guessed he was the leader of this group.
   "Somebody shot a clown just as I was about to pull the trigger," the hooked man said. "The crowd went crazy. No way I was gonna be able to get off a good shot and get away. Hell, some guy almost grabbed me as I was running; I had to ditch my coat just to lose him."
   "Your mission was to kill the two acrobats," said another of the seated men. "You failed."
   "What was I supposed to do?!"
   "You've been accepted into a sacred order of assassins," the leader said grimly. "Once you've been given a target, you kill. You don't run. You don't accept anything less than perfect death."
   The hooked man looked visibly shaken. "Look, I—I already killed that Deadman guy in New York; you know I can do this."
   "A hooked assassin needs three perfect kills to pass the initiation trial. You've failed at only your second attempt. There is nothing more to discuss."
   Each of the seated men at the raised their left hands and placed them on the table with a clang. Bruce nearly gasped. Each one of the men had a hook for a left hand. Bruce had wondered why this gunman chose a hook instead of a more useful prosthetic hand; apparently the hook was a sacrificial tradition among these assassins.
   The man in the center looked back and forth between the hooked council, terrified.
   "No, PLEASE! I—"
   The loud snap of gunfire boomed from the leader's lap, where he tightly held a pistol. Bruce saw a sliver of blood drip from a perfectly-placed hole in the hooked man's head.
   If Bruce could see or hear Boston at that moment, he would have seen the ghostly man's face distorted in a cry of anger and loss.
   The whooping sound of a helicopter echoed from above, and a powerful beam of light shone through a skylight. The police had shown up early.
   The hooked men scrambled to their feet and ran to a nearby pile of crates, pulling out a plethora of automatic guns. Bruce recognized most of the guns as MP5s and AK-47s; this was about to get very, very bloody.
   A single bullet cracked through a window pane and left one of the hooked men dead on the floor. The others immediately ran to the windows and doors, readying themselves for whatever was about to come.
   Bruce immediately began searching for a way out, but he knew that was unlikely. The GCPD had surrounded the building, and a helicopter was shining its spotlight on the same side of the building as the window Bruce needed to exit.
   Boston's face faded into view in front of Bruce's eyes.
   "I'll cover you; get out of here," Boston said.
   Bruce noted the seriousness in Boston's expression; the hint of anger and loss. Boston faded out, and several seconds later the helicopter's spotlight shifted away from the window. Bruce soundlessly slipped out and ducked behind a crate. Before he could take a step further, however, the sounds of gunfire echoed from every corner of the dock. Flashes of yellow and white lit up the night; bullets thunked and pinged off every surface.
   Ever so slowly, Bruce gradually made his way from building to building, crate to crate, with Boston possessing and thereby distracting cop after cop until he could finally make it back to the street. He ducked into the nearest alley, climbed up a fire escape, and sat on top of the roof to watch everything.
   The hooked gang was all but eliminated. The few that survived only did so because they were knocked out before they could take their own lives. As the fight ended and the police began shoving the survivors into armored cars, Bruce climbed back down and joined the growing crowd now surrounding the scene.
   Bruce heard Crispus loudly arguing with another GCPD detective.
   "I TOLD YOU TO HOLD FIRE; WE WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE THEM ALIVE!"
   "Hey, we got the bad guys," the detective said nonchalantly. "Quit complainin'."
   "You'll lose your badge for this, Flass. I swear to god."
   On the other side of the crowd, two men stood alone.
   "Looks like they're gonna blame these guys for the circus shooting," one said quietly. "You're, eh, off the hook."
   "No puns. Please. No such thing as a good pun," the other said coldly.
   "So, I don't get it. Why'd you kill the clown in the first place?"
   The other man grinned with a devilish, wide, chillingly heartless smile. "Because he wasn't funny."
   Bruce glanced across the crowd and made eye contact with the grinning man. Bruce felt as though he'd just been electrocuted. There was nothing terribly out of the ordinary about this man—nothing except for his somewhat sinister-looking expression, that is—but Bruce felt as though he somehow knew this person. Like they had a connection. As though somehow their lives were destined to cross paths.
   Bruce moved to follow the man, but the crowd was thick. After a minute or two, Bruce gave up and left.

   Bruce sat in his study, slumped into his father's giant armchair.
   "Bruce!"
   Bruce didn't need to turn; he recognized Zatanna's voice from behind him.
   "What did you do?!"
   Bruce lowered his head slightly. "Nothing."
   Zatanna noticed rips and a few burns on Bruce's clothing. "You were involved in that gunfight, weren't you?"
   "Not exactly, no."
   "But you were there."
   "...Yes."
   Zatanna was beyond trying to comfort him now. She was practically furious. "What the HELL were you thinking?! Trying to find these guys on your own? Why didn't you call me?!"
   "It wasn't your fight."
   "And it was yours?!"
   "...I... I should have stopped him the first time."
   "Bruce, you're not responsible for stopping every criminal in Gotham! It's not your—"
   Zatanna suddenly realized what she was saying and felt a pang of guilt. Once again, she glanced at the portrait of the Waynes. She knelt in front of Bruce and gently held his hands in hers.
   "It's not your fault, Bruce. It never was."
   Bruce didn't answer.

   Zatanna sat with Bruce in silence for an hour or so, finally leaving him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise from Alfred that he'd be taken care of.

   After Zatanna was gone, Boston appeared in the study.
   "Hey," he said quietly.
   Bruce slowly looked back up.
   "I'm sorry we didn't catch him, Boston."
   "Yeah, me too. At least I know who he was. But still, I shoulda kept 'im from dyin'."
   "Why? I would have thought you'd want revenge."
   "I ain't sayin' I don't, but one thing I learned since gettin' put on this task is that death never balances the scales. It only makes things worse."
   Bruce thought for a moment and nodded. He had to agree.
   "So what are you doing now?" Bruce asked. "I thought finding your murderer was your goal in... life."
   "It's more than that. There's still work I'm supposed to do in my mission. Y'know, before I can... pass on."
   Bruce's mind was swirling with questions for Boston. Questions about life and death; about everything. But he quickly decided that it wasn't important for him to know. The logical, the concrete; that was where his mind belonged.
   "Speakin' of missions, Bruce," Boston said. "What is it, exactly, that you're after? I mean, you seem like you wanna bash in the head of every kinda scum in this hellhole of a town."
   Bruce stared into Boston's translucent black eyes. "I swore to fight criminals; to stop the same kind of crime that killed my parents."
   "Ah. That's why you're trainin' with the acrobats and the detectives and everythin'. You wanna be a one-man army."
   "Want has little to do with it anymore," Bruce replied. "I have to."
   Boston quietly regarded Bruce for a moment.
   "Well, maybe I can help ya with that."
   Bruce raised an eyebrow.
   "There's a hidden city, high up in the mountains of Tibet," Boston explained. "It's called Nanda Parbat. After I got turned into a ghost, some of the monks there taught me to control my powers. If you wanna become... well, more than what you are, that's where you need to go. I can show you the way."