1Something October 1986 (not sure how this process works)
Dear Wally,
Today started out like any other day...for me, anyway. I dinked around with my wheeled machine, trying to make it go slow enough to get me out of this place, smacked the little beat-up, hand-me-down punching bag that Mr. Joe set up in the garage next to my work area when the calculations don't work, then went out for a jog to clear my head.
Now, before you say anything, I do love my friends and will miss them a lot. I just don't want to stay here all my life, which is apparently what is expected of me.
What a great little 10 "year-old" I am. Oh yeah, speaking of which, I asked my teacher Ms. Jess what a year is yesterday; the look on her face was priceless. Apparently it's just an old-age term for Earth-Sun cycle, (YES! I knew there was a term for that) but she seemed too wary for that to be the case. Is there any other meaning associated with the word "year" that I should be worried about?
Oh, how do you use your date system? I think I figured out what the last number is (year), but I don't know what "October" and the other number mean.
By the way, what do you mean, who am I really? I told you. Rowan Silver. I don't really have a middle name, but you didn't give one, so yeah.
Mr. Joe is the person who told me stories concerning someone with your name, so you might say that he's my informant. Or you could call him a tired old man trying to get a little five-year-old to stay still long enough to go to sleep. Take yer pick.
Is Earth 1 a different country or something? Oo, is it an alternate dimension where it's similar yet different? (I'm finally taking Physics. I really hope the Quantum Theory isn't simply a possibility) And why did you seem concerned when I told you about where I live? Do you think it's like Gotham or something? (Those stories are dark...does Robin exist where you live? If so, please take the piece of paper I enclosed in this envelope, sign it, get him to sign it, and any other heroes, powered or otherwise, and mail it back with your next letter)
I suppose I was my own trainer. I mean, everyone I attend classes with (while they are a bit older) is super cool and stuff; the only way I could survive the crowds without being trampled is learn to duck, weave, and sprint to class.
What's a "cal." ?
I honestly don't know what the Speed Collapse is, I just roll with it.
I am Female, thanks for indirectly asking.
The sun is a bit bright at times, for we're the second closest planet to the sun. (Some smartypants decided to test a teleporting device on Venus and zapped himself and the celestial body to the Outer Rim of Jupiter) We're about 25 miles closer to the sun than before (which makes no sense unless the mass of Venus was pushing us away from the sun; nature should look at Newton's laws).
What were you talking about? I got your letter, I'm responding, what's the problem?
Anyway, I have a really off -topic question for you: Since you know something about the Speed Force (don't deny it, your response proves otherwise), is it possible for someone to go slow enough that the S.F. won't support them, sending them elsewhere (like, per say, an alternate dimension)?
From a hopefully potential friend,
Rowan Silver
P.S. Please don't call me Ms, either, just Rowan. Or Silver. Or Twitchy Two-feet. Or Madam Stumbles-a-lot. Anything but Ms.
Rowan got a reply in only two Earth-Axle Cycles. Except it wasn't a letter. Someone came to pay a visit.
Hello, Now go away.
This is me in the morning without my morning half-cup of coffee.
Hello, I'm Rowan, why are you here, and could you scoot so I could get my Crunchy Peanut-Buttered toast? That's me without breakfast.
I sit down to bleerily crunch on my burnt bread as I contemplate the usefulness of going to school. Eh, I should probably go so that I can have a positive future.
When I glance at the clock and realize what time it is (7:50, if you want to know), I cram the remaining slice in my mouth, scramble and slip to my desk to pack, all in my lightning pjs. I shouldn't have taken that time to savor the bitterness of the coffee, but whatever. It'll only take a sec to change into my jeans and t-shirt, and to brush my teeth.
Right as I stuff the last book into my backpack, some random person runs straight through the front door not the living room, little scorch marks in their wake.
Sounds cool, right?
NO. NOT COOL. AT ALL. This random stranger decided to crikin' blow up our door before slipping on our wooden floor, tripping on the carpet, and crackin' their head on the couch arm.
How am I supposed to deal with an unconscious human in my living room? Couldn't he (think it's a he, anyway, can't crikin' tell right now) have waited until after school to come knocking himself out in the main living space of the house?
I cautiously walk towards him (though it seems too fast, for some reason) to better examine the damage. I don't really want to see my first death at age ten.
That is a young male teenager in a yellow-and-red onesie. Aaand a hoodie with eye holes. (Does he think it is a crime to wear pjs?)
Don't know anyone who would admit to wearing something like that in public, much less break in somewhere. Also don't know anyone who has bright ORANGE hair (white, maybe, not orange).
When I poke his shoulder to see if he would wake up, the kid's eyes snap open and he immediately uses the now slightly broken couch (hahaha, understatement; it's totally obliterated) to right himself. Those eyes are different, a bit like what I imagined Emerald would look like, except with a hint of Forest green.
Then he does the jerk thing and attempts to exit my house.
"Whoa, what are you doing?" I stand up and position myself between him and the smoking pile of ash that is now my door. "Crazy dude, if you think you're getting out of here without replacing my door, much less an explanation, you've obviously got problems."
The boy startles, clearly noticing my presence for the first time. His face, which is already a shade lighter than my own, pales when he spots the crater in my wall.
"Oh, crud. I didn't realize anyone was still living here."
What?
"Who are you?" I ask, perplexed at his answer to my previous question. Does it matter whether or not the house has occupants when you decide to incinerate its front door?
He runs the back of his neck with a red-gloved hand, clearly embarrassed. "It's Kid Flash. Look, I'm sorry about the door. And the couch and floor. And for scaring your cat. I'll fix it soon, but could you tell me where a Ms. Rowan Silver lives?"
"It's Rowan, Mr. Kid Flash. Let me guess, it's either you intercepted the correspondences between a Mr. Wallace West and myself and decided to come find me for some reason, I've been writing to a friend of yours, or I wrote to you. Which is it, Mr., and please don't try to bluff."
The alleged Kid Flash pinches the bridge of his nose, I believe in an attempt to think of a way out of this. His hand comes down, and the corner of my mouth twitches at the resigned look on his face.
He finally answers after a long awkward silence of ten seconds. "Fine, the third one. Will you come with me to Earth 1 so that you don't deteriorate within a decade?"
before I could answer, he grins. "Alright. Brace yourself."
He tries to pick me up, but I go NOPE and run out the door.
I dash through the street, the doors a blur as I zip away from the psycho penpal person-napper.
What? I wanted it to be alliterative. Makes it easier to remember.
I make a sharp turn onto Ford Road. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a smidge of lightning pass the turn, barely missing me.
This is the best time I've had since my fifth birthday. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, the wind howling in my ears drowning everything else, the wall rapidly closing in on me-
I jump and crouch sideways in midair, my feet absorbing the impact before I start running upward. Because I think to myself, 'They never look up.'
Except apparently they do. The twerp was up there waiting for me with open arms.
He encloses me in a firm hug, being gentle yet firm even as I struggle to break free.
I'm trapped.
He carefully lifts me away from himself, keeping my arms pinned to my sides as I glare at him. He looks back, remorse written in what isn't under the cowl. I don't want him to be remorseful, I want him far away from me, with no reason to give me that look.
For, in my experience, the look always means someone's going to be hurt in the end.
"I'm sorry, but I'll explain everything when we get there."
He sets me down and pulls out a pair of cuffs from who-knows-where and links us together at the wrist, all before I realize what he's doing.
I, like any desperate human being, attempt to smack him on the back of the skull and make a break for it.
Of course, whatever diety group that is in right now decides that, for some reason, I don't get cut a break.
The supposed "superhero" (supervillain, whatever) snatches my free wrist (with his "captive" hand. Show off). He takes a deep breath and cracks a little stick in front of my face.
I hold in the remaining air I have for 10.5 minutes, Kid Flash staring at me with a mixture of concern and awe. At least, until I release the carbon dioxide and breathe in the contaminated air.
My vision blinks for about two seconds, but that's it. I frown at the confused look on the jerk's face. Then he looks up at something behind me and sighs in relief.
"Hey, Flash."
Something SMACKS me on the EXACT SAME PLACE I wanted to hit The Western Firehazard Spectacular earlier. I hope someone kicks the dieties in charge on the sides of the knees or something.
I start to collapse, bringing Mr. West down with me. (Can't exactly be casual with the name of the kidnapper, eh? I reckon this is why people say, "Never meet your heroes." ) I look up at the face of a reversed version of Zippy People Taker Sr. (doesn't show hair, though), but my head hurts as my eyes move.
Still falling.
My vision quivers, but I get one last glare in at the duo zippers before my head smacks the concrete on the roof of Passin' without Fussin'™.