If John Jones had a birthday wishlist, it probably didn't include:
Getting lit on fire,
Watching his evil Martian brother shapeshift out of a supermodel like it was a Vegas magic act, or
Needing rescue from a British death-wizard dressed like a gothic Power Ranger.
But hey, life's full of surprises.
Cue: Eidolon.
Pitch-black armor pulsing with crimson energy. A Deathly Hallows symbol throbbing across his chest like it had opinions. Cloak snapping in nonexistent wind. Crimson eyes glowing under a helmet that screamed, "I've got spells, sass, and zero patience."
He stepped through smoke like it owed him money.
"Good grief," he muttered. "You Martians throw worse birthday parties than the Joker on tequila."
Ma'alefa'ak turned, still crackling with fire and psychic venom. His warform was a twisted mass of rage and ancient trauma, all claws and shifting density. "You again," he growled.
"You make it sound like I'm not your favorite nightmare," Eidolon said. He raised a hand, and with a flick of his fingers, summoned a floating glyph that pulsed with runic spite. "Now then. Shall we dance?"
CLASH.
Ma'alefa'ak launched like a flaming missile. Eidolon met him midair, both of them crashing into each other like someone had decided to mix Greek mythology with a Metallica concert.
Claws met spells. Sparks flew. Reality kind of whimpered.
"You fight like a drunk Martian on open mic night," Eidolon grunted, deflecting a punch with a shield made entirely out of compressed Latin insults.
"And you talk too much!" Ma'alefa'ak snapped, blasting Eidolon with a wave of telepathy that screamed nightmares and Martian war songs.
Eidolon staggered back, but only barely. "Mate, I survived Hogwarts, Hell, and Hamilton tickets. You think your bad vibes are gonna crack me?"
He hurled a sigil bomb. It exploded midair and became a net of glowing crimson chains, wrapping around Ma'alefa'ak like reality itself was trying to ground him.
Ma'alefa'ak howled, then exploded out of it with a blast of heat that melted half the bar sign and sent Eidolon tumbling into the beer taps.
"I liked this armor," Eidolon groaned, hauling himself up. "It was dry-clean only."
—
Meanwhile...
Lt. Halliday staggered back into the room with a fire extinguisher and the absolute bravado of a man who once wrestled a raccoon for the last donut.
"SOMEONE ORDERED A HERO?"
He aimed the extinguisher at Ma'alefa'ak, pulled the trigger—
PFFFFFFFT.
Nothing.
"...Of course it's empty," Halliday muttered. "Budget cuts."
Eidolon flashed into existence beside him, crimson energy dripping off his hands.
"Much appreciated, Lieutenant. Now kindly get out before you become a side of roast cop."
"Who are you?!"
"The reason Gotham keeps a magic insurance clause," Eidolon replied and vanished in a blink.
—
The karaoke machine had finally died — may it rest in musical peace — but the bar was still a hot mess. Literally. Smoke curled from shattered walls. Booths were overturned. One of the ceiling fans was spinning from psychic turbulence like it was auditioning for The Exorcist: Home Decor Edition.
Ma'alefa'ak stood in the center of it all — a snarling, spike-armored Martian juggernaut whose mere presence screamed I burned your planet and I'll do it again. His fists glowed with telepathic energy hot enough to steam concrete. His eyes? Pure murder.
And behind him, Eidolon reappeared in a blink of smoke and sarcasm.
"Guess what I'm about to do," he said casually, voice echoing through his helmet like a smirking thunderstorm.
Ma'alefa'ak snarled and spun around—
Too slow.
WHAM — Eidolon's boot met Martian face like it had a personal vendetta.
KRAK — A holy sigil flared mid-air and smacked into Ma'alefa'ak's chest like a glowing stop sign.
SHNK — A dagger etched in necro-script buried itself into Martian ribs with a crackle of cursed light.
Each strike landed like punctuation in a very angry poem.
"You." kick
"Are." sigil-slap
"Not." punch
"Invited." reverse roundhouse
"To." dagger stab
"Birthday." shield slam
"Parties!" headbutt powered by British spite and black magic
Ma'alefa'ak roared — a sound less "wounded" and more summoning a demon storm out of spite. He raised both hands, slammed them into the floor like a wrathful drum solo, and let loose a psychic shockwave so brutal the entire room seemed to warp inward.
BOOOOOM.
Windows shattered. Booths exploded. Neon signs flickered out. Eidolon flew backwards like a gothic missile, arms flailing as he crash-landed into the birthday cake table — which, moments before, had been home to a very expensive red velvet confection.
SPLAT.
Frosting everywhere.
Eidolon lay there, stunned for a half-second, covered in crimson cake goo and very mild regret.
Then:
He groaned through his helmet speaker. "Oh no. You did not just weaponize the baked goods."
He sat up slowly. A strawberry garnish slid off his shoulder like a final insult.
"I swear to Merlin, I can forgive a lot. Martian genocide? Bit overdone, sure. Setting my friend on fire? Rude, but understandable. But this—"
He gestured to the ruined cake.
"—this is a hate crime."
Ma'alefa'ak roared again, stalking forward, eyes burning. "You think your words matter, little shadow?"
Eidolon stood, brushing cake off his chest plate like he was brushing off cosmic annoyance.
"They matter to the frosting," he muttered. "And to justice. And to bakers everywhere."
A rune flared in his palm. Dark crimson. Sharp like shattered glass.
"You ruined dessert," Eidolon said, voice low and dangerous now. "So now I ruin you."
Ma'alefa'ak charged — claws first, raw psionic energy crackling around his body like a firestorm on legs.
Eidolon didn't dodge.
He stepped into the strike, caught the Martian's arm with one hand, and slammed a hexed glyph into his neck with the other.
Light exploded.
Ma'alefa'ak screamed — the sound echoing like a thousand voices all remembering their worst nightmares at once. His form rippled, flickered, glitched.
"Memory loop spell," Eidolon muttered. "Bespoke, just for you. Every lie, every betrayal, every scream you caused? Now you get to be the playlist."
He twisted his hand.
Ma'alefa'ak dropped to his knees, snarling and convulsing.
Behind them, the few remaining cops in the bar (including a very confused Lt. Halliday) ducked under tables. Again.
"I told you to leave," Eidolon said toward Halliday without looking. "Why are you still here?"
"I was tryin' to save the cake!"
Eidolon turned slightly, helmet tilting. "That's... actually noble. Carry on."
Then he looked back at Ma'alefa'ak, who was beginning to claw his way upright.
"Y'know, I was going to let you crawl away and wallow in failure," Eidolon mused, conjuring a second obsidian dagger. "But now I think I'll just stab you through the nearest leyline and call it Tuesday."
Ma'alefa'ak lunged.
Eidolon vanished.
Reappeared above him.
"Tag," he said.
Then slammed both daggers down, driving Ma'alefa'ak through the floor.
BOOM.
Smoke. Light. A crater where the bar floor used to be.
When it cleared, Ma'alefa'ak was groaning in a heap, dazed and barely conscious.
Eidolon stood over him, cloak billowing as if stirred by divine irritation.
He pointed down at the Martian.
"And that," he said, voice sharp and smug and glorious, "is how we do birthdays in my dimension."
—
From the rubble, a groan.
John Jones stood.
Smoking. Furious. Glowing.
No disguise now. Full Martian form. Full Martian wrath.
"Ma'alefa'ak," he rasped, voice like thunder wrapped in gravel. "I'm done pretending I'm not your equal."
Ma'alefa'ak turned, sneering—
BOOM.
John's punch hit him like a solar flare. The villain flew through the far wall, through a dumpster, and possibly into next week.
Silence.
Eidolon peeled cake off his chest plate. "Well. Happy bloody birthday to you."
John exhaled. "You alright?"
"Armor's cracked, pride is dented, and there is frosting inside my left boot. But yes. Just peachy."
"Thanks for the backup."
Eidolon winked. Or maybe blinked. Hard to tell under the helmet.
"Next year, let's do bowling instead. Less fire."
—
Location: Metropolis Docks — Now featuring explosions and moral dilemmas.
Time: Technically still night. Feels more like the apocalypse.
Status: Diana vs. Cheetah vs. Everyone Else.
The docks had seen a lot of bad nights. This? Was shaping up to be legendary.
The fog curled around the shipping containers like it had a personal grudge against visibility. Chains creaked above them, and somewhere, a rat squeaked in a way that probably translated to: Nope, I'm out.
And standing dead center of it all was Diana.
Her armor gleamed even in the moonlight, her hair loose and wild like the storm she was about to bring. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows. She stood tall. Calm. Regal.
Okay… mostly calm. There was an undercurrent of try me and find out, which honestly was her default setting.
"You don't have to do this," she called into the mist, her voice smooth but laced with steel. "You can save yourself the bruises and walk away."
A laugh floated back — low, smoky, and sharp enough to slice bread.
"Oh, princess," came the reply, "you're even prettier when you're naïve."
Out of the fog stepped Cheetah — a whirlwind of predatory grace and terrifying couture. The moonlight glinted off her claws. Her smile was all teeth. And her tail swished lazily like she was already bored of this conversation.
"You really should've stayed on your little island," Cheetah purred.
Diana tilted her head, her lip curling. "And miss this performance? Not a chance."
Cheetah lunged.
There was no dramatic pause, no countdown, no theme music — just a blur of claws, gold, and fury.
They collided in mid-air with a sound that could probably be heard in Gotham. Metal shrieked as Diana's bracers met Cheetah's claws. The two women slammed into a shipping container so hard it left a Diana-shaped dent.
"You've been practicing," Diana grunted, deflecting a swipe aimed at her throat.
"You'll wish I hadn't," Cheetah shot back. Her eyes glowed amber, wild and full of hate. And then — faster than even Diana expected — she jabbed something small and sharp against her side.
Click. Hiss.
The bite of it was subtle, but immediate.
"What did you—" Diana started, but then the world… broke.
The fog twisted into something darker, meaner. Shapes warped. Every shadow had claws now. And every pair of eyes glowed gold.
Because suddenly? Everyone was Cheetah.
The dock workers. The guys unloading a truck. Even some poor couple making out in a car.
All Cheetahs. All circling. All laughing.
Diana staggered back, grabbing her head. Her pulse was hammering like war drums.
"W-what… what have you done?" she rasped.
Cheetah's grin widened. She was thriving on this chaos. Her tail flicked like it was conducting the orchestra of screams.
"Oh, just a little science project," she said sweetly. "Nanomachines, straight into your perfect little bloodstream. Every face you see? Every voice you hear? All me. Over and over. Until you drop."
Diana's breathing quickened. Her vision blurred — but not enough to hide the fact that everywhere she looked, there was another pair of glowing gold eyes.
"You'll—" she began, voice cracking.
"You'll what?" Cheetah sneered. "You can't kill me without hurting them. And you can't stop fighting me without dying yourself. So go on, princess. Prove me right. Be the animal you're so afraid you are."
Diana's hands curled into fists. Her knuckles went white.
And then she screamed.
It was a sound that shook the gulls off their posts and made the nearest dockworker throw his hardhat and yell something about workers' comp.
And then she attacked.
Her sword flashed in the moonlight. A shipping container split open like a tin can. Chains snapped as she ripped through them. The nearest "Cheetah" — in reality, just a terrified dockworker — barely ducked out of the way as her blade sliced through the air.
To her? She was surrounded. Outnumbered. Fighting for her life.
To everyone else? She was unstoppable. And she was attacking everyone.
Cheetah?
She leaned against a container and clapped slowly, the moon catching the sharp curve of her smile.
"Tick tock, princess," she purred. "Tick. Tock."
The voices in Diana's head got louder. The whispers became a roar.
Fight or die. Fight or die. Fight or die.
She slashed another "Cheetah" across the chest — and another. And another. Cries of pain filled the air.
Somewhere, deep in her mind, she knew something was wrong. But the nanomachines didn't care. They just kept whispering.
And everywhere she looked — there was Cheetah.
Diana spun, panting, her sword dripping with blood and sea spray.
"You think… this will break me?" she snarled, her voice barely human.
Cheetah tilted her head, golden eyes gleaming. "Break you? Oh no, princess. This is just the beginning. We're going to find out exactly how many lives you're willing to take before your precious conscience shatters."
She stepped closer, tail curling around her ankle like a serpent.
"I wonder," Cheetah whispered, "when you look back on tonight… will you still think of yourself as a hero?"
Diana roared and charged, blade raised, her eyes wild with fury and fear.
And Cheetah just smiled.
Because she knew:
Tonight?
She'd already won.
—
The docks looked like someone had hired Michael Bay and a demolition derby to plan a birthday party.
Fog curled low and heavy, hiding debris that absolutely no one was paid enough to clean up. A crane groaned. Chains clinked. Somewhere, a rat with strong opinions scurried past and muttered something about union dues.
In the middle of it all stood Diana — Wonder Woman — gleaming, wild-haired, perfect… and absolutely wrecking the wrong people.
To her? She was surrounded by a pack of snarling Cheetahs, each one trying to claw her throat out.
To everyone else? She was tearing through confused dock workers and civilians like a hurricane in heels.
And leaning casually against a shipping crate — like this was just Tuesday — was Cheetah herself.
Barbara Minerva. Tall, terrifying, purring with menace in every inch of her jungle-cat frame.
"Tick tock, princess," she called sweetly, pretending to check an invisible watch. "At this rate you'll kill every innocent on this pier before you even realize you lost."
That's when something gold and white dropped from the sky like divine judgment.
A blur of claws and beauty slammed down between Diana and Cheetah.
Savanna straightened — all grace in gold and ivory — her long mane of hair spilling over her shoulder as she met Cheetah's sneer with a smirk of her own.
"You," Cheetah said flatly, her perfect upper lip curling.
"Oh, good," Savanna replied, her accent smooth and sweet as sugarcane, her eyes locked on her twin. "You still recognize yourself. Thought you might've gotten too busy being evil to remember what you looked like before the Botox and murder."
Cheetah hissed. "You really want to do this here, darling?"
Savanna didn't move. "Oh, honey," she murmured, stepping closer. "I've been waiting to do this here."
The air between them practically sparked. Two identical faces — one cruel, one kind — staring each other down in matching feline grace and mirrored fury.
And then:
CRACK.
The air tore open behind them like someone had filed a complaint with reality itself.
Smoke. Crimson light. A faint sound like a thousand sarcastic sighs overlapping.
Eidolon arrived.
If gothic disdain had a Pinterest board, it was him — armor black as sin and dusted with flecks of red velvet frosting. His cloak flared like it was auditioning for Hamlet: The Action Figure. His helmet glowed faint crimson around the eyes, and his whole presence screamed "I'm here to fix this mess you all made and look good doing it."
He glanced at Diana — still fighting nothing — and groaned.
"Oh for Merlin's hairy arse," he muttered in his gloriously offended British accent. "You're all bloody useless without me, aren't you?"
He turned his helmet toward Cheetah. "And you," he added darkly, his voice echoing off the walls like a disappointed teacher.
Cheetah blinked innocently, claws resting on her hips. "What? I didn't even touch the cake this time."
"That's literally the bare minimum," Eidolon said dryly, already stalking past her. "I'll deal with you after I stop my girlfriend from accidentally chopping the rest of Metropolis into sashimi."
Savanna, still standing between Diana and Cheetah, raised her eyebrows in that knowing way only someone who kissed that mouth on a regular basis could.
"You're welcome, by the way," she called lightly.
Eidolon didn't even turn. "You're welcome for what, darling? Showing up late to my fight? Not even singing happy birthday?"
Cheetah snorted. "Oh gods," she muttered, "he flirts with both of you? Kill me now."
Eidolon spun slightly, his cloak flaring. "Patience, dear. That's still on the table."
Then he turned fully toward Diana, who was mid-swing, wild-eyed and shouting something about "more Cheetahs!"
His tone softened immediately.
"Diana," he said, low and calm, though his magic was already coiling like smoke around his fingers. "Sweetheart. Love of my complicated afterlife. Please stop slaughtering dock workers. It's very bad press."
She didn't hear him. Or she thought he was another hallucination. Either way, she shrieked:
"DON'T TOUCH ME!"
Eidolon sighed through his helmet. "Brilliant. Of course. That's healthy."
Savanna winced. "Told you she's too far gone. You know what you have to do."
Eidolon groaned theatrically. "Oh, bloody fine. But she is absolutely buying dinner after this."
He raised his glowing hands, and the air around him immediately started cracking with runes and whispers. Crimson light painted the fog in ominous streaks.
"Diana," he called softly, even as the spell gathered. "Forgive me, darling."
She turned on him like a wrathful goddess, her sword raised.
And that's when Eidolon hit her with a spell that wrapped around her like an angry love letter — glowing runes curling up her arms and locking her muscles mid-swing.
She froze. Stared at him in wide-eyed shock.
Her sword clattered to the concrete.
And she collapsed — right into his arms.
Eidolon caught her easily, one arm under her knees, his cloak sweeping them both in black and crimson silk.
He looked down at her face — even unconscious, she was gorgeous and terrifying.
"Hello, love," he murmured. "You're welcome."
Savanna crouched down beside him, lips twitching in a smirk.
"She's going to kill you when she wakes up," she pointed out helpfully.
Eidolon tilted his helmet toward her, crimson gaze locking on her like firelight.
"She can try," he replied smoothly. "You can both try, actually. Might even enjoy it."
Savanna snorted. "Perv."
"Flirt," he countered.
"Guilty," she admitted.
Cheetah — who had been watching this entire exchange with increasing disgust — finally snarled.
"You think this is over?" she snapped, her claws flexing like she couldn't decide which of them to shred first.
Eidolon's head snapped up.
And suddenly, all the humor was gone from his voice.
"No," he said, each syllable colder than the fog around them. "But you are."
For just a second — just a flicker — Cheetah actually hesitated.
And then she hissed something vile under her breath, spun on her heel, and melted back into the mist.
Savanna stood, watching her retreat, arms crossed. "She always runs," she muttered.
"She always will," Eidolon said, still cradling Diana like she was the only person in the world worth saving.
Savanna glanced down at him, her smirk softening into a smile that was pure mischief.
"You know," she teased, "you've still got frosting on your cloak."
Eidolon let out a long-suffering laugh, dry and tired and absolutely himself.
"Of course I do," he replied, shifting Diana slightly so he could brush at his helmet with one hand. "It's been that kind of bloody night."
Savanna crouched back down, pressing a kiss to the side of his helmet. "I'll get it out later," she murmured.
Eidolon tilted his helmet just enough to catch her gaze. "If you're lucky," he murmured back.
For the first time that night — between the fog and the fire and the wreckage — the three of them finally let themselves breathe.
Together.
And somewhere out in the mist, Cheetah's laugh still echoed faint and wicked.
Because if there was one thing they all knew?
Tonight wasn't over.
Not even close.
—
Location: Central City — A Warehouse That Definitely Fails Every Safety Inspection
Time: Tuesday, approximately way past Barry's bedtime.
Status: Flash vs. Mirror Master. Winner: TBD.
Central City was having one of those nights. You know the kind. Quiet. Peaceful. The kind that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can have a relaxing evening.
Barry Allen knew better.
So of course, the second he heard about "suspicious activity" in one of the city's many abandoned warehouses (seriously, who owned all these?), he suited up and zipped over.
And there he was.
Mirror Master.
Grinning like he'd just won Evil Prom King.
The guy was leaning casually against a giant mirror, boots polished, jacket immaculate, the very picture of smug. His sharp features were lit by the soft glow of his little… mirror dimension magic thing. Barry didn't know what to call it. Honestly, he didn't care. He just wanted to punch it.
"Well, if it isn't the fastest man alive," Mirror Master said, his Scottish accent so thick Barry was pretty sure it was trying to fight him too. "Still somehow slower than me. Imagine that."
Barry skidded to a stop and crossed his arms, glaring. "Sam," he said, "you couldn't have just robbed a jewelry store or something? You had to go for… this?"
Mirror Master's grin widened, which, in villain language, meant you're about to hate this.
"Oh, lad," he purred, "you're gonna love this."
Before Barry could say another word, the lights flared. Mirrors blinked to life all around the room, slicing his reflection into a hundred scarlet slashes. Then—
Click.
Something clamped onto his wrist. Cold. Heavy. Mechanical.
Barry froze. Looked down.
It was a bomb.
A very sleek, very ominous bomb.
"Oh," Barry muttered. "Fantastic. A bracelet. How thoughtful. Does it come in gold?"
Mirror Master appeared in front of him again, fixing his tie. "Here's the deal, mate. That there's a pressure- and speed-triggered explosive. Drop below 400 miles per hour? Boom. Stop running? Boom. Try to take it off? Boom. Really, it's a very versatile bit of kit. A proper modern classic."
Barry stared at him. "Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you telling me…" He raised his eyebrows. "You just Speed'd me? Like… like Keanu Reeves? On the bus?"
Mirror Master looked pleased as punch. "Aye. Brilliant film."
Barry groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh my god. You couldn't even come up with an original death trap? You ripped off a '90s movie?"
"It was a very good '90s movie," Mirror Master said defensively.
"Okay, you know what?" Barry said, throwing up his hands. "Fine. Whatever. So I slow down, everyone dies. I stop, everyone dies. I take it off, everyone dies. Cool. Cool cool cool. Can I at least get a soda before the credits roll?"
Mirror Master chuckled and tipped an imaginary hat before fading back into his mirror. His disembodied voice echoed through the glass.
"Happy running, Flash. Don't trip, eh?"
Barry stood there for half a second, staring at his reflection — which was at least fifty of him right now, all of them looking equally done with this.
Then his comm crackled in his ear.
"Barry?" Cisco's voice. Bright, sharp, just a little too chipper for the situation. "Hey man, just got a weird spike on your vitals. You good?"
Barry started jogging — because he had to. The bomb was already beeping at him like it was judging his cardio.
"Oh, you know," Barry said, weaving through a truck yard as his lightning sparked off the ground. "Just your average Tuesday. Chasing my own reflection. Running for my life. Wearing a bomb that'll level half the city if I slow down. You?"
There was a long pause.
"…" Cisco said. "You're joking, right?"
Barry's laugh was dry. Very dry. Sahara-dry.
"Buddy, I wish I was joking."
Mirror Master's face rippled across the windshield of a parked car as Barry zipped by. He winked. And vanished again.
And Barry kept running. Because what else could he do?
—
The first real obstacle came about twenty seconds later. Traffic.
Rush hour had technically ended, but Central City drivers were apparently out here auditioning for Fast & Furious 47: Please Just Use Your Turn Signal.
Barry zipped between cars, over them, under them, at one point through a suspiciously open minivan window. The bomb beeped louder every time his speed dipped below 450.
"You're cutting it way too close, man," Cisco's voice chirped in his ear. "Like, I can hear the bomb's little angry beeps and it is stressing me out."
Barry swerved around a bus. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "Is my imminent fiery death inconvenient for you? Should I come back when it's more… chill?"
"I mean…" Cisco muttered. "If you could hold off until after lunch?"
Barry gritted his teeth and bolted down an off-ramp, sending sparks skittering across the pavement.
"Ha. Ha," he said. "You're hilarious."
"Yeah, well," Cisco replied, "you know what's not hilarious? That thing on your wrist is pulling energy readings like it's powered by the freakin' Large Hadron Collider. So unless you figure out a way to outthink him… you're basically a very fast human sparkler. You got a plan yet?"
Barry zipped past a startled pedestrian who dropped their hot dog in shock.
"Uh," he said. "Working on it!"
"You always say that," Cisco said.
"And it always works out!" Barry shot back.
"Yeah, because I come up with the plan!"
Barry grinned despite himself. "Details, details."
Then his grin faded when he caught sight of yet another mirror on the side of a skyscraper — and sure enough, there was Sam again. Smirking.
"Still alive, lad," Mirror Master called, his voice somehow managing to sound both amused and faintly bored. "Impressive. But how long can you keep it up?"
Barry glared at him. "Long enough to wipe that smug look off your face."
"Oh, I'd love to see you try," Mirror Master said, and then he was gone again.
Barry exhaled hard and pushed himself faster, lightning cracking in his wake as he tore across a bridge. The city lights blurred into a river of gold and crimson streaks behind him.
"Alright," Barry muttered. "Think, Allen. You're smarter than a glorified evil funhouse. Probably. Hopefully. …Okay, questionable, but still!"
The bomb beeped again. Louder this time.
Cisco's voice cut in.
"Uh… Barry? I think you might be running out of road."
Barry glanced up. The bridge he was on was rapidly approaching its end. And beyond it? Nothing but river.
"Oh," Barry said. "Well. That's… bad."
He gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and muttered to himself.
"Okay, Sam. You wanna play mind games? Let's see how you handle this."
And with that, Barry vaulted off the edge of the bridge — and kept running.
Because hey. When you're the Flash? Gravity's just another thing to outrun.
—
Barry launched off the bridge like he had somewhere very important to be, which, spoiler alert, he did: not dead.
Below him, the river glistened, mocking him with its liquid "Nope." Most people who fell here didn't get a second chance.
But Barry? Barry was about to rewrite a chapter of "How Physics Works" with a big red pen.
His legs turned into blur machines, feet skimming the water's surface, spinning tiny whirlpools like a caffeinated DJ. Somehow — and don't ask how, because he was still figuring that out — he was running on water.
"Jesus take the wheel?" Barry muttered under his breath. "More like Barry take the water."
The bomb on his wrist beeped faster — like a caffeinated mosquito buzzing a losing battle. His heart matched the pace.
"Come on, speedforce," Barry whispered, "don't bail on me now."
He pushed his speed past 480 miles per hour, the thin line between bomb-triggered fireworks and survival. It was like balancing on a knife edge made of pure stress.
Mirror Master's face popped up everywhere: on puddles, windows, the shiny surfaces of angry ducks flapping nearby. The bastard's grin was like a creepy kid who just caught you about to ruin his Lego castle.
"Oh, enjoying the tour?" Barry shouted, swiping a fist through one of the reflections. The glass shattered but Sam's grin only got wider, somehow.
"Running on water, are we?" Mirror Master's Scottish drawl echoed over the river, dripping with smug. "You're impressive, but darling, you're running out of places to hide. Or run. Or, frankly, breathe."
Barry's face scrunched. "Yeah, well, I'm also running out of jokes and good decisions, so can we skip to the part where you lose?"
His comm buzzed, Cisco's voice cutting in like the calm in a storm — except less calm and more panicky.
"Barry, bud, seriously? The water route? The bomb's basically sucking the life out of you. It's like an energy vampire. You're draining faster than my phone at a comic-con after-party."
Barry wiped sweat off his forehead — because apparently running on water was a full cardio workout.
"Fantastic," Barry muttered. "A water runner with a ticking bomb, no plan, and a teammate who's counting down my epic fail. What could go wrong?"
Cisco's voice dropped, rare serious mode activated. "Look, I'm working on a hack to short-circuit the bomb remotely, but it's high-end tech. Sam doesn't play around. You've gotta hold on till I crack it."
Barry's jaw clenched tight. "Got it. Hold on. And if you could maybe tone down the sarcasm, that'd be great."
Suddenly, Mirror Master jumped onto a rusty boat nearby and unleashed a storm of shattered glass mirrors raining down like deadly disco confetti.
Barry twisted mid-run, dodging glittering shards that could've given a disco ball a run for its money — if disco balls were made to kill.
He ducked under a low cable, speeding up, sending a spray of river water sparkling behind him.
"Nice party trick," Barry quipped breathlessly, "but you'll need more than sparkle to win tonight."
Mirror Master's laugh rippled across the river, echoing from the shards. "We'll see, Flash. We'll see."
The bomb's beeps got frantic, the soundtrack of impending doom. Barry's speed hit 500 miles per hour, pushing the limits of human and speedforce endurance.
"Come on, Cisco," Barry muttered, "be the hero I desperately need."
"Almost there!" Cisco said. "Just hold on, please."
Barry glanced at the bomb — those pulsing crimson lights like a heartbeat counting down his life.
"You wanted a plan," Barry said, "running on water and dodging glass is what I've got. For now."
"Trust me," Cisco said, "it's a hell of a start."
And so the race was on. Barry blazing across water, Mirror Master weaving his mirrors like a puppeteer, and Cisco bending tech like a wizard behind the scenes.
Because when you're the fastest man alive, the clock isn't just ticking — it's screaming.
---
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