New York, 2010
The museums of New York were vast cathedrals of silence, their halls echoing with whispers of civilizations long buried. Glass cases gleamed under amber light, housing relics that had outlived empires, survived floods, wars, the collapse of kings. And yet none of those relics drew as many eyes as the woman who walked among them.
She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged both everywhere and nowhere. Long coats framed her tall, statuesque figure, and dark hair cascaded over her shoulders with effortless grace. Her name, to those who greeted her, was Lara Croft—archaeologist, philanthropist, founder of the Croft Corporation.
But that was not the truth.
Her truth lay in another name, one whispered only in the songs of her island home.
Diana of Themyscira.
She had not stepped into the world of mortals as a warrior, as her mother had long feared she would. There had been no battles to drag her into the storm, no war to ignite her wrath. She had stepped into man's world in the 1980s with the soft tread of curiosity, not the clash of sword and shield.
Her father's words had planted the seed.
Edward. A figure both mortal and more-than-mortal, who had walked with gods and monsters yet still chose to kneel to tie his daughter's sandals when she was small. His stories of mankind had filled her youth, painted with colors Hippolyta never would have used. Where her mother warned of cruelty, betrayal, and endless hunger for war, Edward had spoken of artists painting in candlelight, of men and women who had nothing yet gave everything, of laughter that carried through hunger, of kindness blooming in the darkest corners.
"See them, Diana," he had told her once, his voice quiet under Themyscira's twilight sky. "Not as they fail, but as they try. That's the truth of humanity. Not perfection. Perseverance."
And so, when the 1980s dawned over the world beyond the mists, Diana chose not to hide.
She stepped into man's world not as the Wonder Woman of prophecy, but as a scholar, a seeker. She crafted an identity—a woman of wealth and education, sharp as the edge of a blade and cloaked in the dust of forgotten ruins. The name Lara Croft became her armor.
Her foundation, the Croft Corporation, presented itself as an engine of preservation. Its mission: to fund archaeological digs, restore artifacts, and build museums. But beneath the public face lay something truer. Diana's creation was a shield—an organization designed to intercept dangerous relics before they could be abused, to lock away weapons that whispered too loudly, to guard humanity from powers it was not yet ready to wield.
The world saw a benefactor in tailored suits and expedition gear. None saw the warrior who could cleave a tank in half with a swing of her blade. None knew that the quiet archaeologist who smiled for cameras and cut ribbons at gala dinners was, in truth, a daughter of Zeus and the child of an ancient Amazon queen.
And that was how Diana wanted it.
For now.
By 2010, the Croft Corporation had grown into a titan of philanthropy. New York was its headquarters—a sleek glass tower overlooking Central Park, where her name adorned plaques and walls alike. Her reputation was ironclad: she was the globe-trotting genius who uncovered tombs, rebuilt schools in war-torn nations, and offered scholarships to young archaeologists whose dreams outpaced their wallets.
Yet beneath the applause, Diana lived with a quiet ache.
Every time she prepared for an expedition, she heard her mother's voice—stern, echoing like judgment across oceans.
Do not be swayed by man's lies. The world is cruel.
And yet her heart whispered otherwise. She had seen orphans laughing when handed books by her foundation. She had seen firemen rush into burning towers while others fled. She had seen nurses hold strangers' hands in crowded hospitals, refusing to let them die alone.
Cruelty lived in man's world, yes. But so did courage. So did kindness. And more often than not, the good outshone the shadows.
It was that belief—the one her father had nurtured—that anchored her.
On quiet nights in her New York apartment, she would remove the mask of Lara Croft and simply be Diana. She would stand on the balcony, gazing over the city lights, and let the sounds of the metropolis wash over her. The honking cars, the distant laughter, the echo of music from a street corner—it was chaos, but it was alive.
And sometimes, her phone would buzz.
Her father never called in the daylight. He appeared in moments like shadows, like stories drifting into her life at odd turns—an old man in a library who nudged her toward a forgotten book, a fisherman in Greece who spoke with too much wisdom, a quiet figure mending a wall in the British Museum. But when he did call, his voice was steady, grounding her like no one else could.
"You're too hard on yourself, Diana," Edward said once, his voice carrying warmth even through the crackle of the line. "Your mother raised you to be wary. I raised you to be hopeful. The balance lies somewhere between. You'll find it."
She had smiled at that, her fingers tightening around the phone. "And what of you? Do you still believe mankind is worth all this?"
A pause. Then, softly: "More than ever."
The Croft Corporation's boardroom was often filled with people who had no idea they were sitting across from a goddess. Her assistants and colleagues marveled at her stamina, her endless calm, the way she could outwork men half her age and still walk into a gala radiant.
But none of them saw her spar in the dead of night, when she slipped into a private gym beneath the tower, drawing sword and shield to keep her skills sharp. None of them saw her return from expeditions with bruises that healed too quickly, or with relics too dangerous to ever display.
Diana was always careful. She was patient, calculating.
She knew the world was not ready to see her for who she was.
Not yet.
But she also knew this: the day would come.
Her father's words echoed in her heart like prophecy. The time will come when you must step into the light. Not to rule. Not to conquer. But to remind them of what they can be.
And when that day arrived, Diana of Themyscira would no longer hide behind the name Lara Croft.
The world would remember another name.
Wonder Woman.
***
It was late one evening when Diana stood alone in the museum's upper halls. The crowds had gone, the lights dimmed, leaving only the echo of her footsteps on polished marble. She stopped before a case holding a shattered Greek shield, its bronze face scarred by centuries of war.
She lifted a hand, pressing it lightly against the glass. Memories of Themyscira tugged at her—the clang of sparring swords, the stern gaze of her mother, the laughter of sisters who believed she would never leave.
Her reflection stared back at her. Not Diana of Themyscira. Not Wonder Woman. Just Lara Croft, in a tailored black coat, her eyes steady, her lips pressed in quiet determination.
She smiled faintly, almost wistfully.
"You were wrong, Mother," she whispered softly into the empty hall. "Man's world is cruel, yes… but it is also kind."
Her hand fell away, and she turned, her heels clicking softly as she strode into the shadows of the museum.
Tomorrow, she would board a plane to Cairo, chasing a relic whispered to be older than history. Tomorrow, she would sign papers funding a children's hospital in Queens. Tomorrow, she would laugh with her father over coffee, and he would remind her that hope was a choice, not a gift.
But tonight, she walked the halls of history alone.
And the world—unknowing, unprepared—slumbered beneath the gaze of a warrior who had chosen, for now, to simply watch.
But not forever.
When she revealed herself, she knew, the world would not just see a protector.
It would see a truth.
And in that truth, mankind would remember that even in their fractured imperfection, they were never broken.
*******
Central City, 2012
Barry Allen had always believed in heroes.
It was the only way he survived his childhood.
His mother's death was a wound that never closed. His father's wrongful imprisonment left him adrift, a boy trapped between grief and rage. But instead of surrendering to despair, Barry filled the void with stories. Stories of justice, of courage, of people who chose to rise when everything told them to fall.
And among those stories, one name glowed brightest.
Edward Elric.
The mysterious savior who had once stood between humanity and annihilation, who had challenged gods themselves and vanished into legend. Temples were built in his honor, shrines dotting Greece and scattered corners of the world. Some said he was myth. Others whispered he was still out there.
To Barry Allen, he was real. He had to be.
Because if Edward Elric had existed—if someone like that could rise and win—then maybe Barry could still believe in the impossible.
****
The world outside the window of Barry Allen's cramped apartment blurred past in streaks of neon and rain as if even the city itself could never quite keep still. It fit, in a way. Barry had never been able to keep still either. His mind was always racing, chasing after truths and justice, sprinting faster than his own legs could carry him. But when night fell, when the hum of the city softened into a dull roar, he always found himself staring at the same wall.
A shrine. His shrine.
Pinned across it were yellowed clippings and grainy photographs: blurry shots of Edward caught mid-step in some forgotten crisis; anonymous testimonies from people who swore they'd been saved by a man who appeared and vanished like smoke; even half-legends ripped from obscure forums where the faithful whispered about an invisible guardian who'd walked the Earth for centuries. In the center was a drawing Barry had sketched as a boy—Edward standing tall, faceless, half-shadow, half-light.
Barry would lie back on his bed, eyes fixed on that wall, and hear his mother's voice.
"Remember, Barry. Real heroes don't just save lives, they give them meaning."
Her laughter would echo a heartbeat later. Then the memory would shatter, and the weight of reality would crush him again. She was gone. His father, innocent, rotted behind prison bars. And Barry… Barry was still just Barry, a forensic scientist with too many questions and not enough answers. A man running in place.
Until that night. The night lightning chose him.
The storm had torn across Central City with a fury that rattled windows and cracked the sky. Barry had been hunched over his desk in the lab, another stack of case files spread like playing cards before him, when the bolt struck. Light exploded through glass, air, and bone. For an instant, Barry Allen was nothing but raw nerve and lightning flashes. And then he was on the floor, the taste of ozone on his tongue, his heart pounding a rhythm that didn't feel human.
The hospital stay that followed was a blur. What Barry remembered most was the silence. Although he was in a coma, he could sometimes percieve things. Doctors whispering outside his room, Joe and Iris watching his with sorrow, his transfer to Star Lab, Caitlin Snow's steady presence at his side, her eyes betraying a mix of terror and fascination as she studied his impossible recovery. Wounds closed overnight. Bruises faded within hours. His body wasn't just healing. It was changing.
When Barry finally stumbled back into his apartment, the shrine stared back at him like it had been waiting. His skin buzzed with a restless energy, his fingers drumming so fast against his thigh they blurred. He knew—he didn't just feel—it in his bones: this was no accident. This was a beginning.
But the gift also terrified him.
Every time he tried to push himself toward heroism, fear whispered in his ear. What if he wasn't good enough? What if he failed the way he had failed his mother? What if this power was just another cruel joke from a universe that had already taken too much?
Doubt chased him no matter how fast he ran.
Beginnings demanded guidance. And there was only one man Barry trusted to give it.
****
The run began with a step. A simple, almost hesitant step onto the empty street. Then another. Then the world fell away.
Central City became a smear of color, light peeling into ribbons, the air tearing in shuddering bursts as Barry pushed faster, faster, faster. His breath came in sharp gulps but his body… his body begged for more. Asphalt trembled beneath each stride. The horizon bent, then broke, then reformed with mountains, oceans, fields, all tearing past in the blink of an eye. Time lost meaning. Distance became irrelevant. He was everywhere and nowhere, a streak of living lightning carving across the Earth.
And then Greece. The Aegean shimmered under a silver moon, the ruins of an ancient temple jutting from the hillside like broken teeth came to his sight.
When he finally stopped, the Mediterranean air hit his lungs like fire. Before him stood an ancient stone shrine, weathered but proud, nestled among the cliffs of Greece. Candles flickered at its base, offerings of flowers and carved tokens left by countless pilgrims. At its center stood a statue: a tall figure, arms folded, gaze unyielding.
Edward, the Greatest Hero of Mankind.
Barry's chest tightened. He had seen blurry pictures online, read message boards about these shrines, but standing here was different. It felt alive. Sacred.
"I… I made it," Barry panted. "I actually… I ran here in a minute!"
He dropped to his knees before the altar, sweat dripping down his face, breath hitching as words spilled from his heart.
"Please Hero Edward… I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to use this gift. I don't want to waste it. I don't want to make things worse. I just—" His voice cracked. "I wish to be a hero. To give them hope. Like you."
Silence answered him. Only the wind through the stone, only the soft hiss of the sea below.
Barry's shoulders slumped. He gave a half-bitter laugh. "Guess I should've known better… talking to statues. Stupid. Myths are rarely real."
He turned to leave, disappointment weighing heavier than his exhaustion. He almost stumbled and fell.
And then...
"Guess you should've stretched first," a voice said lightly behind him.
Barry froze. His heart jumped into his throat. Slowly, he turned.
A man leaned against one of the pillars, arms crossed, posture casual. Golden hair streaked with time, eyes sharp and amused. The smirk was unmistakable.
Barry's jaw dropped. His words tumbled out in a messy, breathless rush.
"Oh my god—oh my god— you're him! Holy crap you're actually real! You have no idea how many nights I've spent reading about you! Do you know how many forums I've argued on, trying to prove you exist? I even made a Reddit thread about that time you supposedly suplexed a god—wait, did you actually suplex a god? Oh man, Cisco is never going to believe this—"
Edward chuckled, shaking his head as he dropped onto a broken pillar like it was a throne. "Calm down kiddo. You talk a lot faster than you run."
Barry laughed, breathless, then fell silent as his emotions surged all at once. Awe. Relief. The crushing weight of every question he'd carried since childhood. He swallowed hard. "All my life… I've looked up to you. I read every story, every myth and legends, every rumor. Others thought I was crazy, but I knew you were real. And now… you're just standing here. Allow me to geek out for a minute."
Edward chuckled softly. "It's nice to know someone still looks up to me as a hero despite my many failures."
Barry was almost shocked. "How can you say that! If you are a failure, what does that make the rest of us! You are like closest thing to perfection!"
Edward tilted his head. "Haha, thanks for the compliment kid. You're a hardcore fan huh? So tell me, Barry Allen. Why'd you run all this way to seek me?"
Barry dropped to the worn stone floor, his hands trembling. "I don't know what's happening to me. One minute I was struck by lightning, and now—I can run faster than sound, faster than thought. But it's more than that. I feel like I'm carrying something bigger than myself, and I don't know if I'm strong enough." His voice cracked. "I don't want to fail. Not like I failed my mom. Not like I failed my dad."
For the first time, Edward's gaze softened. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Listen to me, Barry. Strength doesn't come from the speed in your legs. It comes from the weight you're willing to carry. Your father's truth. Your mother's memory. The lives you'll save along the way. But don't mistake speed for purpose. Running fast won't solve everything."
Barry managed a shaky smile. "Kind of figured. Otherwise I'd just run back in time and… fix everything."
Edward's expression grew sharp, almost warning. "Be careful with thoughts like that. Time isn't a toy. What you've been given—it's a gift, yes. But also a responsibility. The world doesn't need a man who can outrun his mistakes. It needs a man who can face them. Head on."
The words hit Barry like the thunderbolt that had birthed him. He wanted to argue, to cling to the desperate hope of undoing his pain, but Edward's voice held the weight of centuries. He knew better. Deep down, Barry knew he was right. He spoke all his doubts unlike his usual reserved self. He was with the man he admired most, who else better to confide?
Edward listened. Patient. Attentive. Sometimes nodding, sometimes giving a quiet laugh at Barry's self-deprecating humor. When Barry's voice finally cracked, Edward rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Speed won't solve anything if your mind's tangled," he said softly. "You need to temper your heart first. See people as they are, not just how you feel about them. That's how you'll know who deserves your speed, and who doesn't. Otherwise, you're just running blind."
Barry blinked, biting his lip. "So… you think I can also be a hero?"
Edward smiled, faint but genuine. "You already are. You just have to choose to live it. You will indeed become a great hero kid, I believe in you."
Something ignited in Barry's chest then. Not lightning. Not adrenaline. Something steadier. A warmth, a certainty he hadn't felt in years. Being acknowledged by someone he admired.
Edward drew him into a brief, firm embrace, and Barry almost broke then, almost let himself cry like the boy who had lost his mother all those years ago. He just stayed like that, feeling an unknown sense of peace. He muttered softly, "So, I can't run back in time even if I'm too late to stop something bad?"
Edward leaned back, eyes twinkling with mischief now. "If you keep running around changing things, you'll make a mess. Trust me, I've seen enough comic books to know how badly that goes. Ever read Spider-Man?"
Barry blinked. "Wait! You..... read Spider-Man?"
Edward chuckled. "Of course. Kid's always broke, can't hold a job, but still gets up every day to save people who don't even thank him. Reminds me a little of you." He paused, his tone softening. "Remember this, Barry: with great power—"
Barry groaned, cutting him off. "No. Don't you dare say it! I would run back in time if you died like Uncle Ben to give me character development!"
Edward laughed, the sound echoing through the ruins. "Alright, that's fair haha. But you get the point."
For the first time since the lightning struck him, Barry's chest felt lighter. He laughed too, wiping at his eyes. "Yeah. I get the point."
Edward's voice grew quiet, almost reverent. "Then run, Barry , run. Run into the storm, not away from it. And when the world sees you, when they call you hero or menace, remember—it isn't about what they call you. It's about who you are."
Barry nodded slowly. His heart raced not with fear but with certainty. For the first time, he knew who he was becoming.
***
When Barry returned to Central City, he was different. More mature, grounded.
He carried Edward's words like armor. He began to believe. Not recklessly, not blindly—but with purpose.
His crimson suit, stitched together with Caitlin's steady hands and Cisco's restless genius, was more than fabric. It was a symbol. A blur of red and gold that streaked through alleys, over rivers, across rooftops, leaving criminals dazed and citizens saved. Each night, Barry remembered Edward's words, carrying them like scripture.
When a runaway train thundered toward the city's edge, Barry didn't panic. He remembered Edward's calm, his patience. He matched his speed to the train, calculated each car's weight in milliseconds, and guided it safely to a halt.
When a young boy cried in the aftermath of a fire, his toy lost to the flames, Barry slowed down long enough to comfort him, searching the smoldering wreckage until the boy's eyes lit up again. "Strength isn't about speed," he whispered, recalling Edward's lesson. "It's about carrying hearts without breaking them."
And when he stood over the grave of his mother, finally free of guilt's chains after his father's exoneration, Barry closed his eyes and spoke into the night. "I'm not running away anymore, Mom. I'm running toward something. Toward hope. Toward Dad. Toward every life I can save. And I won't stop."
Lightning crackled in the clouds above, answering him like a promise.
***
And in Caitlin Snow, he saw something he hadn't expected.
She had been there from the beginning. Quietly steady, brilliant, but haunted in her own ways. She believed in him when he faltered, challenged him when he hesitated, and offered comfort when the weight of his father's imprisonment grew too heavy.
Together, they pursued the truth. Piece by piece, case by case, until finally, Henry Allen walked free, a man vindicated after years of injustice. The moment Barry embraced his father outside those prison gates, Caitlin's hand in his, he knew Edward had been right. He could almost swear he saw the smiling face of Edward among the crowd, but he vanished before he could reach him.
His heart had found clarity. His purpose had found shape.
Barry Allen, once a boy frozen by grief, was now a man defined by motion. The fastest man alive. The Flash.
Not just a blur of red lightning, not just a reckless young man with powers too big for his shoulders—but a guardian tempered by wisdom.
By 2014, whispers filled the world.
Gotham had its Bat.Metropolis had its Superman.Central City had its Flash.
And somewhere in New York, a woman named Lara Croft was far more than she appeared.
None of them had yet met. But each knew, in their own way, that they were not alone.
The age of heroes was not just beginning.
It was gathering.
And somewhere, watching unseen from the edge of the crowd, Edward smiled. His work wasn't finished. But it had begun. And that was enough.