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Posted by The Spirit
on 8/6/2009, 4:39 pm
69.47.233.55
He hasn’t set foot in the steaming pits of Central City in a long time. He’s avoided it. Too many memories. Too many failures. But today he had to return. If he didn’t, there was no way their plan could have succeeded. So here he is. Here in the steaming, sweltering underbelly of a thousand burnt-out tenements. Here, amidst the smoke of the El-Train and the burning industrial waste. He’s come home. He’s come home to make it all cold again.
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Say what you will about the Flash, but the man did a lot for Central City. I worked with Barry back before the Crisis when he was still alive and working out of Central, and let me tell you, he was a pro. Calm, Collected, Smart as hell—the kind of guy you want as a superhero. And he wasn’t just one of these “punch first and ask questions later” heroes. Barry was a detective. He was one of the best, alright. And the world’s not the same without him.
“Here we are, Mr. Blue, the one and only Flash Museum” Ebony leans back over the driver’s seat of his grandfather’s cab and looks back at me. “Try not to break anything.” He flashes me a grin.
“Well,” I shrug, “You know me.”
“Yeah, that’s why I said it.” He turns back around as I step out of the taxi and look at it. The Flash Museum. Tribute to the hero of Central City, Keystone City, and the whole wide world. It’s a beautiful building; huge, spacious, and elegant. I pause and take a deep breath before slowly climbing the polished concrete steps leading to the doorway.
He steps off of the El-train onto the platform,the combined body heat of its participants making him gag. He is met by his colleagues—4 huge bruiser types decked out in tailored suits, all trying to look nonchalant, and all failing miserably. There is not an ounce of brains among them, but for this job, there doesn’t need to be. He hands one of the goons his bag, and silently passes through the platform. He is met hushed questions of where they are going, or what they are needed for, or of when they will receive payment. He ignores them.
Outside the platform, there is a nondescript car waiting for him, and sitting on it, a nondescript man reading a paper. The driver looks up at him and smiles; the plan is underway. He breathes in the cool night air and smiles—a cold wind is coming to wash over the city. And when it is done, the Flash will be cast into the icy pits of oblivion.
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“I’m gonna need to see some ID, pal.” The security guard steps in my way as I try to enter the building. I reach into my pocket and pull out my police clearance badge—amazing what dating the commisioner’s daughter can get you. He looks at it, and raises his eyes to look at me.
“Oh, and if you need some photo identification, there’s a picture of the Flash and I inside. If that helps.” I smirk a little as I walk inside.
To say the museum is breathtaking is an understatement. 70 years of superhuman exploits all rolled into one building. I walk through the main hallway, and take in the sights. Jay Garrick’s helmet sits on a podium to my right. To my left, a beautiful replica of Barry’s costume, complete with Ring. Above my head, a huge, ornate globe, with tiny statuettes of Superman and the Flash racing around it, smoothly gliding across the seas. Children pass all around me, carrying balloons with the Flash insignia. Several of Capt. Boomerang’s Boomerangs sit in glass case. The next case over holds a real life JSA communicator, and a portrait of the team’s first meeting. I can hardly believe it. A pair of tourists spot me and begin fussing about—I guess they just saw our picture. I smile for their cameras. And then I see it. It’s a tiny display, a placeholder to most, but to me, it means the world. A news photo Barry and I standing together after one of my first cases. It’s why I came here tonight, and why I came alone. This picture is the night I learned what it took to be a hero. Down the hall, I can hear Dexter Myles, the excited curator, spinning another yarn to a group of kids. I reach an intersection, and get ready to go look at the Rogues Gallery when I hear their voices—not their original voices, but there’s no mistaking those two. I don’t know whether I’m overjoyed to hear them again, or infuriated.
“It’s a closet.”
“It’s not a closet, dear, it’s a lovely tribute.”
“I’m not saying it’s not a lovely closet, it’s just a closet.”
“Well, to be fair, it is the Flash Museum.”
“Yeah. Which is why the guy that taught the Flash everything he knows should get more than a closet.”
“Everything he knows, huh?”
“Ok, maybe not everything—alright, maybe just—Some day I’ll win an argument with you.”
I slow my breathing down as best I can and look over. Not exactly who I expected. Two young punk rockers, a guy and a girl. He’s got a Mohawk, a denim jacket, a pierced nose, and combat boots. She’s got a flannel shirt, leather skirt, and bright blue hair, and is clinging to his upper arm. I smile in spite of myself and start walking over.
“Is that,” The guy points at me—he’s got painted fingernails, which is odd— and leans over to his girl, “Is that—“
“Yes Dear,” The girl pats his shoulder and smiles before waving to me as broadly and awkwardly as she can, “Spirit! Hello! You don’t recognize us, but—“
“Sue, please. How many people in the world would really care about their own tribute at another superhero’s museum? And for the record, Ralph, a closet is better than one portrait next to a water fountain, but I’m just happy to be here.” My smile takes up half of my face at this point. We hug, and walk down the hall together. Ralph and Sue Dibny. The strangest, greatest couple to ever live.
“So what’s with the new look?” I raise an eyebrow.
“We can—we can tell—Can we tell him?” Sue looks back and forth rapidly.
“We’re ghosts now!”
“We prefer spirits, but, basically, Ralph is right.” Like I said, strangest, greatest couple to ever live. And die and come back, I suppose.
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The car screeches to a halt in front of the museum. He gets out silently, followed by his enforcers carrying baseball bats. The air is hot, stiff, silent. It is hard for him to breathe between the anticipation, fury, and humidity. He readies his pistols as they climb the stairs. A hot-headed guard attempts to stop them. He makes quick work of the fool with his ice-gun. The others stand down. He pulls his hood up, lowers his visors, and marches through the huge oaken doors, pistol in each hand and laughs. Tonight, Capt. Cold shows the world what he thinks of the Flash’s Legacy.
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That's when I heard the commotion. Screaming, shouting. Ralph and sue perk up quicker even than I do. Heroics are in their blood. They're the most serious people on Earth, even if they try really hard to make it look like the opposite.
"Everyone FREEZE!" I recognize the forced pun and disappointed groan in the voice immediately. Capt. Cold. We've met before. That fateful night. The night Barry Allen taught me to be a hero. Looks like I finally get to show you what I learned, Barry.
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