Islands near Indonesia.
Tesco Verier.
In the jungle.
The undergrowth thrived, the trees unusually tall and lush due to magnetic field disturbances. Bright, exotic piranha plants emitted strong, alluring aromas.
Dim light filtered through the gaps in the canopy, as a cool breeze rustled the leaves with a faint and continuous sound.
Hot biogas rose from the forest floor, accompanied by low rumbles of thunder, easily stirring unease in anyone who stepped foot here.
Boom! Rumble...
The sky constantly crackled with fury. Thunder roared from the dark clouds, erupting with impatience in explosive bursts. Here, this was the norm.
A vibrant red-billed ground cuckoo flitted onto a branch. Brown upper body, dark blue underbody and tail, yellow upper beak, red lower beak with a small black dot at its tip—this beautiful equatorial bird moved nimbly on the branches, its gem-like black eyes alert and locked onto the forest floor.
Crack...
Bruce's black combat boots, caked with mud and dead leaves, crushed a twig beneath him. The filth had stained them halfway up the sides. He raised his head and spotted the unique bird. With a grim expression, he sprinted deeper into the jungle.
Behind him, Barry's body was riddled with burns. His face and skin were blackened, thoroughly cooked. They had already tried twice to awaken Barry as The Flash.
But clearly, luck was not on their side. Barry had not become The Flash. Bruce's current method and chemical configuration weren't enough to trigger the transformation.
Barry needed the speed granted by the Speed Force.
As Bruce sped forward, the sharp jolts and movement stirred Barry from unconsciousness. Weak and dazed, he opened his eyes. His body was in terrible condition, corroded internally by chemicals, his bones aching, and his strength completely gone.
"Is he... still chasing us?"
Barry murmured faintly.
Bruce, who had spent years with him and understood him well, could decipher what he meant despite the barely audible voice.
"Get up."
Bruce didn't answer directly. Instead, he urged him with a short command, then buried his head and broke through the dense forest. His body pushed forward swiftly, navigating brambles and brush to protect Barry. He moved through the forest floor covered in leaves and branches.
Above them, the fiery red-billed cuckoo chirped and spread its wings, seemingly mocking them. It flew acrobatically from branch to branch, keeping pace with Bruce.
As expected, when it landed on a branch, a small black projectile flew ahead of it. The cuckoo seemed to fly directly into it.
Whoosh—
A small arrow launched from Bruce's arm hit the bird mid-air with pinpoint accuracy, precisely where he had anticipated it would be.
The cuckoo froze, stunned, disbelief etched into its beady eyes.
The arrow pierced its body. Feathers scattered under the dim light, droplets of blood splashing onto the emerald-green leaves. The arrow flew skyward as the bird fell to the ground.
It landed amidst a pile of dead leaves. Just like that, the red-billed cuckoo was dead.
Bruce said nothing. The sky remained shrouded in thunderous clouds. Icy winds carried stinging molecules that prickled the skin, while heat radiated from the ground, leaving a sense of burning discomfort. Still, his steps never slowed. He moved swiftly, trampling leaves, shielding Barry, and in strategic spots, threw down subtle explosives to set powerful traps.
In this dangerous, desperate sprint, Barry bounced weakly on Bruce's back. The pain of torn flesh from his burns drew groans from him.
He was in agony, but after groaning, he chuckled faintly.
"He's better than anyone we've ever known..."
"Polite, well-mannered, upright posture, doesn't smile. A proper English gentleman, that's what he was!"
As Bruce accelerated, Barry slurred his words, as if muttering the final reflections of his life.
The wind was chilly, cutting against their skin with sharp coldness.
Bruce stretched his arm to block a spiked branch. It slid across the close-fitting kevlar armor on his arm with a soft scrape. The branch bent and snapped back but never touched Barry.
"That's not him."
Bruce's voice was calm and quiet.
That man, as Bruce remembered, was petty, shameless, lacking in decency. He drank, gambled, frequented prostitutes, had no morals, and was despised by many. But when it mattered, he was dependable.
He was definitely not an English gentleman.
Barmulodi had reshaped him, turning him into a tool.
"Barmulodi's education is terrifying..." Barry's voice grew weaker. His internal organs felt empty, like they had aged and withered.
He lay on Bruce's back, vision blurring. The cloudy haze in his eyes conjured images of Barmulodi's terror. They had been on the run for years, and even his subordinates alone were lethal. Barry and the others had nearly died multiple times.
Many familiar heroes and villains they once knew had been turned against them.
What a terrifying person.
Bruce remained silent. He understood the horror of Barmulodi better than anyone. His simple probe had caused the centuries-old Wayne Group to be crushed, reducing him to a bat without wings, hiding in the deepest shadows, unable to step into the light.
Neither of them spoke again.
Lightning flickered in the cloudy sky. The rumble echoed across the area.
Crack.
For a brief instant, a pale flash lit the world, startling and blinding.
The deafening thunder shook the air, startling the entire forest. Birds burst from the trees in flocks.
The wind picked up.
Bruce moved quickly, breaking through the brush, tearing apart thick vines until he reached his destination.
A tall hill, bare of trees, stood before him. It was the perfect place for Barry to be struck by lightning—no trees to deflect it.
Bruce stepped onto the soft grass and carefully laid Barry at the hill's peak.
From his pack, he took fragile test tubes and colored chemicals, each item based on memory. When Barry was struck by lightning, the chemicals would spill onto him, mimicking the volatile combination that gave him the Speed Force.
Bruce placed the test tubes on Barry's chest, then positioned a thick lightning rod, channeling electromagnetic energy.
Once finished, Bruce stood still, eyes dark as he stared at Barry's scorched face. Deep hesitation and pain flickered in his gaze.
If this didn't work, Barry would die.
Barry cracked his burnt lips into a faint smile, revealing white teeth. His gaze seemed fixed on the last moments of his life. He slowly raised a hand.
Bruce reached out and gripped it tightly.
"If... I don't become The Flash... please take care of me..."
"I know."
Bruce replied.
In the distance, lightning flashed, and the sky turned pale.
Boom...
In the forest behind them, an explosion erupted on the path they had taken earlier. One of Bruce's traps had been triggered.
Bruce's heart froze. He let go of Barry's hand and turned to face the incoming presence.
The visitor didn't seem fazed by the trap.
Even though it had detonated, it hadn't hurt him.
A corner of the forest had been blown open. Flames and black smoke poured from it. The man wore a long brown trench coat, with a black, ominous Ω symbol on the back.
In the cold wind, the coat's hem fluttered. His golden hair swayed with it.
He walked calmly from the burning forest. Sparks burst around him as he lifted a cigarette between his fingers. One spark lit it instantly. He took a long drag.
His face was handsomely sculpted, distinctly British in profile. Beneath the brown coat, he wore a clean white dress shirt. He looked every bit the dignified gentleman.
He exhaled a stream of smoke, met Bruce's guarded stare, and said indifferently,
"Please let me kill you and finish the mission early. Thank you."
(To be continued.)
***
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