Legacy
@ofbowtiesandbolts
Bart was hungry. Hungrier than he could remember being. And no, not just hungry, but starving. The kid still didn’t know what had happened, but Reverse-Flash had stopped bringing him food. Stopped coming by to chat, proke and prod the teen about information on the future. Information that Bart just didn’t have.
He’d stopped coming, the food had stopped coming, and it had been another 48 hours before he’d finally managed to break out of the cell on his own. The power had been whacky, something had flickered. But oh, every instinct had driven Bart to run run run in that moment. And run he did, straight through the containment cell and he was out and free and the hunger pains bringing him down fast just a few miles from S.T.A.R. Labs.
And that was when the rumors started, just the day after the huge wormhole had opened in the sky. They were easy to miss at first, with the entire city still freaking out over the wormhole that had nearly wiped Central City off the map. But every incident was tiny.
A man sat in a cafe, staring at the news that was replaying videos again and again of the wormhole. A rush of air and the sandwich he was reaching for was gone.
Several days later, a woman complained about a rude prank. That restaurant had delivered an empty glass of what should have been soda to her outdoor table.
And sometimes people saw a blur of color, air whipping around them. It all felt like The Flash. Except the colors were wrong and it was always food that vanished on them. Corn dogs down by the river. Several cans of spaghetti-o’s from a woman’s shopping cart. An entire shelf’s stock of potato chips.
This time the blur swept through Jitters Coffee Shop, the entire display of fresh cookies simply gone. Somebody yelped, others were dropping their coffee as the blast of air swept by and out of the shop.
A few blocks down it stumbled into the shape of a teen boy, catching himself on the brick wall of an alley. His stomach grumbled and he immediately slid down, tossing aside the paper wrapped around a warm cookie as he stuffed it in his mouth. His face was smudged with dirt, his hair wind-blown and dirty, sticking up in all sorts of directions. The red and white bodysuit was just as dirty and stained, not to mention ripe from the week it had gone, unwashed.
But the kid slid down the wall, diving into the cookies. In a moment they were gone and he reached aside, scrambling for a can of spaghetti-os (he liked those lots). Except this one didn’t have a pull tab and the kid scowled at it a moment before whacking it noisily against the concrete ground by his feet, trying to break it open.
