Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Barry’s been knitting scarves for a while. He’s been using the same ball of yarn over and over, never bothering to cast off instead of just undoing his work and starting over again, measuring time by how long it takes to finish a scarf then need to unravel it, and how long it takes for hunger to start to gnaw at his belly to the point he can no longer ignore it.

It's taking him more scarf-cycles(for lack of a better word) to get hungry. Maybe he's just better at knitting, but it might just be that his body is slowing down from the extended starvation rations. 

On one hand, he doesn't feel slower, though he's not sure how fast he's going right now. It's not like there's any non-speedsters around him anymore, and he's pretty sure he slipped into speedtime pretty early and then never left it.

On the other hand, he's pretty sure he mastered knitting to the extent the books in Arthur's room and endless repetition of the same handful of stitches could teach him quite a while ago. Accounting for the kinks, knots and frays in the yarn accumulated by endless knotting and unknotting, his scarves are perfect in every way, and the scarf-cycles feel like they're almost exactly each the same length.

It could still be due to the slowing down, if his body slowed down more than his mind, but he's pretty sure that his mind is usually the one that stays slower. 

Then again, he hasn't had the opportunity to really run in a long, long time. The Watchtower does have several large, open rooms- training rooms, hangars, garden spaces and the like- and the hallways and layout are twisting and labyrinthine, yes, but there's none of the wide, seemingly endless open plains or horizon-spanning oceans of Earth's surface.

…He misses running. The endless work of knotting and unknotting the same skein of fraying, warped black yarn passes the time and lets him slip into a quiet, relaxed state where his higher thought fades and his lizard brain focuses only on the here and now, but it's nothing compared to running- truly running, unhindered by the need to turn or mind the walls, with the wind rustling through his hair, sea spray and sunlight on his skin and no thoughts but the sight of what's ahead, the feel of the terrain and the the sound of his own footfalls.

No thoughts of what he's lost(what he's done) , what he'll never be able to do again. No thoughts of how the food will run out eventually, how he can only drag out his impending demise so long. No thoughts of Hal (oh god, Hal, he's sorry, he promises ).

Barry's fingers still as tears bead in his eyes, then begin to fall. His breathing hitches, lungs cycling faster and faster.

Distantly, he's aware that he's dropped the yarn and needles, the clatter as they fall to the floor seemingly stretched out in slow motion.

His chest hurts. Why does it hurt? Heartbeat fast, breathing too fast, eyes hurt, chest burns with tightness.

He's not safe- too exposed, too confined, too slow, too weak, too alone. 

Where is pack? Pack slow, all of them too slow, but still pack. 

Oh, nest! They’re in his- their nest! Humans are slow (humans don’t heal, humans get sick), they need to sleep a lot more!

Scuttle through the halls, mind the walls, follow the trail of reddish brown. Joints flex, the halls and struts and spires spin and tug around an axis and an orbit- tilt and step towards the outside, towards the edge of the circle of the spin-tug.

Push the panel, let the wires of lightning read his hand. There’s a whooshing in the wall. Slip through the gap left behind.

Find the nest, call their pack, find the warmth and heartbeats- remember, humans’ heartbeats are slow, so they’re little thumps, no hum or thrum or core-feel.

No heartbeat, no motion. No one’s here. Wait, no one’s here?

Oh, right. They’re dead.

Just bones and tins and an ache in the gut that can’t be filled- not like the prey-hunger or the water-hunger, the pack-hunger never goes away, not anymore.

…He’s alone. Forever. 

He keens, and curls up in his nest. Fabric brushes flesh, flesh itches and fluffs and warms.

Tired. Limbs ache. Head aches. Teeth ache. Fingers ache. Joints ache.

Sleep, now. Dream, now. (Remember, now.)

Hal is quiet and sleepy, tucked in Barry’s arms-heartbeat slow, face sheened with sweat and chest rising and falling silently and shallowly. He’s still awake, but too weak and listless to muster enough willpower to use his ring- not that it would help him now.

“How…how long do I have?” he whispers, voice strained and slurred.

“Approximately three hours before the end of the first stage and transition to the second stage, assuming no additional contamination.” his ring answers. “Five to six hours before the second stage begins completely.”

If it was humanoid, or even just not a purpose-based intelligence, Barry’s pretty sure it would have apologized for failing its wielder. It’s a Green Lantern ring, though, so the only sign of its distress is a slight lag and distortion in its speech.

Hal sighs, resigned. His eyes track up to Barry’s, luminescent green irises beginning to streak with white and pupils expanded to nearly twice their normal size. Already, bright light hurts his eyes, but he’s too weak to do more than flinch away.

He grabs Barry’s hand, tugs on it and tries to press the tips of Barry’s claws(he’d stopped filing his nails a while ago, no longer needing to pretend to be human, and they’d rounded out, hardened and hooked once they got about an inch long) to his neck, failing to do more than shift Barry’s grip.

“Please, Barry. I…I don’t want…to hurt you.” Hal begs. “Please…just…kill me. I’d like it…if you did it…while I’m still lucid…”

Barry wavers and just grips Hal’s hand tighter. “I…”

Hal’s hands twitch and spasm violently before stiffening, and he fearfully glances at his hands in the anticipation of another seizure. 

“Please.” Hal begs, one last time. “I don’t care if it hurts.”

“Alright….Love you.” Barry presses a kiss to Hal’s lips, then brings his hands up to the veins on Hal’s neck and begins to choke him out. He doesn’t want Hal to hurt, after all, even if Hal is beyond caring. 

Hal twitches and arches, then slowly relaxes and goes completely limp in his arms. 

Barry takes one last look at his unconscious husband, and hesitates over the last, final step as he fully extends his claws and holds them to Hal’s neck.

“I’m sorry.” Barry whispers. He closes his hand and rips out Hal’s throat, hating the feeling of tender flesh and firm cartilage tearing under his claws and warm blood spilling over his hands even as his deepest instincts thrill at the sight and feel of fresh blood from a kill.

Trails of salty tears drip down his already tear-stained face, nictitating membranes fluttering and heart racing in panic and grief as Hal bleeds out in his arms.

Barry wakes in his nest, real tears dripping down his face, and only somewhat less exhausted than he was when he went to sleep. Whenever he gets emotional in a dream, his physical body reacts the same way, which was perfectly fine before- nope, not thinking about that . 

Regardless, it tends to leave him exhausted, dehydrated and emotionally drained, and generally hungry too. He hasn’t slept well in a while, but he’s used to it now.

He glances over to his bedside table, and smiles softly when he sees that nothing has disturbed the carefully stripped, cleaned and wired-together skull on the top of a chemistry textbook he memorized word-for-word years ago. 

“Hey, Hal. I dreamt about you again. Wasn’t a nice one, but my dreams really aren’t nice anymore.” Barry runs a finger over Hal’s cheekbone, then carefully scoops up the entire skull and presses it to his chest. 

“So, what’s next on the chore list?” Barry pauses to think. “Oh, right, solar panels! Gotta make sure the power stays on, right? People who don’t live in a space station really take stuff like gravity, light and oxygen for granted.”

Hal doesn’t respond, which he expected. Hal never talks back.

“Can’t bring you out on EVA, sorry! You don’t want to get lost in space, do you? Yeah, I thought not.” Barry pats Hal one last time, then deposits him back on the table, makes his way out of his bedroom and into the maintenance passageways, scuttling through the cramped tunnels and towards the central reactor.

The main reactor’s housing is locked behind several thick layers of radiation shielding and Faraday-cage casing- it would be very bad for everyone(well, just Barry, everyone else is dead) if the reactor was to be breached.

Barry quickly checks that all of the coolant and distribution cables are hooked up correctly(some of the connection joints are old and probably need replacement parts, but he doesn’t have the ability to get those parts), and the housing and shielding is intact with no weak spots, then fires up the main power console and logs himself back in. (He hasn’t figured out how to get it to keep him logged in when he leaves for more than an hour. Bruce would probably know but Bruce is- nope, not thinking about that. )

According to the status reports on the power console, no more panels are completely broken than when he last checked, though panel 5A on array N-33 was apparently damaged and reduced to 73% integrity two minutes ago. Probably another micrometeorite impact. 

Barry darts towards the central elevator shaft and doesn’t bother to call or wait for the actual elevator car(Arthur snapped the cable to stop D- nope, not thinking about that! ), instead just pushing his way through the door and then pulling his way down the emergency access ladder(the Watchtower is entirely on spin gravity now, since artificial gravity plates are very power-intensive) until he reaches floor 33.

He grabs a maintenance toolbelt from the repair supplies locker(thank god for Bruce insisting that every floor have a repair supplies locker with full EVA gear and plenty of spare parts), and slips it on, then makes his way to the hallway leading out to the outside of the station.

Floors 33 through 35 have a giant hole in the outer plating on the north side of the station(Kryptonian super strength is truly a sight to behold, Barry just wishes he didn’t have to see Clark- NOPE BRAIN WHY IT’S ALREADY BEEN A TERRIBLE DAY ), so the original exterior airlock is broken, leaving just the emergency bulkhead airlock that needs to be manually opened and closed by lever. 

At least Barry doesn’t need to worry about EVA gear or exposure to vacuum- he can survive in space for about half an hour with just a jacket and scarf worn over his costume(when’s the last time he took off his EVA gear? ...he has no clue.), and that’s purely because he can only hold his breath for thirty minutes or so, given time to fill his internal air sacs.

He carefully makes his way out over the side of the Watchtower to the solar panel array, each movement carefully calculated and the friction coefficient on his hands carefully modulated. If he loses his grip, he’ll fly away into space, and that would be bad, to say the least.

Panel 5A is in the same place as every other Panel 5A on every other array- five panels from the side of the station, on the left-hand side. Barry has to be careful with array N-33, of course- some of the panels are covered in gritty slush(which is definitely not blood, it’s just dirty, ignore how there’s no dust or dirt in space) , and slipping would be very bad.

He’s able to get to panel 5A easily(thank you, friction!), and sighs as he realizes that there’s an actual hole in it. He can’t fix that with rewiring or a welding torch, just cover the hole and reinforce the edges so that the entire panel doesn’t crack or fall apart. Sigh.

Barry eyes the size of the hole, then pulls out the roll of duct tape in his toolbelt and covers the hole with tape. Success! (Probably.)

Job done, Barry makes his way back into the Watchtower, stops holding his breath as soon as he’s through the airlock, and pants for a moment to refill his internal air sacs.

Once he’s done, he stashes his tools back in the locker, and climbs back up the elevator shaft, this time aiming for floor 15, where the living quarters are.

Barry grabs Hal from his room, then makes his way into the kitchen, settles Hal on the wall that’s technically the floor as far as spin gravity is concerned, eyes his slow drift towards the corner(spin gravity is spin gravity), and then opens the freezer. (Well, the “soon to be eaten” freezer rather than the “emergency supplies” or “unprocessed” freezer.)

He eyes the contents(they’re pretty much all identical, he ran out of things that aren’t uncooked, partially-rotten meat a while ago), then selects a random container without bothering to read the label(why did he label them with who they’re from again?), opens the lid and microwaves it for thirty seconds.

“Dinner time!” he cheers, glancing at Hal, who still isn’t responding.

The microwave takes forever to beep, and Barry has to consciously force himself to slow down- he’s hungry, and it never goes away, not anymore.

Barry makes sure to re-lock the freezer before the microwave beeps. Otherwise, he’ll probably eat more than one portion, and that would be bad in the long-term, since the zetas aren’t working.

“Maybe I should ask someone to try and fix them, down on Earth?” Barry considers. “But how would I only tell the people who I trust not to kill me, especially without any of the survivors on the ground having a way to contact me back?”

Hal doesn’t offer any response. Barry sighs, and cheers as the microwave finally beeps and he can take out his food.

The meat is hot enough to burn his tongue, but he still tears into it anyway. Sweet, sweet, succulent mystery meat! (Okay, he knows exactly what it is, but he’s not thinking about that.)

The food is gone far too soon, and Barry grabs Hal and rushes out of the kitchen before he’s tempted to grab another meal. He’ll have another one later.

He shoots down the shaft to floor 93, and rushes over to the monitor room.

Barry settles Hal in his enclosure(J’onn had a guinea pig, it was tasty ), and then straps himself into the big, cushy chair that allows access to all of the consoles.

He fires up only one, checking the sensor map. There’s basically the same amount of activity on the settlement dots, though the areas that mark infected populations are slightly lighter. Good. Less zombies is good for everyone.

Now, here comes the fun part! Being the sole surviving radio operator in the Sol System! He has no idea how many people are actually listening, but according to the analysis software, there’s been a 43% increase in survival rate and a 89% drop in destroyed settlements since he started broadcasting!

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, it’s me! The Flash! Coming back to you with another broadcast from the Watchtower, and some more news for all of you!” he starts. “There’s been a slight decrease in the density of infected, and no more settlements have gone dark since my last broadcast! Whenever that was! I think it’s been at least a few hours, but Batman had to hard-reset the Watchtower’s computers, and the time and date is still counting from 1970! Wait, you already know that. Probably?”

Barry checks the feed from a couple of the telescope satellites aimed at the void, and thankfully finds nothing. (Governments and NASA don’t exist anymore, so they can’t go after him for stealing their satellites, okay? Capiche?) 

“I’m checking our eyes in the sky right now, and there’s no sign of the Tsu-Kemii coming back! Hooray! I’m not sure whether I should be hopeful that they did or didn’t get infected by their own bioweapon.”

“Anyway, here’s our daily broadcast of 10 Things To Remember About the Tsu-Kemii Virus! Thing one: the virus can survive mild disinfectant if the zombie fluid has had time to dry! Thing two: zombies will die after about eight or nine months, so we’re going to run out of zombies eventually! Thing three: the virus can last basically forever if it’s not killed, so make sure you stay away from old bloodstains!” Barry lists off, then turns as an alarm beeps on his console, revealing a space-time distortion consistent with an interdimensional portal is forming in Metropolis.

“Oh, looks like we’ve got a space-time anomaly, guys! Not the kind that destroys the universe, the one that lets things come through! Anyone near Metropolis, be prepared for visitors who may or may not be friendly!”

Chapter Text

The cityscape around them is definitely Metropolis, and they’re definitely at the top of the same skyscraper. It also looks like it’s been abandoned for a year or two after the zombie apocalypse, judging by the general wear-and-tear and the clumps of zombies shuffling around in the distance.

“Okay, whose bright idea was it to destabilize the interdimensional portal?” Hal complains. “I can see the zombies from here.”

“I believe it was Dr. Vahlen’s idea.” Bruce offers, then goes back to fiddling with his wrist computer.

“Oh, of course the mad physicist was stupid enough to destabilize their own creation.” Wally huffs. “Must be Tuesday.”

“Actually, Tim ran the math, and it’s statistically more likely for us to fight mad scientists on Mondays and weekends.” Dick explains in an overly serious tone.

“No, no, can we get back to the zombies?” Oliver redirects, waving a hand in Hal’s face. “Seriously, what do you mean, zombies?”

Hal gestures to the packs of blood-covered and black-eyed zombies hiding in the shadows. “Those ones.”

“Ah.” Oliver says, one hand twitching towards his quiver. “Those ones.”

Wally grins and elbows Dick. “Well, this is just another Tuesday for a Bat, isn’t it? You have contingencies, right?”

“Most of those contingencies are reliant on us not being in an alternate universe, Flash.” Dick corrects. “Or in the future. Either way, we have no idea if anything is different here. For all we know, the Justice League doesn’t exist, and never did.”

Wally swallows nervously. “Well. Hopefully, they’re not contagious.”

“They are, and not only when alive, according to the recent broadcast I’m picking up.” Bruce corrects. “Apparently, their bodily fluids are contagious indefinitely- even after chemical disinfection, if given time to dry.”

Wally just pales further. Hal kind of feels sorry for him. “Right... not looking forward to testing that.”

“Broadcast? That means there are survivors, right?” Dick points out. “Where’s it coming from?”

“High earth orbit. Apparently someone has survived, and they’ve been making broadcasts from the Watchtower.” Bruce pauses. “That, or someone else built a space station and coincidentally settled on the same radio frequency, IFF codes and comms encryption.”

“So that means we have a Justice League in this universe, right?” Hal points out, pushing his hair out of his face as the wind kicks up a notch. (Unfortunately, it’s just long enough to get in his eyes when he’s not wearing a helmet but not long enough for hair ties.) “Who is it?”

Bruce sighs. “Unfortunately, we got here mid-broadcast, and they already introduced themself before I picked it up and started recording. As there is no “replay” button on an analog radio broadcast that started while we weren’t even in the same dimension, this means I don’t know who’s broadcasting- and no, I can’t tell from their voice alone, not on a transmission this low-quality. Best I can tell is that they have a high-pitched voice.”

“So, is there any way to contact them?” Wally asks, gesturing up at the sky. “Or are we just going to have to stand here until someone in our universe opens the portal up from their end and hope we don’t get eaten by zombies in the meanwhile?”

Bruce and Dick share a glance. Dick raises an eyebrow. 

Bruce grunts. Dick raises his eyebrow higher.

“Have you…” Dick trails off, as Bruce grunts again and points to a building in the distance. “Ah, of course you did.”

“You know I don’t speak mysterious Bat grunting, right?” At this point, Hal’s not entirely sure that their freaky Bat-telepathy isn’t some kind of actual power, but he still wants actual information.

“In our universe, the Metropolis Apex Broadcasting Company branch office is very close to our current location, and it is equipped with both a powerful radio transmission booth and a zeta tube.” Bruce explains. “It also has roof access and the ability to seal floors off with emergency bulkheads, so the upper floors should be accessible and free of zombies.”

“And you’re sure it’s still going to be that way in this universe?” Oliver gestures to the zombie-infested ghost city surrounding them. “Cuz this place looks really alternate.”

Bruce nods. “Judging from the layout of Metropolis, the appearance of the building and the color scheme of Apex’s logo, it should be fitted out the same way in this universe, and even if it doesn’t have a zeta tube, it should still have roof access.”

Hal blinks and glances over at the building in question- a normal-looking skyscraper, except for the green and white Apex Broadcasting comet-and-trail logo on the side. “...What does the color scheme have to do with anything?”

“It was yellow and white before Alan Scott purchased it.” Bruce gestures to the Apex Broadcasting building, looking expectantly at Hal. “Now, there’s a quick, easy and guaranteed-safe method to get over there, or there’s a lengthy, difficult and highly dangerous method. I advise the first method.”

Hal rolls his eyes and raises his ring hand to the sky to take off, quickly seating his teammates on constructs and yanking them into the air behind him.

“Hey, warn a guy!” Wally yelps, eying the ground below nervously. “You could have dropped me! Geez!”

Hal rolls his eyes. “Barry is scared of heights, and yet he lets me fly him around just fine.”

“That’s because Barry is also a lovestruck idiot.” Oliver huffs. “If you asked him to do it nicely enough, he would probably jump off a cliff no questions asked.”

“Only because he trusts you to catch him.” Dick points out, receiving a commiserating hum from Bruce.

“Guys, can we not distract Hal while he’s the only thing keeping us from falling to our deaths and probable zombifications?” Wally clings to his seat a little tighter. “I for one do not want to be a zombie.”

“Kid, I have flown carrying you while being shot at.” Hal reminds him. “Multiple times.”

“That was when I was in your arms, and still Kid Flash!” Wally protests. “I am twenty, and currently sitting on a construct!”

“We’re almost there anyway.” Hal gestures to the roof not ten feet away. “You’ll be down on the ground before I can finish this sentence, in all probability.”

They are, indeed, down on the ground before Hal can finish his sentence. 

Wally is firmly of the opinion that it’s too little too late- speedsters are not built for flying, and he’d like to keep both feet on solid non-construct ground at all times, please and thank you. 

Especially since he’s not a baby anymore, and Hal can’t easily carry him in his arms. (Hal can only carry Barry because he’s shorter than the average woman, and barely comes up to Hal’s collarbones. Wally got Iris’s tall people genetics, and thus can’t be easily carried.)

Wally scuffs one boot on the ground, then turns as he hears the faint but unmistakable whimpering of a distressed baby speedster, sounding like a mixture of electronic dance music and nestless baby birds shrieking.

“Baby…” he whispers, heart in his throat.

Baby is hurt. Baby is trapped. Baby is close.

Run, run and find baby. Footsteps track on pavement, towards the door. 

The door is locked, locked from the inside. No matter. He has speed, he has strength.

He lunges and breaks the door open, metal bending and splintering from his path as he runs through the gap.

“Uncle Barry?” the baby rasps out, voice pitched and warped by cracks in their vocal plates.“...You came…”

They are tired, they’ve been hanging here for a while, neck half-broken and hands cuffed behind their back with cable ties.

You can’t kill a speedster by hanging, not directly. A broken neck doesn’t stop their lungs from cycling, or their heart from beating. 

All it does is paralyze them from the neck down, unable to touch the ground or heal their broken spine properly, until eventually they die of starvation and stillness a few agonizing days later.

This is an abomination. It would be an abomination on an adult, but it’s especially bad on a baby. He can feel their core flickering and sputtering from the extended stillness.

“Baby hurt…” he murmurs, voice thrumming with rage.  

How dare they hurt a child- whoever they are!

He doesn’t have claws, just short, flat nails clipped down every time they start to point. He doesn’t need claws to cut the rope.

One hand lashes out, fingertips blurring with speed. The rope snaps, cut with the edge of flat nails- force equals mass times acceleration, and acceleration equals whatever he wants it to.

The baby falls into his arms, gasping weakly as shivers shake through their flesh. 

The baby has his face. The baby is him, but younger. This is...mysterious.

He runs, back to his pack. The planner and the airdancer will know what to do.