Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Document Recovered from the Batcave Archives, Voice-to-Text Encryption, Logged by Bruce Wayne (Batman)

They like to think we’re better than this.

That the Justice League represents hope, integrity, strength through compassion. And maybe… on our better days, we do. We save lives. We stop wars before they start. We yank monsters from the shadows and drag gods from their thrones.

But sometimes… sometimes you don’t save lives with a kind word and a warm smile. Sometimes someone knows something, and that something could kill a city. A planet. A world. That’s when we start using prettier words—interrogation, enhanced pressure, compelled compliance—but let’s not kid ourselves.

You call it torture. I call it Tuesday.

They always turn to me. Of course they do. Superman’s too good. Diana’s got a code. J’onn’s too haunted. John, too proud. And Shayera? She enjoys it too much to be effective. Me? I get results. I know where to push, what to cut, what breaks people. And I’ve done it enough to no longer flinch when they scream.

But what if I told you... I'm not the worst?

What if I told you I'm not the one they fear the most?

Because when my gloves don't work—when the shadows, the fists, the drugs, the threats fail—we bring in someone else.

Someone they never expect.
Someone with a smile too big and a heart too warm.

Wally West.
The Flash.
The funny one. The one who calls people “bro.” The one who makes balloon animals for orphans and brings donuts to stakeouts. The kid. The speedster. The jokester.

That guy.

He’s the one who scares them most.

You want to know why?

Because when I walk into the cell, they expect pain. They prepare for it. When he walks in, they don’t prepare at all. He’s too fast. Too cheerful. Too disarming. You won’t see the scalpel when you’re laughing at the clown. You won’t notice how many pieces of your mind he’s slicing off until they’re gone.

I’ve seen gods fold under him. I’ve seen psychopaths cry. I’ve watched as monsters begged for me to come back instead.

You want to know how he does it?

Good. So do I.

These are five cases.
Five times we needed him. Five interrogations where the Bat wasn’t enough…
But the Flash? The Flash was worse.

Chapter Text

Compiled from Watchtower Surveillance Footage, Batcave Logs, and Witness Reports
Authorized Personnel Only

He called himself The Mirror. 
A low-level metahuman with the power to reflect damage—not just physically, but psychologically. Every punch you landed on him bounced back with interest, not to your body, but to your mind. I called it “mirror empathy”—a defense mechanism that weaponized pain, trauma, and guilt.

He’d snapped the mind of a Green Lantern once just by making him relive his worst day every time he tried to subdue him.

When we caught him, it wasn’t easy. Cost Diana a rib. Clark got quiet. I had to shut off emotion just to keep focus.

Once in containment, I did what I always do. I went in first. Fists. Threats. Silence. Then the voice, low and exacting, dripping with promise and purpose. Nothing. Just that smug smile. Like I was a kid throwing a tantrum. He called me “predictable.” Said, “Come on, Bat. You’re supposed to be the scary one.”

Then he laughed that laugh. It was too close to his. To Joker’s.

And before I could step forward again, he stepped in.

Flash. Wally. Uninvited.

I was about to say something—remind him this was my room, my method—but then I saw his face. No smirk. No swagger. Eyes steady. Smile absent. He walked in like a shadow.

The Mirror chuckled. “Oh good, you brought refreshments. You got jokes, Fastboy?”

Wally didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even blink.

Then, in a whisper darker than I’d ever heard from him—lower than Gotham's gutters, colder than my worst nights—he leaned in and said:

“You don’t want to talk to Batman? Fine. How about you and I go for a little spin then?”

And just like that, they were gone.

Blur. Screams. Silence.

We had footage. Some of it.
Not much survived the velocity distortion, but I had my own satellites—modified for speed. I watched.

I watched as Flash dragged him. Not ran with him. Dragged him.

Face-first. Through asphalt. Through sand dunes. Through oceans and glaciers. Scraping across steel rails, volcanic rock, frozen tundra. Didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Just one long, screaming blur.

The Mirror was invulnerable. Lucky him.

If he wasn’t, he’d be vapor.

I saw the look in The Mirror’s eyes on every frame. The shock. Then the panic. Then something I’ve never seen from him before: genuine fear.

When they finally stopped—somewhere in the middle of a salt flat in Bolivia—The Mirror collapsed, skin cracked like glass from heat friction. And then... he talked.

He told us everything. Names. Coordinates. Secrets he hadn’t even told his own crew. And when we brought him back to his cell, he refused to look at me. Not once.

Only whispered: “Don’t… don’t send him again. Not the red one. Not him.”

That was the first time the League saw it. Saw what I’d only suspected.

That somewhere beneath the quips, beneath the pizza jokes and the cartoons and the kind heart…

There’s something else inside Wally West.
Something faster than light. Something that doesn’t stop.

And sometimes, even I forget that if you move fast enough…

You can even outrun morality.

Chapter Text

Compiled from Watchtower Audio Surveillance, Martian Manhunter Mental Observations, and Batcave Audio Logs


Psych-Evaluation Trigger Warning: Coercion, Mental Manipulation, Threat of Harm

They called her the Queen of Chains.
 Real name unknown. Her voice? A weapon.

Hypersonic lures laced with psychic suggestion. Every syllable was a hook in your mind. Man or woman, alien or meta—didn’t matter. If you heard her, she could own you.

She once made Superman kneel.
 Made Wonder Woman laugh while stabbing herself.

It took days to trap her. Weeks to recover.

I wore triple-layered noise filters during her interrogation. Didn’t stop her from trying.

“You’re handsome when you’re angry,” she purred through the thick glass between us. Her mouth moved slowly, theatrically—like she was caressing every consonant. “You’d look better without the cowl. I like strong men.”

She thought it was a game. Thought she could reel me in.

She didn’t know I’d already muted the feed.

She mouthed lies and laughter, watching me, waiting for the moment my eyes would glaze, my fists would relax, and she could pull the strings.

They never came.
But neither did the answers.

Then, in a blur that shattered the containment door and every protocol I’d written, he arrived.

Wally West.
Flash.

Uninvited—again. This time, I was more aware of what he was capable of. I turned to stop him, to say no this time, but it was already too late. He was already in the room.

Already holding her by the throat.
Not forceful. Not frantic. Just… casual. Like he was plucking a flower.

She gasped, reflexively opening her mouth—but no sound came.

Then Wally, with a calmness that made even me uneasy, spoke:

“You must be really proud of your voice.”
A pause.
“Maybe I should keep it.”

And then… he vibrated.

Just his fingers.
Right against her throat. Through it. In it.

Microscopic phasing. I could see the shimmer ripple across her skin. She felt it. She knew it. It wasn't pain—yet. It was the suggestion of what could be. A subtle, terrifying promise.

She began to panic.
Not speak—scream.
She screamed out everything.

The names of her handlers. The hidden base. The safe codes. The sonic frequencies she’d encoded in League frequencies. She sang the whole damn opera—just to make him stop.

He did.
Gently lowered her.
 Stepped back.
 Smiled.

That smile.

The usual one—the bright, easy, donut-loving one. And when the League arrived, shocked by the footage, horrified by the implications, they asked him if he had really intended to rip her voice out.

Wally just laughed. Cheerfully.

“No, of course not. That’s crazy.”

And just like that, he zipped away.
A red streak.
 A kind grin. 
A monster with manners.

I reviewed the footage ten times that night.

He never blinked.

Chapter Text

Compiled from Watchtower Audio Recovery Logs, Batplane Surveillance, and Forensic GPS Tracking
CONFIDENTIAL – Justice League Level Clearance Only

This time, this wasn’t just some C-list anarchist with delusions of grandeur. This was Lex Luthor.

The smartest man on Earth. The most dangerous civilian alive.
And he was holding the world hostage.

A gravity bomb—enough mass compression to crumple half a continent—hidden somewhere in the Pacific. Luthor said it was a “fail-safe” in case Superman ever lost control. He said it like it was logical. Rational. A contingency.

I could almost respect it.
Almost.

Problem was—he wouldn’t give it up.
 Not to me. Not to Diana. Not even to Clark.

He was calm in his cell. Collected. Even smug.
My interrogation didn’t faze him. 
I’ve broken minds in less time than it took Luthor to finish a sentence.
 But not him.

He’d studied me. Read the files.
“You’re predictable,” he told me, like it was a compliment. “You’ll never cross that final line.”

But then… Wally stepped in.

This time, I didn’t stop him.
Didn’t have the will.
 Didn’t have the answers. Didn’t have the time.
I just said: “Do it.”

Wally nodded.
 No words. No smirk. Just... stillness. The kind you only get before a storm.

Then he grabbed Luthor by the throat. Not to hurt him. Just to hold him.
And then—he ran.
No damage. No blood.
Just velocity.

Faster than cameras could follow. Faster than physics allowed. But my satellites caught pieces. Enough to track a pattern.

Wally wasn’t just running. He was showing.

Showing Luthor everything.

Storms over the Indian Ocean.
Wars in border towns.
A collapsing glacier.
A dying rainforest.
A child’s funeral.
A building crumbling from neglect.
The aftermath of LexCorp investments.

Every consequence Luthor’s influence had ever touched—in real time.

And Luthor?

He couldn’t blink.
 Couldn’t breathe.
 Couldn’t look away.

Wally kept his head facing forward with the perfect angle and pressure of a hand that had studied everything about the human body—and how not to break it.

And then, in the middle of the desert at dawn, a satellite microphone caught it—just barely—filtered through static, wind, and screaming speed:

“It’s awful, right?
 This speed.
 It doesn’t let you breathe. Doesn’t let you think.
 All you can do is stare right up ahead…
And pray you don’t get crushed by it all.”

Luthor broke.
Luthor. Broke.

He screamed coordinates. Cried out activation codes. Sobbed into the wind.

When they stopped, Lex collapsed like a sack of steel.
He didn’t speak for hours.
He kept murmuring: “He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop.”

Wally?
 He smiled.
The kind of smile that says, “Everything’s okay. I’m okay.”

The kind of smile that lies.

Chapter Text

Classified Report | Psychological Debrief Required for Viewing
Footage Purged from Justice League Archives at Batman’s Request

Wally West was a cake. That’s what everyone says.

Sweet on the outside.
 Soft. Gentle. Decorative. Wholesome.

You don’t question a cake. You welcome it. Celebrate it. You let it into your home.

You never expect it to be poisoned. Just like no one expects the Flash—the League’s eternal optimist, its moral compass with red spandex—to be the one who would do what I could never.

I’m the one who handed him the Joker. Once.

I’ve interrogated the Clown Prince of Crime a hundred times. He laughs through the blood. Through the broken fingers. Through the silence. Through the agony. Sometimes I wonder if he even wants to be hurt—if that’s what keeps him going. If I’m just part of his damn joke.

But Wally… Wally didn’t laugh.
 Didn’t talk.
 Didn’t smile.

He entered Joker’s cell, looked at him once, and didn’t say a word.

Joker cackled. “What’s this? Did the birthday party start early? Is it my turn to blow out the candles?”

Then Wally moved.
In less than a blink, his hand was in Joker’s chest.
Phased. Clean. Silent.
And then—

He pulled out a lung.

Not all the way. Just enough for Joker to see it.
Still vibrating, translucent, twitching.
The laughter stopped.
Joker saw it. Knew it. Felt it.

Then Wally phased the lung back in.
 Let Joker gasp. Reset.
Then—he reached in again.
 A kidney this time.
Hovering in the air. Beating against the hum of speed.

Three minutes.
That’s how long it lasted.

Lung.
 Kidney. 
Liver.
 Heart.
 Stomach.
 Spleen.

Each time, Joker was forced to watch. To comprehend his own mortality intimately, in real-time.

No pain. 
No marks.
 Just the terror of knowing exactly how fragile he was—and how nothing protected him from this.

I watched through the one-way glass.
 I couldn’t look away.
 Couldn’t stop what was happening.
 Didn’t want to.

I always thought I understood power. Fear. Control.

But watching Wally West, the kid I once scolded for eating too many churros during recon, hold Joker’s life in his hands over and over again like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat… I realized something.

If Wally was cake, then the rest of us were pieces of meat to him. 

Raw. Vulnerable. Always one step behind.

He didn’t hit Joker.
 Didn’t scream.
 Didn’t even blink.

And Joker?
 He cried.
He gave in.

Coordinates. Victims. Traps. The entire twisted outline of his “Next Big Joke.”

All of it—poured out like melted icing.

And when it was over, Wally stepped out. Looked at me.
And he smiled.
The usual smile. The cake smile.

Then he asked, “So… uh, is it okay if I go grab a soda now?”

That duality scares me

Chapter Text

Personal Annotation by Bruce Wayne – Not for Archive Sharing
Encrypted and stored under BIOHAZARD/PSYOPS classification

I’ve faced gods. 
I’ve fought monsters.
 But that night, I remembered what it felt like to be hunted.

It started simply.

Wally was… off.
Quiet. Short-tempered. Tired in a way speedsters shouldn’t be. I noticed during debrief that he wasn’t bouncing his leg or chewing on a protein bar or making wisecracks under his breath.

I figured something had happened.
So I did what I never do.
I tried to cheer him up.

I disguised it, of course—subtle. A mock “training exercise” that was basically hide-and-seek in the Watchtower’s sublevels. Let him chase me. Dodge sensors. Feel faster. Feel useful.

Then I did something unthinkable: I brought him to the Batcave.
No warning. No lecture. Just opened the hidden door, let the scanners register him, and said, “Come in.”

I thought I was helping.
But Wally… Wally West isn’t as trusting as people think.

Underneath all the sugar and lightning is a mind that’s always running.

And to him, I was acting… too nice.

He didn’t smile when I showed him the cave.
 Didn’t comment on the dinosaur.
 Didn’t ask if Alfred made the cookies.

He just sat in the passenger seat of the Batmobile. Quiet. Staring at me.

Then, with zero warning, his hand was on my throat.
Firm. Harsh.
Not choking me. Not yet.
But holding me perfectly still.

“Wally—”

“If you move, if you try to run, if you don’t answer my questions—I’ll vibrate my hand through your trachea until your head falls off.”

The voice wasn’t his usual one.
 It was low. Controlled. But full of something sharp.
No irony. No hesitation.
He meant it.

I’ve dealt with assassins and telepaths. Torturers and truth serums.
But I’ve never seen anyone so ready to kill me.

Because to him, I wasn’t me.
I was an impostor. Someone wearing his friend’s face.
 Someone who had lured him in. Who was too nice. Who was wrong.

So I did the only thing I could.
I kept calm.
I answered.
Every question. Calmly. Logically. Precisely.

My parents’ anniversary. The number of sugar cubes he puts in his coffee. The first thing I ever said to him. The secret nickname Alfred calls him behind his back.
I answered them all. Until finally…

Wally let go.
And then he looked horrified.

His eyes went wide. His hands started shaking.

“Oh my God. Bruce—I’m so sorry—”

He spent the rest of the night trying to make it up to me.
Brought me coffee. Replaced a busted monitor he’d “accidentally” broken. Talked my ear off about his favorite DuckTales episode.

He was back to Wally again. Sunshine. Cake.

But I didn’t forget.
Not for a second.

Because in those three minutes—those three minutes—I learned something no file, no mission, no after-action report had ever taught me.

Wally West is the League’s heart.
But he’s also its blade.

A blade so fast, so sharp, that by the time you realize you’re bleeding—
You’re already dead.

And God help anyone who threatens the people he loves.
Even me.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the Batcomputer echoed throughout the dim chamber, glowing monitors casting long shadows against the cave walls. Bruce sat in front of them, finishing the last lines of his report—encrypted, buried, locked behind more firewalls than most nations used to guard their nuclear codes.

He paused. His gloved fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Then he pressed save.

"End report," he muttered, leaning back in his chair.

Behind him, a whoosh of air stirred loose papers.

Wally West was there. Casual as always, leaning against the cave wall like he hadn’t just bypassed seven motion sensors and an internal lockout system Bruce specifically installed to keep him out.

“What’cha doing?” Wally asked, grinning.

Bruce didn’t turn to look. “Nothing.”

Wally tilted his head. “Really? Looked like something. And from the way you closed that file so fast, I’d say it was a big something.”

“Drop it.”

Wally pouted, stepping closer. “C’mon, Bats. You can trust me. We’re besties now, remember? Interrogation buddies.”

Bruce grunted, standing up and heading toward the Batcomputer’s secondary console. “You're insufferable.”

Wally’s eyes glinted with mischief. “I have ways of making you talk.”

Before Bruce could even finish processing the sentence, Wally was already behind him. Fingers jabbed into his sides.

Bruce jumped. “Wally—”

Another quick jab. Then another.

“I warned you,” Wally said, smirking, as he launched a full-blown tickle assault.

“Wally—stop—” Bruce tried to keep his voice firm, commanding. Intimidating.

It cracked.

Wally’s fingers danced across his ribs with practiced precision, exploiting weak points even Bruce hadn’t realized were there. A snort escaped. Then a chuckle. Then—God help him—a laugh.

A genuine laugh.

Alfred, wherever he was, would’ve fainted.

Bruce shoved him back with a grunt, still breathless, still smiling despite himself. “You’re a menace.”

Wally stood triumphant, arms crossed, grinning like a fox. “Told you I had ways.”

Bruce shook his head, regaining composure, but unable to fully suppress the twitch at the corner of his lips. “You really do know how to break a man’s spirit.”

Wally’s smile softened, warm now. Familiar.

“That’s what I do,” he said.

Handwritten journal of Bruce Wayne. Never uploaded. Never shared. Found in a locked lead-lined drawer beneath the Batcave terminal. Labeled simply: “Wally.”

I fear him. That’s the truth.

Not the way I fear criminals, or aliens, or the unknown.
But in the way a man fears a mirror he doesn’t want to look into.

Wally West is terrifying—not because of his speed, but because of what he’s willing to do with it. What he’s willing to carry for the rest of us. And yet…

He’s also the one I admire most.

Yes. Admire.

He’s everything I can’t be.
Because I walk a razor’s edge every night. I know what I’m capable of. I know that if I ever cross that line—if I kill, if I break my one rule—I won’t come back.

I’ll vanish into the darkness completely.
 I’ll become the thing I fight.

That’s why I don’t cross it.
 Not because I’m strong.
 Because I’m afraid.

But Wally?
Wally crosses it.

Not all the way. Not irreversibly. But in those interrogation rooms… when lives are on the line… when time is short and hope is shorter…

Wally does what has to be done.
He becomes the blade.
The hand on the throat.
The ghost in the blur.
He terrifies monsters into whimpers.

And then—he smiles again.

He brings coffee the next morning.
 He volunteers at hospitals.
 He comforts rookies.
 He makes jokes that aren’t even funny, but we all laugh because he’s laughing.

He brings light.
He doesn’t lose himself in the shadows.
He walks through them, again and again, and comes back brighter every time.

I can’t do that.
 I don’t do that.

For all my strength, my training, my discipline…
Wally West is the one with the stronger will.

Because he let the darkness into his heart.
And he didn’t let it consume him.

He bore it.
 Carried it.
 And smiled anyway.

I will never be that strong.

He is not the fastest man alive because he can outrun death.
 He’s the fastest man alive because he can outrun despair.

He is the heart of the League. 
Not because we need his power.
 But because we need his hope.

Even if I’ll never say it to his face…
Wally West is the bravest of us all.