NO HERO · BARRY ALLEN | ✘

One: Red Streak

Tuesdays are never as bad as Mondays, or as terrible as Thursdays. Or as depressing as the end of a Sunday. But people are still tired and still probably hate their job.

Working for the Central City Picture News isn't fun, but I try to make the most of it. At least, until Mason Bridge blesses us with his presence in the office building.

"Good morning!" I announce, walking past the rows of desks and stopping in front of mine, where our editor-in-chief, Eric Larkin just so happens to be standing next to.

He rolls up a long piece of paper and narrows his eyes at me. "You're looking positively spunky today, Miss Beauchard."

"Sure I am. I got the pictures from last week's case about the electrocution. The police were reluctant, but cooperative in helping my report." I give Larkin the manila folder full of pictures of the crime scene.

He looks through each one, widening his eyes at a few and narrowing them at others. "Are you sure you want to publish a picture of a dead body on the paper?"

I shrug. "Definitely. Central City residents are cool with it."

"Mhmm," he eyeballs the picture carefully. "Alright. I trust Miss Coulter is done with the article." Laylani Coulter is sitting now at the desk, turning a light shade of pink.

She nods slowly and works on scanning the photos.

"Do you hear much about that guy, the red streak?" he says in a lower tone.

"Oh yeah, a bit. But I don't think he exists," I reply.

Larkin clears his throat. "Find me an aspiring writer who can dish our all the information on this guy. Posts, articles, even tumblr reblogs. I don't care. Find me someone. The entire city wants to know the truth of this mysterious hero."

"Not everyone," I want to say, but I bite down my tongue. The guy bleeds out his secret love for Samaritan acts to everyone. Instead, I answer, "I will sir," and sit on my chair.

For a few minutes, I scroll through articles. Finally, there's a blog with a few thousand followers or so, and the writer now has a name for the streak- The Flash. Hm, Iris West. She's a possibility.

I pine through her blog and on her sightings of "the Flash." Then I finally realize than an hour's passed. I come to the conclusion that I will choose her blog for Larkin to see. Compared to other articles and repetitive reports, this author is more fresh than an apple that fell from the tree.

I begin drafting an email explaining the details of this exception of a possible job offer. No, that's a little too formal. I delete everything and retype my letter to her.

Dear Iris West,

Hi! My name is Evie and I am an avid reader of your blog on the Flash. Your blog has a lot of potential, and so does your writing. As an assistant's assistant editor and photographer for the Central City Picture News, I am also in search of someone with spunk. I would like to meet up with you during closing hours of your job to discuss a few things about hiring you. Please call the newspaper and ask for me if you are okay with it.

Sincerely,

Evelyn Beauchard

Send.

"Here's the money for those exclusive pictures, Evie," Larkin announces suddenly, slapping a check next to my hand, which is settled on the mouse.

I flip the check over. "Sir, that's nearly quadruple the amount you give for my regular pictures."