NO HERO · BARRY ALLEN | ✘

Twenty-Four: Distance

Layla isn't home when I get back and crash on the couch. She usually would be since she orders pizza and the (cute) delivery guy is on his shift at this hour until precisely 5:30 PM. Not like I'm counting the hours until his shift's over. It just happens like that.

I take the milk out of the fridge (crap I think it's expired) and set it on the table. I hear the chunks as I shake it. I don't think I'd like to smell test it.

I grab a pepsi and open it up. I'm taking a sip and trying hard not to think about how Barry screwed me over when I hear a loud THUD! coming from the closet. I set down the drink and walk closer (I'm like the white people in horror movies-I just go closer to the weird sound because I honestly have no sense of direction).

Once I open the closet door, I notice a box had fallen out on the floor. Its lid is opened, but the contents aren't spilled. I set it upright and take a look inside.

There's not much except for half a vial of red liquid and a note. I look at the note first.

If you're reading this, then the time has come.

Ahaha, that sounded too heroic. Heroes are fakes, I'm sure you know that.

Damn right I do.

But back to what I was going to say...

If you're reading this, then the task was delivered successfully. This vial is my blood. It has healing properties. But if you let your boyfriend run tests, you'll see that the DNA does not match yours. And if you put two and two together... well you understand now, don't you?

Of course, if you run even more tests with your parent's DNA, you'll find that one of them is not like the others when comparing it to their kids... Bruce maybe. I don't care about him. I care about you more. 

You're special. But you don't belong here. At least, theoretically you don't.

I drop the note on the tabletop, feeling confused out of all the other feelings I'm experiencing. Who the hell wrote this?

Oh wait.

Attached to the note is a business card with a number at the bottom. I fumble for my phone in my pocket and dial the number quickly.

"Hello, you've reached John Constantine. That's JOHN. CONSTANTINE. If you're looking for Alec Holland, try the bloody swamp."

~*~

I have to remain cold. I have to remain professional. I have to feel indifferent. I have to feel.. nothing.

I take a deep breath and focus on the task at hand, which is having Barry run tests on the blood sample.

Can we meet up at the police station?

K.

I did not wait twenty whole minutes for a "k."

I tap my feet impatiently on the floor. Crap, the floor is so dirty I can't afford to ruin Kayla's Manolo Blahniks that she gave to me as a gift from California.

"Hey," I hear him say from the entrance. "I thought you wanted some space."

"I did. I mean I do. But I- that's not why I'm here. I'm here to ask for a favor, as a friend." The word sounds like poison the moment it escapes my lips.

I can tell he's hurt by the word too, flinching and looking away. "What is it that you need?"

"Can you run some tests? See if this blood matches-" I stop before I can say mine, "Everard Beauchard and Lucinda Masters."