by Hitman 44077
Central City’s Memorial Hospital:
After a quick change out of his smoked-blackened Flash costume, Wally West sat on a chair in one of the check-up rooms as a doctor spoke to him.
“You’re lucky to be alive, Flash. We did some blood work, and the traces of morphine that were in your system should have killed you. Your metabolism, working overtime by the use of your super-speed abilities, eliminated the most dangerous effects.”
“I feel exhausted,” Wally said, rubbing his eyes.
“You’ll need to replenish your body fluids,” the doctor said. “Drink juice, sports drinks, soup. Take it a little easier the next few days.”
“What about the smoke?” Wally asked.
“Luckily for you, you didn’t inhale enough for it to cause permanent damage. That’s what we saw in the examination.”
“I don’t see any reason to keep you here overnight. I’ll schedule a return check-up next week, and if things are back in normal living order, then there’ll be no need to schedule anything further.”
“OK then,” Wally said with an appreciative smile. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Flash,” the doctor replied.
Wally walked out of the doctor’s office and toward Frances Kane, who was sitting in the waiting room.
“How’d it go?” Fran asked with concern.
“More or less a — cough! — a clean bill of health,” Wally replied. “Despite what I’d prefer, I’m to take it easy for a few days. I’ll see Dr. Hardy next week, and that should be it. I’m not screwing around with my health this time.”
“Good,” Fran said, relieved. “What — what happened in there?”
“In that rotted building? What I remember is this…” Wally began. “This guy, he called himself Firefist. He called the CCPD while we were searching for him. He referenced a part of town that’s been run down for decades, and I had one of the detectives at the station check for any convicted felons living in that neighborhood. The detective turned up the name Edward Hobart, who, it turned out, once tried to frame Mick Rory by adopting the Heat Wave identity. The long and short of it was that it was a trap. Firefist planted a bomb inside Hobart and dressed him inside a Heat Wave costume, carefully positioning him so that I couldn’t see the rope and tape which held him in place.”
Fran’s face turned a shade of white, slowly shaking her head in horrified disgust. “That’s — oh, my God — that’s ghastly,” she said quietly.
Wally nodded his head slowly in agreement, looking away for a few seconds. “You’re right. We’re dealing with someone who definitely has an agenda.”
“How did he… take you down?” Fran cautiously asked.
“He had bombs planted all on that top floor. I was caught by one of the explosive waves, and that murderer shot me with a dart filled with a lethal amount of morphine,” Wally confessed. “I think I hit him, hopefully stopping him long enough so that I can catch him, but there’s not much else I can remember right now.”
“That’s understandable,” Fran replied. “Hopefully, it’ll come to light later.”
“I’m hoping so,” Wally said before changing subjects to a personal matter. “Any word on Darryl?”
“He’s not out of danger completely, but the internal bleeding’s stopped,” Fran replied. “His back isn’t broken, but they had to put pins in his hip. It’ll be a while before he’s walking again. The concussion wasn’t as bad as originally thought, and they’ve set what broken bones they could.”
“You saved his life, Fran,” Wally said with a tired smile.
“We did, Wally,” Fran said with a smile as well, wiping a tear away.
Wally pulled Fran in for a warm hug, for there were things to be thankful for this day, despite all that happened. But even as Wally held her, he gazed outside a nearby window and thought to himself, It’s not over by a long-shot, Firefist. I’ll make sure you serve out a life term for the murder you committed today, and I don’t give a damn who’s behind that mask. If it’s Mick Rory with a new identity, or if it’s someone completely different, I will bring you to justice!