New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Lightning Rod Barry

The air in the Batcave, already thick with the dust of decades and the ghosts of a fallen Batman’s crusade, now crackled with a new, more volatile tension. Alternate Barry’s desperate declaration – his intent to recreate the accident that had first granted him super-speed – hung between them like a live wire, a plan so reckless it bordered on suicidal.

“Absolutely not!” Tracksuit Barry exclaimed immediately, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a sharp, almost panicked concern. He grabbed his alternate self by the shoulders. “Barry, listen to me. That was a fluke, a billion-to-one accident. The chemicals, the lightning strike – you can’t just recreate that! You’ll kill yourself!”

Alternate Barry shrugged off his counterpart’s grip, his young face set in a mask of stubborn, desperate resolve. “And what if I do nothing?” he shot back, his voice tight with emotion. “Zod comes, this world ends, and I die anyway, having been completely useless! I was The Flash, I felt the Speed Force. It chose me once. Maybe… maybe it can choose me again.” He looked around the vast, shadowy cavern, at the relics of Batman’s former glory, at the imposing, silent Batcomputer. “We’re in Batman’s lab. He had schematics for everything, contingency plans for contingency plans. The chemicals that were in my university lab that night… I remember most of them. We can replicate the conditions.”

Jack, who had been silently observing this fraternal clash, felt a cold knot of apprehension. Recreating a superhero origin? That was comic book logic at its most dangerously literal. People didn’t just whip up a batch of divine lightning and a cocktail of volatile chemicals and expect a happy ending. But then, he was a comic book fanboy who had become a demigod by shouting a magic word. Hypocrisy, thy name is Super Jack.

The Wisdom of Solomon, however, was already sifting through the probabilities, the variables. The original accident was indeed random, but the core components were known: a specific array of chemicals, an electrical charge of immense power. With controlled conditions, with a directed lightning strike… the odds were still astronomical, the risks appalling, but perhaps not infinitely so. And their need for another speedster, another heavy hitter in the face against Zod’s forces, was undeniable.

Bruce Wayne, who had silently materialized from the shadows near the main console after Tracksuit Barry had presumably updated him on their grudging alliance, watched the exchange with his customary stoic indifference. Or perhaps, Jack thought, it was the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a particularly foolhardy experiment.

“The chemical storage is in sublevel three,” Wayne rumbled, his voice devoid of inflection, neither encouraging nor discouraging. “Most of it should still be viable, if dangerously unstable after years of neglect. The atmospheric conductors on the roof are probably rusted through, so natural lightning is out of the question. Not that you could predict it anyway.” He gestured vaguely towards a reinforced section of the cave. “That area was designed for high-voltage electrical experiments. If you’re determined to electrocute yourselves, do it there. Try not to set off the halon gas suppression system. It’s a bother to reset.”

His detachment was chilling, yet it was also, in its own grim way, permission.

And so, the macabre preparations began. Under Alternate Barry’s increasingly frantic direction, they located the old chemical stores. Dusty, cobweb-laden shelves held arrays of beakers, flasks, and carboys filled with strangely colored liquids and crystalline powders, their labels faded, some written in Wayne’s precise, spidery handwriting from decades past. Tracksuit Barry, despite his profound misgivings, assisted, his scientific knowledge proving invaluable in identifying and carefully measuring the volatile compounds, his speed allowing him to retrieve items with a precision that minimized the risk of accidental spillage or, worse, premature combustion.

Jack watched, his role in this initial phase largely observational. He was the power source, the living conduit for the storm they hoped to harness. He helped move heavier pieces of equipment, his Herculean strength making light work of antiquated machinery, but mostly, he felt like a brooding thundercloud, waiting for his cue.

They set up the experiment in the designated high-voltage bay. It was a stark, utilitarian space, its walls lined with ceramic insulators and thick copper busbars. Alternate Barry, stripped down to a pair of shorts, his lean frame thrumming with a nervous energy that was almost painful to watch, allowed himself to be strapped onto a reinforced, non-conductive gurney. Metal clamps secured his wrists and ankles. A network of wires and electrodes, connected to various arcane-looking pieces of Wayne’s old equipment, was attached to him, designed to… what? Channel the energy? Monitor his vitals until they flatlined? Jack wasn’t entirely sure. A crude lightning rod, fashioned from a length of copper pipe, was positioned above him, aimed at his chest.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of chemicals and the palpable weight of their collective anxiety. Tracksuit Barry double-checked the straps, his face pale, his movements jerky. “Barry, are you absolutely sure about this?” he asked one last time, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s not too late to call it off.”

Alternate Barry met his counterpart’s gaze, his own eyes shining with a terrifying mixture of fear and fanatical hope. “I have to do this,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady. “For my world. For my mom.” He swallowed hard. “Just… if it doesn’t work… tell her I tried.”

Tracksuit Barry nodded, unable to speak, and stepped back, joining Jack and a silently observing Bruce Wayne at a safe distance.

All eyes turned to Jack.

“Alright, kid,” Jack said, his voice rougher than he intended. He cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit from his old life that felt utterly out of place on his divine new form. “Regular lightning, like Bruce said, is too random. Too unpredictable. You need a precise strike, a controlled burst.” He took a deep breath, calling upon the thrumming wellspring of Zeus’s power within him. The air around him began to crackle, his eyes starting to glow with a faint, internal luminescence. “But my lightning…” He raised a hand, and arcs of raw, white energy began to dance between his fingertips. “This, I can aim.”

He focused, picturing the energy flowing from him, down the makeshift lightning rod, into Alternate Barry’s chest. He tried to recall the intensity of the bolt that had transformed him, but also to moderate it, to control it. This wasn’t about bestowing godhood; it was about jump-starting a connection to the Speed Force.

“Here it comes,” Jack warned. “Try to… I don’t know… think speedy thoughts.”

With a grunt of effort, he unleashed the power. A brilliant, searing bolt of divine lightning erupted from his outstretched hand, striking the copper rod with a deafening CRACK! It channeled downwards, engulfing Alternate Barry in a blinding, incandescent glare.

Alternate Barry arched back against his restraints, a raw, agonized scream tearing from his throat, a sound that seemed to go on forever. The acrid smell of ozone and something else – something horrifyingly like burning flesh – filled the Batcave. The lights flickered wildly, then died, plunging them into near darkness, save for the residual, fading glow from Jack’s hand and the sparking, smoking remains of the experimental setup.

When the spots cleared from their eyes, the scene was horrific. The lightning rod was a twisted, melted ruin. Alternate Barry lay limp, his body smoking, his skin covered in angry red burns, some patches blistered and blackened. His chest wasn’t moving.

“Barry!” Tracksuit Barry cried, rushing forward, heedless of any residual electrical charge.

Jack felt a cold fist clench around his heart. No. Oh God, no. I killed him. Panic, sharp and overwhelming, threatened to consume him. He’d miscalculated. He’d used too much power. Or not enough. Or the wrong kind.

But then, that cool, analytical voice of Solomon cut through his rising terror. Advanced Healing. Power of Zeus. You can mend. You can restore. He’d never tried it on another person, only felt its effects on himself. But he had to try.

He shoved past a distraught Tracksuit Barry, kneeling beside the horrifically injured form of his alternate self. “Get back!” Jack commanded, his voice hoarse. He placed his hands gently on Alternate Barry’s burned chest. He closed his eyes, focusing his will, picturing not destruction, but restoration. He imagined the divine energy flowing from him, not as lightning, but as a soothing, mending balm. He called upon the life-giving aspect of Zeus’s power, the spark that animated, that healed.

A soft, golden light emanated from Jack’s hands, bathing Alternate Barry’s ravaged form in its gentle glow. The gruesome burns, the blackened skin, began to recede. Blisters smoothed, charred flesh regained a healthier, if still raw, pinkish hue. Color returned to the young man’s face. After what felt like an eternity, Alternate Barry gasped, a ragged, shuddering intake of air, followed by a fit of coughing. His eyes fluttered open, dazed and filled with pain, but undeniably alive.

Jack sagged with relief, the golden glow fading from his hands. He felt drained, not physically, but emotionally. He had stared into the abyss of his own catastrophic failure and, somehow, pulled back from the brink.

Alternate Barry coughed again, wincing. “Didn’t… work,” he croaked, his voice raspy.

Tracksuit Barry was beside him in an instant, relief warring with renewed fear on his face. “That’s it, Barry. No more. It’s too dangerous.”

But Jack, looking at the determined, if pained, glint in Alternate Barry’s eyes, knew it wasn’t over. He’d made a mistake, yes. But he’d also learned something. He had a baseline now. He could adjust. He had to.

He met Alternate Barry’s gaze. “Okay,” Jack said, his voice grim but steady, a touch of his dark humor bleeding through the tension. “Round two.” He managed a shaky grin. “Try not to die this time, kid.”

The fear was still there, coiling in his gut, but now it was overlaid with a desperate, almost reckless resolve. He would not fail again.

They reset what was left of the equipment, Jack using his strength to straighten the mostly melted lightning rod. Alternate Barry, though still weak and shaken, insisted on being strapped back in. This time, the silence in the Batcave was even heavier, the stakes impossibly higher.

Jack raised his hand again. He focused, not just on the power, but on the intent. He visualized the Speed Force, that elusive, extradimensional energy. He wasn’t just trying to electrocute Barry; he was trying to forge a connection, to open a door. He pictured the lightning not as a raw, destructive force, but as a key, a catalyst.

“Brace yourself,” he said, his voice quieter this time, more focused.

He released the energy. Another blinding flash, another deafening CRACK. Alternate Barry convulsed violently against the restraints, his body arching, his teeth clenched, but this time, there was no scream of pure agony. Instead, a different kind of energy filled the air. Yellowish-red sparks, tiny bolts of lightning, began to erupt from Alternate Barry’s body, dancing across his skin, crackling along the metal restraints. His eyes snapped open, no longer dazed, but wide, alight with a familiar, frenetic energy.

The divine lightning from Jack subsided. But the Speed Force lightning around Alternate Barry intensified, enveloping him in a coruscating aura of raw, untamed speed. He let out a whoop, not of pain, but of exhilaration, of triumph. With a sudden, explosive burst of motion that shattered his restraints, he was on his feet, a vibrating, joyous blur of red and yellow energy.

He was back. The Flash of this doomed Earth was back.