The Day the Circus Came to Town

Bluereed Pastures was an idyllic, if inaccurately named, stretch of land in Kansas, famous with the locals and tourists-of-old for alleged UFO sightings and elaborate crop circles that were common in places where bourbon and line-dancing were the most popular forms of entertainment. Contrary to the name, amongst the expansive plains and the scant hints of hills, there was not a blue reed in sight. Instead, Bluereed Pastures was draped across the land, a patchwork quilt of mellow browns and vibrant yellows, stitched together by a Frankenstein network of delicate sugar maples and darkest ashes. Like the first of a lazy morning's stretch, the gentle slopes reached from the horizon to greet a sky so clear and blue it was almost white, their golden crowns ablaze from the kiss of the cresting sun.

All was still. Many years had passed since the last busload of tourists trekked the tired path to the top of Clearwater Ridge, to spend a night out amongst the stars, cradling soup flasks, and gazing up at the sky. There were no straight lines, here; no grey building, no grumbling cars, just the whisper of wind as it wove through untamed grasses, and the soft chirruping song of the wild. It was the land that civilisation forgot.

A crack, loud as thunder, rent the cloudless sky. With a tremendous flurry of wings and rustling leaves, the proud ashes disgorged their resident flocks, and quivered from a shockwave that swept across the fields. A rush of air, a flash of light, then silence. And moments later, flames, licking from the tall grass, dissected the landscape in a perfect ribbon of red.

In the nearby town of Smallville, where, like wizards and water nymphs, high-speed internet and three-storey buildings were considered the stuff of mythical legend, the sleepy farming community was going about its afternoon affairs, blissfully ignorant of the chaos on its doorstep. Main Street was alive with the pleasant hum of activity: there was the usual congregation outside Potter's Flower Shop, and some easy listening drifting from Otto's Barber Styling; the fundraiser at the Tavern was a resounding success, where a large banner, that read Proud Sponsors of the Smallville Crows, was draped high above the bustling bake-off stalls, and the tables practically buckling from their assorted arts and crafts. But it wasn't all sweetness and light. No. There was an incident outside Fordman's, where old Henry Huckabee had trouble starting his truck; he disagreed with George Junior's assessment that it was just a jammed ignition switch, his marrows were beginning to soften, and he had just about reached the limit of his patience. Fortunately, Deputy Irene Tate was on hand to provide a second opinion. It turned out that the ignition was indeed a bit stiff; the engine was running, in no time, and they all went into George's garage for coffee and donuts.

"Lance! Lance! How's Ethel?"

From across the street, Betty Finch adjusted her basket of groceries, and waved, summoning the attention of a denim-clad rogue of a man, with soiled boots, and sandy tussled hair. From the business end of his truck, Lance Carter unloaded a sack of potatoes, and, through the creases of strain, he smiled.

"Much better, thank you. Doc Brown said she will be back on her feet in a few days."

"That's great news!"

"I know, right? Hey, how's Ned? That trick shoulder still giving him trouble?"

Betty conquered an errant strand of ginger hair, and managed a care-free shrug, "Trick shoulder, trick back, trick knee. What can I say? The man doesn't believe in retirement."

Lance considered this, and said, "Tell him I'll be round tonight to lend a hand."

"You're a good man, Lance. I'll be sure to bake my best-"

"Hey, have you seen Superman?"

The stranger appeared from nowhere, dressed in... well, he was dressed. Sparks, like the spitting of a snapped power cable, leapt from the sidewalk and signpost nearby. Betty's basket went into the air. Other than conveying abject horror, her shriek provided the stranger with little of any use. The handsome potato guy was next:

"Have you seen Superman? I really need to speak to him! Oh-"

As quickly as he appeared, he vanished, returning to Mrs. Finch with a static crack of energy. The eggs, milk, flour, and zucchini were saved, each unspiralled back into the basket, and returned to Betty Finch's robust forearm. Masked as he was, the stranger gave her a look.

"Ma'am, zucchini pie is not a thing." He pointed across the street, "That man deserves better."

The flash, again, and Lance retrucked his potatoes. The masked man waved.

"Hello? Superman? He's like-" He leapt into the air, rigid, going for an invisible ball like a soccer player who'd never played soccer before, "-this tall. Cute hair. Blue tights. Big red cape? No?"

With a crack, he was gone. Down the street, school girls screamed, and further still, came the pronounced honk of a truck horn. Outside the Tavern, Belinda Jenkins almost choked on her blueberry tart when the costumed stranger materialised before her eyes.

"Excuse me, is there a Fortress of Solitude around here?"

Annoyed by Belinda's untimely coughing fit, the stranger vanished again. He resurfaced on the steps of the bank, where Jimmy, the security guard, had just lit up. No time was wasted.

"Hi, I'm new in town," he said, returning the lost cigarette to Jimmy's mouth, "Can you give me directions to the nearest Fortress of Solitude, please? ...Please?"

Sirens in the distance. Bart wheeled around and spotted a column of black smoke snaking into the sky. When he swallowed, it was like the silica-based quartz sand fabric of his costume was trying to choke him out. Was he too late? He looked at his watch. He wasn't wearing a watch. That wasn't how this worked. People had to know. They had to-

"Get out!" Inside the Talon, the caffeinated patrons stared, mystified. The silence was broken by the sound of a shattering mug. Bart clapped his hands, and yelled again, "Out! Get out! What are you doing? This is no time for pumpkin-spiced latte! They're coming! Go! Go! Go!"

The scene from the gas station was alarming. Across the road, the Talon vomited its customers into the street, where they dispersed in screaming droves. With each unearthly flash of light, other respectable establishments followed suit, creating a chain reaction of panic and disorder down the length of Main Street. Onlookers stood frozen, their pumps poised, exchanging nervous glances across the hoods of their trucks, like gasoline duellers at dawn. Bart approached them, too, wary of generating sparks on the forecourt, he waved his arms frantically instead.

"You have to leave now! It's not safe! Take your family and your friends, and get out of Smallville while you can!" Though most of the truck-enthusiasts appeared to take the hint, there was one gentleman who remained dumbstruck, or perhaps awestruck, by the sight of Bart in his costume. This was worse than herding cats. Bart's throat was like sandpaper, and he could hear his heart pounding inside his ears with all the ceaseless ferocity of a jackhammer. He drummed his hand on the roof of the truck, snapping the poor guy out of it, at last.

"Fill her up, sir! And drive away! Drive far away! Time is running-"

"Sir, I want you to put your hands above your head, and turn around. Slowly!"

The voice rang out like the opening salvo of a firing squad. Owlish behind his mask, Bart complied, turning slowly on the spot to face a ferocious terrier of a woman in a brown jacket and broad-rimmed hat. She had a gun on him, it lacked the shimmer of the traditional six-shooter that they were all supposed to favour in this part of the world. In fact, it didn't look much like any kind of gun he'd ever seen before.

"Ah. Sheriff. Just the person I was looking for. Here's the thing: Smallville's life is in danger, and everyone must be evacuated, right away. Wait. That's not- who's that?"

On the periphery of his vision, he spotted another armed officer, circling behind him. When he attempted to look, the sheriff snapped, "Eyes forward. On your knees."

"Look, I don't think you're seeing the big picture, here. I'm trying to save-"

"On your knees!"

More sirens approached, this time up Main Street itself. With hellfire in her eyes, the sheriff took a step forward, and prodded her weapon with intent. Bart didn't need to be told thrice. A convoy of fire trucks sped past, lights flashing, wailing their chorus of danger. They were headed, of course, in the direction of the billowing smoke, far in the distance, where there was nothing but fields and trees and grass. It was from the same direction that Bart had arrived. Something heavy crashed into the pit of his stomach, then, pinning him to the spot, drawing his gaze to his feet.

"This is all my fault," he said, lowering himself to his knees, at last.

"Your goddamn right it is. Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my town?"

Just one look. That was all it took to tell him that any attempt to explain himself to Sheriff Firebrand, here, would be an exercise in futility. The truth would fall on her ears like raindrops on hot coals, only to sizzle, and evaporate into the air. He was wasting time. What he needed was the attention of someone important, someone who would listen to what he had to say, who would listen to him, and, most importantly, believe. That gave him an idea:

"Alright, I confess," he said, with a sigh, "I'm not here to save you all from terrible, and potentially fiery, deaths. This is all just part of an elaborate plan to assassinate the President of the United States. It's true. Her life is in danger and I feel terrible about it. Really, I do. So you should tell someone. As soon as possible."

The sheriff gave her companion a look; the hook was baited, and it was time for some seasoning:

"You should also tell them that I'm a Russian spy, and I have come here to undermine your democracy, your freedom of speech, and everything you hold dear."

Bart weathered the tedious silence for all of 3 seconds, before his jaw clenched in frustration.

"I'm also going to take away all your guns."

From behind, there came a sound, like a polite cough, but not. Something hit him square between the shoulders, and, at once, all feeling was banished from his extremities. Bart wavered on his knees, and the last thing he saw before the lights went out, was the ground rising up to meet him.

* * *

J'onn - or rather John, as he currently appeared - stood in stoic silence, watching through the one way glass of the interrogation room, one hand cradling his elbow, the other poised thoughtfully a few inches in front of his mouth. Beneath his human exterior, his Martian eyes glowed with an inner crimson light, Martian vision perceiving what his human-shifted eyes could not. Even stationary, he watched the energy ripple and crackle around the Smallville Sheriff's detainee. The deputies had described him as a speedster, and J'onn could believe it: he'd seen metahumans with an aura like this before, though not quite. The energy here was different: more intense, more unbridled, sparks and shimmers of cobalt blue rather than the amber hues of West and Allen, or the violent red of Eobard Thawne. It raised questions, ones that called for an understanding of science and the Speed Force that J'onn did not possess. Perhaps that would be his next life, the next opportunity to walk among the human world as an anonymous one of them. Not now, of course; perhaps not even soon; but one day, once his work was complete.

Today, however, the work had just started.

"I've not seen a speedster with this much raw power before," he said aloud, his eyes returning to normal before he glanced towards one of his ARGUS companions.

To him it made little difference. He had witnessed his allies and subordinates with both incarnations of his eyes more than enough times to recognise them either way, and there was a certain beauty and benefit to both. It had taken him a long time to grow accustomed to the limitations of human vision when he had first begun to pose as one of them: to see their world through the narrow band of EM that they could perceive, to struggle to distinguish fine detail at such range, or such microscopic detail up close. Nowadays he was not only accustomed, but had even come to appreciate it. Humanity could find the beauty in the subtle distinctions in the colour of leaves, in the mystery of what lay unseen in the distance; and when they sought more, they invented, innovating new ways to extend and compensate their way past shortcomings that Martians had simply shifted their physiology to overcome. With his Martian eyes, J'onn could tell so much about Agents Eden and Lawton: he saw their heartbeats, their vulnerabilities, their concealed weapons, their intricate subtleties of movement and expression. With his human eyes meanwhile, he could see the pristine blue of Eve Eden's eyes, or the subtle variation in shades between strands of her hair; or the subtle flecks of grey on Floyd Lawton's, and the way the pinched lines at the corner of his unconcealed eye warned that coffee was overdue. Martians could see more, but it was humans who saw more: through their eyes, everyone was a story, and an artwork unto themselves.

To his compatriots however, the state of his eyes held much more significance. Though modern politics had begun to call it somewhat into question, for the most part humanity liked to think of themselves as a fairly enlightened race, one who had left their superstitions behind them. That belief was mistaken. Humans still, within their shared social subconscious, associated weight and meaning with the strangest things. They forged opinions, both actively and passively, based on the pigmentations of skin and hair, on physique and stature, on voice, and race, and tribal distinctions based on everything from geography to sexuality to dietary preferences and sporting loyalties. Such concepts and prejudices were not foreign to him: the race war between whites and greens back on Mars had been central to their very identity, which was why he had chosen this particular human form that he currently favoured; and he had learned harsh lessons here on Earth about his own vulnerability to falling into such biased and judgemental ways. What he struggled with was how trivial so many of those distinctions seemed. Perhaps it was a flaw in his own perception, hailing from a race where a person's appearance was as much about personal choice as it was genetics; or perhaps it was simply a symptom of his human perceptions being something new. Humans seemed to find comfort in finding new ways to see the commonalities between themselves and others, whereas J'onn delighted in perceiving the unique differences that set them apart.

His Martian eyes, when he used them, were something that set him apart. To the shared human subconscious, the glowing blood red of his eyes was something demonic and monstrous, and even among those who knew him well it was a reminder that he was different, something that his usual human form seemed to allow them to forget - or at the very least, look past with more ease. It was why, even among those who knew him well and knew of his nature, J'onn chose to walk around as John. Perhaps in time, his ARGUS peers would grow accustomed to his towering green and inhuman form; but this was easier - for them, at least.It was easier to be accepted when you looked like one of them.

A stray thought turned to his niece, and guilt twisted in his gut, but he buried it along with the rest of his reverie, refocusing himself on his duties, and the mission. His hand fell away from his face, arms folding comfortably across his chest as he turned to face Eden and Lawton more directly.

"I've seen speedsters phase through solid objects, and move so fast that human eyes could no longer see them. We can't let ourselves underestimate what this meta might be capable of. As soon as Agent Carter gets here, have him and Skeets set up a containment barrier over the door. It won't do much, but it's better than nothing."

There was something to be said for the shadows in a dimly lit room. Most people in her position would scan the space for possible security weak points and handy exits. But that meant little to a woman who felt more comfortable in the shadows she could call out of her blood and thoughts. Shadows were comfortable, and didn’t hold the fear and uncertainty they did for most people.

With that said, she would have been a terrible agent if she hadn’t assessed the room as she’d been trained to do. Her partner was liable to quiz her on it at some point afterwards, just to keep her on her toes about proper protocol. So Eve noted the two doors, the long desk with the recording and monitoring equipment, and the scattered chairs. The large window, inset with thick one-way glass was broad enough to accommodate several observers, though only one tall, imposing figure was framed on this side of it.

With Agent Jones’s stoic silence reigning, she took the time to observe the reason ARGUS had been summoned to Kansas on short notice. A speedster with a level of raw power that even he had never seen before. Considering the extent of his experience, the blonde arched a brow as she tilted her head, eyes flickering to a solid black briefly as they swept across the seated form. He looked…well. He looked young, but that wasn’t entirely surprising for a speedster. He appeared nervous, as well, but that also led back to what he was and the fact that sitting still was probably a trial at the best of times.

She breathed deeply and quietly, fingers extending almost imperceptibly toward the nearby corner, a shadow coalescing enough to wind about her fingers briefly. It was enough to tell her that there was nothing lingering within, though they were still somewhat disturbed. When she used her abilities to open a portal, it had almost a ripple effect, akin to dropping a pebble in a pond. Barely noticeable to even one with her abilities, when done carefully on a small scale. But when she tore open the ether enough for a convoy to drive from the sublevels of ARGUS in DC straight to Smallville, Kansas…well, the ripples got exponentially bigger.

Eve had done what she could to keep the imbalance to a minimum, and was rather pleased to find things as calm as they were. Her hands folded together at her waist and the shadow melted away as Agent Jones turned to face her and her partner. She nodded and made a mental note of his request as she paused before replying.

“He’ll be a few more minutes, but I’ll have him do so as soon as he arrives. I took the liberty of sending him out to get something for our friend to eat. I understand speedsters need to eat a great deal more often than most metas, and after being tasered, he’s likely lower than he should be.” She straightened as she spoke, glancing briefly over at her partner before returning her gaze to their boss.

With luck, Eve mused briefly, Agent Carter would think to bring her a coffee as well…because what the sheriff’s station considered coffee simply did not count.

A single breath of subtle, silent laughter escaped from the Martian, a nod of acceptance cast in Agent Eden's direction. While his superiors at ARGUS found value in the occult abilities that the former First Daughter boasted, to J'onn it was her mind that carried more worth. She was measured, considered, someone who sought not just to control their abilities and their circumstance, but their understanding as well. Any agent who advanced in ARGUS could be relied on to analyse their situation and make the smart choice; but while many relied on instinct, reflex, and training, Eve supplemented those with wisdom and knowledge. A good agent knew they could stop a Kryptonian with a kryptonite bullet; a better one might harness sunlight or incantations; but the best knew culture, religions, traditions, history, context, and more, and could thwart such beings in more subtle and tailored ways.

In this instance, Agent Eden had broadened his options without prompting. The specifics of the science were complicated, and often contradictory; but as J'onn understood it, while speedsters drew upon the Speed Force to fuel their abilities, the act of doing so placed considerable strain on their physiology. They did not simply move faster, they saw, and thought, and comprehended, and healed, and a myriad other things at an accelerated rate as well. Such functions were driven in part by the Speed Force, but the speedster's body played a part as well - and as a result they burned through calories at an alarming rate. J'onn did not understand enough to know what might happen to a speedster who was deprived of that intake for too long; but fortunately for their prisoner, he had no desire to find out - and as tempting a strategy as it might seem to coerce answers, J'onn possessed far more effective means of securing information involuntarily, if it came down to that.

It did not escape J'onn that it was Agent Carter who had been sent on this errand. One of the many things that fascinated J'onn about humanity was that, for such a short-lived species, they were disproportionately slow to accept change. Granted, for a shapeshifter like J'onn, change was a somewhat less alarming concept; but over the lifetimes he had lived among humans, he noticed time and again how reluctant they were to embrace the new. In this instance, that new was Agent Michael Carter, a man who claimed to be from the future, and yet whose account of history diverged from reality in strange and unexpected ways. For a time, the DEO had hoped to use him as a resource in their efforts against villains and vigilantes alike, but the sporadic knowledge of Agent Carter - or Booster Gold, as he called himself - proved too unreliable to be effective, and the DEO had cast him aside. J'onn had been quick to exploit that opportunity; but in doing so, he had inducted Agent Carter into his cadre of ARGUS agents as the rookie, the lowest point of hierarchy towards which all delegation ultimately flowed. For some, they offloaded the unpleasant and undesirable tasks onto Agent Carter simply because they could. For others it was something else: a rite of passage; a challenge; trust yet to be earned.

J'onn spared a moment to consider where on that spectrum Agent Eden might fall; but only a moment.

"Good thinking," J'onn uttered aloud. The acknowledgement wasn't necessary, but it served a purpose: among Martians, one could rely on telepathy and comprehension to convey that which was not explicitly stated, but among humans such things were often less clear, and J'onn had trained himself to voice such things even when a human might not. It was not merely a matter of his own caution, either: it was an invitation, for his agents to speak their minds as freely as he spoke his.

His voice paused for a moment, a subtle shift in his posture indicating the room behind him. "Until he gets here, make sure we aren't disturbed."

With those words, J'onn stepped backwards. One stride brought him closer to the one way glass that separated him and his compatriots from their captive speedster. The next brought him through it, a shimmer of red energy coursing across his body as his molecular structure phased and adapted to allow the physicality of the wall to pass harmlessly through him. A third step moved him completely into the room, and J'onn turned, arms still folded as he contemplated their speedster, with his human eyes this time. It was showmanship, absolutely, to demonstrate his abilities in such a way; but it was a test as well, and a statement, a revelation of his own abnormal nature to influence the prisoner's disposition for better or worse.

J'onn studied the speedster's features beneath the helmet that ARGUS had not forced him to remove; an old concession to the anonymity of those in costume left over from a generation ago, but one J'onn still appreciated and felt nostalgic for. Fortunately, the speedster's eyes were expressive enough to compensate for the expressionless obscurity the helmet provided; J'onn focused on them intently as he spoke.

"My name is Agent Jones. I work for an organisation called ARGUS."

He paused for a beat, studying the speedster's reactions.

"Is that an agency you are familiar with?"

It made sense, Bart supposed, that an interrogation room should be one of the most boring places in the world; four plain walls, mirrored glass, a door; a place that denied its occupants the merciful refuge of distraction. Instead, Bart was left alone with his thoughts, to consider the consequences of his actions. After 30 seconds of careful introspection, he was done. Sure, he conceded, the attempted evacuation of Smallville could've been conducted in a more orderly fashion, with the right people involved, such as Sheriff Trigger-Happy, and with generally less screaming hysteria. But then, hindsight is 20/20, and he had no time for that, because he'd had no time. Or so he'd thought.

He waited in silent agony, while time treacled; minutes oozed, a sludge of days, perhaps, maybe months - did it even matter? He'd have counted tiles if there were any. His gaze pinged and ponged from the spartan walls, while his wrists teased at the firm grip of the wholly superfluous cuffs that attached him to the table. He considered their intentions, the Sheriff and her assistant, and the faces of the as-yet faceless authorities gathering on the other side of the glass at that very moment probably. It better be someone important. What if it's-

Oh. Well, it wasn't Superman. That was for sure. Extensive though the Man of Steel's list of talents was, phasing through solid objects had never been his forté. He was more of a smash through solid objects kind of guy. So he'd been told. Behind the snug sexy embrace of his costume, Bart felt his face stretch in all kinds of surprising directions as he took in the sight of the newly-emerged stranger, who had appeared with a mystical shimmer of red energy. That was interesting. And different. He'd seen a lot of strange and wonderful things in his time, but nothing like that. As dramatic entrances went, it was certainly up there, on his list of Best Dramatic Entrances, marred only by the fact that he wasn't wearing a cape. Shame.

"ARGUS, huh? No, wait. Let me guess." One finger raised in polite request, Bart's wide eyes narrowed, and searched the low ceiling, as if that was where he would find the answer. Nonetheless, he tried, "Allied Response Guerrilla Utensil Squad."

Agent Jones remained expressionless. Well, in the quarter second he'd been afforded to respond. He frowned in contemplation.

"Or am I the ARGUS? Alternate Reality Guy Under Suspicion. No, I can't be ARGUS. My name is Impulse."

Bart froze, suddenly. His eyes wide with shock.

"Oh, wow. I literally just made that up. Like this second. First word that came into my head. That could've been so much worse. Can you imagine if I was thinking of quiche? I could really do with some quiche, right now. Are you hungry, Agent Jones?"

H'ronmeer's black bones, J'onn hated speedsters. He could feel it, dancing on the periphery of his perceptions: the hyperspeed prattle of thoughts pulsing around the speedster's mind. J'onn didn't seek to perceive it, didn't press uninvited into the speedster's mind; it was just there, nagging at his consciousness, like thumping bass through an apartment wall.

Impulse.

It was a fitting name for a speedster, a blend of science and instinct, both definitions ultimately distilling down to the concept of compulsion, be it physical, or thought. It seemed apt for the individual as well, both the impulsive actions that had landed him in custody, and the scattered assortment of words and subjects compelled from his mouth without much apparent consideration. To his credit, J'onn weathered the verbal stream calmly, remaining stoic and silent until the speedster's pinball monologue found its way to a natural pause.

"Advanced Research Group, United Support."

J'onn remained stubbornly fixed upon his topic of choice, not the three or four steps ahead that Impulse had attempted to drag them to. As he talked he lived up to his agency's name, letting his human vision study the speedster's suit, regarding it in the manner it was intended to be viewed, rather than in spectrums beyond. It was stylised, a certain personal flair applied to the design, armoured plates rather than pliable fabrics; but the red, the lightning bolt, the golden flair on the helmet, carried with it an undeniable flavour of The Flash. J'onn wondered which particular iteration of the vigilante had inspired this particular imitator, and whether an authentic Flash had endorsed this particular infringement on their intellectual property.

"A painfully contrived acronym, granted, but an important one. In Greek mythology, Argus was a many-eyed giant. They called him Panoptes, all-seeing. They used to say that they were being watched by the eyes of Argus when they were being scrutinised, or surveilled."

A step advanced J'onn towards the interrogation table. A hand reached out for the waiting chair, dragging it backwards. He lowered himself into it, slowly and with purpose, keeping himself the calm and considered opposite of the suspect being questioned.

"That is who we are at ARGUS. A many-eyed giant, all-seeing, always watching."

His eyes narrowed.

"Why is it then that we have never seen you before -"

He hesitated, uttering the proffered name almost with distaste.

"- Impulse?"

If there was one thing Bart enjoyed, it was a good story. Uncle Flash told the best stories, full of adventure, intrigue, and action, but never had they featured any many-eyed giants. As such, Agent Jones was bestowed that rarest of gifts: his undivided attention. Bart listened, mouth agape in wonder, eyes wide with a healthy dose of fear. Yes, it was a good tale, well told, and came eloquently full circle by the time Agent Jones took his seat. When the moral of the story was shaped into a question, Bart faltered. Then, inspiration:

"Did you ever hear the story of the one-eyed giant who trapped that dude and his men inside his cave, where he ate them, two at a time, for breakfast and dinner? That was until one day, the dude stabbed the giant in his eye, blinding him. In order to escape, they strapped themselves to the underside of the giant's sheep, so when he let them out, the next morning, he couldn't feel them leaving his lair."

Getting into the story, Bart shuffled to edge of his seat, and leaned forward to hold Agent Jones's gaze.

"In this story, you are the blind cyclops and I am the dude who stabs you in the eye, except, I wasn't trying to sneak out of your nasty man-eating cave, but sneak into it. You see, in this version of the story, the sheep I strapped myself to was the Speed Force, right? And the stake that I blinded you with... was time."

Bart reconsidered his choice of words and the blood-thirsty enthusiasm with which he'd delivered them. He winced, and held his hands up to protect himself from the giant's mighty reach.

"When I say 'blinded,' think of it as a, uh, temporary obfuscation. A temporal obfuscation! Like rubbing grease on your glasses. Or monacle, I guess. Considering you're a short-sighted cyclops."

J'onn's eyes narrowed, as if human ocular physiology somehow had the ability to peer through the tangle of concepts that Impulse presented, and glare at the heart of the matter. Sadly, his assumed biology was incapable of such feats; fortunately, a few lifetimes of experience with human history presented him with alternative options.

"If I am Polyphemus in this analogy of yours," the ARGUS agent responded, deliberately drawing out his words and sentences into as slow a progression as possible. Perhaps it wouldn't affect the speedster in the slightest, perhaps it wouldn't serve as the kind of reciprocal annoyance that the young man's hyperspace narrative inspired within him, but J'onn could hope, and cling to the belief that it might for at least a little while. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms shifted, somehow deepening the intensity of his disapprovingly folded arms. A pause intended to be agonising passed between them before J'onn finished his thought. "That would make you Odysseus. So tell me -"

Only then did J'onn move, advancing towards the table, dragging out the cheap and uncomfortable metallic chair that the Sheriffs had left for him. It screeched across the grubby tiled floor like a creature in fatal distress, the shriek echoing around the room for a few fractional moments even as the sound itself fell silent. J'onn settled himself into the chair, perching on the edge rather than provoking any further death throes by shuffling himself any closer, leaning forward across the table to bring the intensity of his gaze even closer to the speedster. Even seated, J'onn's physique towered above the younger man, a deliberately chosen aspect of this particular form and identity adopted for his work here with ARGUS.

"- exactly what sort of odyssey are you on, Impulse?"

He held his hand up to halt any sort of immediate response.

"I advise you to abandon the metaphors and speak plainly. You said the word temporal, and past experiences have left me with very little patience for speedsters screwing around with my timeline."

To hear Agent Jones speak, Bart was reminded of Ancient Egypt. All of those thin-limbed trembling slaves, bent double, with the merciless sun beating down upon their backs, sweating and heaving as they worked in unison to pull mighty slabs of stone to the summits of unfinished pyramids. As each word rumbled over Agent Jones's lips, grinding from the tedious slog of labour to produce them, he found himself sympathising with those wretched slaves, and he shared in their pain. The going was slow, agonising, and yet, much like the great pyramid stones of old, Agent Jones's words carried a perilous weight. Bart held fast, clinging to the droning monologue, for fear of falling off and being crushed beneath it.

The sudden shriek of metal drove an icy spike of alarm through his Trucker's Hitched innards. He jolted upright in his seat, which was just as well, since his new companion sought to make an uncomfortably close acquaintance of him. Even seated, Agent Jones rose up like a dark and treacherous mountain against the bleak backdrop of the interrogation room. And, if he squinted hard enough, he would surely see the first brewing of storm clouds overhead; it was all Bart could do to avoid that intense skewering gaze. With a telling clatter of shackles, he reached the limits of polite retreat, and produced a small whimper.

"That's the thing..." he began, dripping with apprehension, "You see, it's not that I want to screw around with anyone's timeline. It's like... have you ever had a bad deal on a car? I mean, sure, it looks great, red hot paint job, beautiful leather interior, but you pop that hood, and boom: leaky tank! You know what I-"

Bart took one look at Agent Jones, and swallowed.

"No, you don't. Okay. So... the place where I come from? It sucks! Like, it's the worst. The worst. Okay? And, unless you want that place to be where you're headed, you're going to want my help because... because... because I'm the world's last best hope, sir!"

At that moment, with a flourish of gluteal dexterity, the doorway was deftly opened, and a strikingly handsome figure reversed his way into the room. Though it was hardly his good side, to describe it as his bad side was as foolhardy as attempting to decide upon the least impressive of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Yes, technically there was one - the Great Library of Alexandria, obviously; a pokémon collection of ancient literature was impressive, but not that impressive - but like an Academy Award, it was an honor just to be nominated; and in the same vain vein, it was an equal honor to have the opportunity to gaze upon any facet of Booster Gold. Even this least flattering of angles was still flattering, futuristic fibres and fabrics gently caressing the chiselled contours of a toned and muscular physique, inlays of vibrant gold contrasting against the lush blue to draw the eye to where it belonged: involuntary admiration of an artistically sculpted ass. Similar stylings on the front of his costume drew attention towards his abdominals, of course, but that was a contingency element of design, there for the benefit of those whose attention somehow wasn't captivated by dazzling eyes and a winning smile.

All in all, Booster Gold looked majestic. Dashing. Desirable. A reality that, combined with the stack of pizza boxes currently cradled in his arms, gave the entire scene the surreal appearance of historic pornography, an inexplicably handsome pizza delivery guy about to be seduced into the sordid web and lustful solitude of a busty and buxom actress who had passed the age of twenty-five, and thus transitioned from naive daughter to naughty stepmother in the eyes if the industry's casting.

Fortunately for Booster Gold, the occupants of the room he had entered were neither busty nor lustful - not currently, at least. Booster had only once had the misfortune of witnessing Agent Jones - or J'onzz; the whole situation confused Booster, frankly, which is why he only ever typed Boss when referring to his superior in written correspondence - in a desirable feminine form, something that had haunted his dreams for weeks in the aftermath. Now, to his overwhelming relief, J'onn J'onzz was merely in the familiar form of intimidating government agent, a guise that appeared to be having the desired effect upon the unfortunate subject of his interrogation.

In the back of his mind, Booster got the sense that he was interrupting something. As usual, it was a notion he completely ignored - after all, what situation wasn't improved by the addition of Booster Gold? - advancing into the room with purpose, to deposit the sustenance he had been ordered to retrieve upon the waiting table. Perhaps Agent J'onzz would scold him for the intervention, but orders were orders, and if ARGUS was going to insist upon assigning him tasks that left him feeling underappreciated and undervalued, the least they could do was suck it up and allow him to complete his busywork before their ingratitude kicked in.

A hand patted the stack of Papa Johns boxes - deliberately chosen from the three proximate pizzerias for the resonance of the name, of course - as he turned to ARGUS' latest captive with a smile. It was a ruse, of course, a sound designed to draw the speedster's attention vaguely in his direction. Behind the amber tinted lenses of his glasses, Booster's companion artificial intelligence, Skeets, furiously analysed the contours and facial structure of the masked individual seated before him. As far as identity concealment went, the speedster's costume was frustratingly effective, armored ceramics doing an impressive job of obscuring the various comparison points and measurable features that Skeets' software usually assessed. A synthesised apology sounded in Booster's ear, echoed in text projected into his field of view by his glasses. Rolling with the failure of his futuristic technology, Booster allowed his expression to fall into a questioning frown, completely ignoring the possibility that Agent J'onzz might have been in the midsts of some sort of important line of enquiry.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" he asked, allowing a mildly critical tone to corrupt the typically soothing melody of his voice. "Points for creativity, imagination, and putting your own flair on the costume design, I guess, but if you're trying to cosplay as some iteration of The Flash, you seriously need to go back to the drawing board and reconsider your stance on screen accuracy."

"Or maybe the Flash needs to reconsider the noteworthy lack of quartz fibre in his suit. Is that pizza for me?"

On the surface, it was a leap, and one rich with greedy presumption, connecting the galaxies-apart dots and had him eyeing up the unopened boxes like a kid at Christmas. Bart understood what a faux pas meant, even if he hadn't taken the time to find out what it literally meant. After all, why learn French when you have sign language? The one true universal language, other than music, and love. The language without international borders. But, then again... what was sign language for faux pas? Damn it, France, stop making things up! Whatever it meant, he was guilty of it, and regularly, but it was the curse of living in a world full of snail-people. It wasn't his fault that, by the time he'd finished dropping premature tips about Barry Allen's potential future suit upgrades, he'd already arrived at the conclusion that the only reason this sharply-dressed stranger had quite literally butted into their conversation, carrying far more pizza than was required for the appetites of three normal men, was because he was aware of his speedster's metabolism and had elected to help a dude out in the hope that he: a. cooperated, and b. didn't pass out.

But, despite the impending deluge of appreciation Bart was about to lay on the smiling guy, it was to frowny Agent Jones whom he addressed his question. That was the secret of being such a good diplomat: always be aware of where the power was in the room at any given time. And hunger had a way of giving him clarity of thought that he otherwise lacked. Uncle Flash liked to say his brain was like a teenager's bedroom, partly because the whole youthful vibrancy thing he had going on, but also because it was messy, and cluttered, and full of unspeakable things. And, speaking of unspeakable things, was that a nod of confirmation from Agent Jones? The look on his face was the Iron Heights of facial expressions, but his head definitely moved, like a fraction of an inch, maybe. And a grunt! Yes!

There was a low hum, like a flurry of hummingbird wings, followed by a clatter of metal as the locked handcuffs fell to the table. Free from his shackles, Bart helped himself to the box atop Pizza Guy's handsome stack and threw upon the lid. A mushroom cloud of blissful aromatic steam billowed towards the ceiling, by which point, he was already done with his first slice. The second similarly vanished, and it wasn't until a whole twelve seconds later, after three large wedges of cheese and tomato nirvana, that Bart finally acknowledged his company again.

"So good," he managed, thickly, around a mouthful, "Pizza Guy, you're the best!"

Another slice, "And your outfit..."

And another, "So crash."

By the time the first pizza box was empty, he was happy to comply:

"My name is Bartholomew Henry Allen. The Second. But I just gave myself my own superhero name, Impulse. You can call me that, if you like. This whole secret identity thing is a little retro, but I dig it. Or you can call me Bart, or Bart-Impulse, or Bart-Impulse Allen! Hey, what do I call you? Are you an agent, too?"

"Woah, woah, woah."

Like with most speedsters, information rattled out of the kid like a gatling blaster, much to Booster's dismay. It wasn't that such a flurry of information overwhelmed him, it was more that it demanded a level of attention and focus that Booster didn't like to waste on individuals who weren't either trying to kill him, or hot. On rare occasions, you got the two at once: those circumstances were rare, but Booster for damned sure paid a lot of attention. Fortunately, the room was devoid of any imminent danger, and Booster had learned the hard way that there was a genuine danger of your arm getting broken if you spent too long looking at the female ARGUS operatives - or at least, he'd made that mistake once, and was smart enough not to risk repeating it, no matter how many fishnets, leather jackets, and plunging necklines were involved.

"Slow your mode, kid. Did you just say Bart Allen?"

Booster narrowed his eyes, as if somehow that would compel the facial recognition software in his lenses to defragment faster, or whatever kind of techno mumbo jumbo it was that Skeets had them doing. It actually worked, in a manner of speaking, Skeets more than well enough versed in Booster's odd quirks and ticks to realize that the claims of this speedster needed to be challenged and analyzed. The ident profile of one Bartholomew Henry Allen II was accessed, facial measurements and voiceprints and passive Speed Force energy emissions assessed against the candidate displayed before him. Skeets' conclusions were the AI equivalent of a shrug: plausible, but with a not particularly reassuring margin of error. There was certainly nothing in Booster's database to cast certain doubt on those claims, but that didn't make Booster feel any better about it.

"The Bart Allen that I know is much shorter."

Booster's arms folded across his chest in challenge, a strange echo of the default posture that Agent J'onzz has adopted.

"And cooler."

As Agent Carter's arms folded, J'onn's did the opposite, a hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Of course," he muttered, making no effort to keep his thoughts to himself, though not exactly trying to make them heard, either. "I should have guessed we were dealing with a member of the West-Allen family. You people have a habit of making my life especially difficult."

He let out a sigh, turning his attention towards the super-suited operative beside him. J'onn had mixed feelings about the man. Misgivings. Booster Gold. It wasn't a name, nor a person, nor personality that inspired confidence, not if you were hoping for professionalism, modesty, or even basic competence at times. Yet, J'onn found himself in the unfortunate position of trusting the man. It was a reciprocation, in part: when the two of them had first encountered each other, Agent Carter had known too much. Things he couldn't possibly have known. Things J'onn had never told another living soul in a thousand years. Carter insisted that they were friends, that they knew each other, somewhere else in time. J'onn had been sceptical. Anyone with any amount of sanity had been. That was, until Agent Carter invited him to search his memories, to witness moments, encounters, and events that J'onn had no recollection of, and yet Carter remembered with complete clarity. J'onn knew better than to simply trust the memories of others, especially when they were so willingly offered up for scrutiny: memories could be manipulated, or falsified, and anyone who came into a situation knowing that their mind might be read could not have their memories regarded without some degree of suspicion. But it had been a first step, and J'onn chose to take it - provisionally - as a sign of honesty. In the months since, that benefit into doubt had evolved into a form of trust; and not for the first time, according to Agent Carter.

Yet, there were aspects of the man and his alleged story that left J'onn uncomfortable. He claimed to be from another time: not only from the future, but from a different future, a future that did not follow on from the present that they currently occupied; one that Agent Carter was conveniently cut off from, and unable to prove, outside of a few bafflingly accurate predictions from time to time. All of it, alternate lives, alternate realities, alternate futures, sounded like the stuff of science fiction: a strange thing for a shapeshifting psychic from Mars to be sceptical of, perhaps, and yet he was. Agent Carter asked him to accept a premise that he fundamentally could not except: that everything he knew, everything he was, was somehow false. If it were true, then how was J'onn supposed to function? How could he trust himself, his eyes, his memories, his thoughts, if all of them were subject to change and transformation at the whims of anyone capable of manipulating the cosmos: something that, J'onn was learning, was a long way from being a unique or limited capability.

"You know this individual, Agent Carter?"

"No. Yes? I mean -"

Booster let out a sigh of his own.

"I know Bart Allen, and he does go by Impulse. Or at least, he used to, back when he was in his early teens. But my Bart Allen? By the time he was -"

Booster waved a hand in the general vicinity of their speedster captive.

"- this age, he had a different alias. A different suit, too, and not this weirdly armoured thing. More importantly, he'd know me. Recognise me. Hell, I'd probably have got a hug when I walked in, or at least a fistbump. Clearly, this is not the Bart Allen that I know."

Booster's brow settled into a frown, and he forced himself to stop speaking, taking a moment to contemplate their circumstances. Government agents. Interrogation room. Probably best not to blurt out everything. Probably best not to dangle a plausible and unprovable excuse in front of a suspect's face. Sure, maybe he's the Impulse from your timeline, not mine was a smart and insightful observation - those were a Booster Gold speciality - but it wasn't exactly helpful in proving anything, especially not when the person you were interrogating already know what you suspected. Besides, there were any number of explanations that could be at work here. It wasn't as if speedsters didn't accidentally run into alternate universes from time to time, and even if he was from the future, maybe he was just from Booster's future: a future that included a Flash Museum with a track record for hiring suave and handsome ex-footballer security guards. That was how Booster himself had first learned The Flash's real name, read right off the display boards on the museum walls, and been inspired to emulate the likes of him and his Justice League comrades. True, this Impulse imposter - Impulster? - would be in good company if he acquired his information in that manner, and he certainly wouldn't have been the first time traveller to pretend to be an existing superhero from the future when arriving in this time period, but unfortunately that didn't make his narrative any more true than Booster's own initial fabrications had been.

Of course, Booster didn't just know Barry Allen from the museum displays. He'd met the guy, fought alongside him, saved the world, considered him a friend. He'd met Bart, too, and Wally, and Iris, Don and Dawn, Jai, Iris Two, Jenni, the whole damned extended family. They weren't just facts to him, they were real people, with real lives, real quirks, and real history. Some of that history was plastered on the walls of the Flash Museum for public consumption, but other parts? There were some things that the layperson didn't get to know. Secrets. Shames. Private moments.

"If you are Bart Allen though, you'll be able to tell me when your mother is from."

Booster delivered the statement with a healthy dose of ominous in his voice.

"Before you answer, kid, you should know that I'm from the 25th Century, and I know the real answer."

"You know, how cool is it," Bart began, leisurely, helping himself to a second pizza, "That we live in a time - times - when we can ask questions like that? I mean 'When was your mother from?' It's great!"

There was going to be a whole lot of that, Bart supposed, now that he'd encountered this Booster dude; every kind of probing question imaginable about the future, his own future, his mother's future, every future. Sounded super boring but it was the price one paid when one did the Time Warp. Not that he was any kind of authority on the matter of monitoring and regulating time-travelling superheroes, of course, but judging by the current interrogation ambience of the welcoming committee, it was a safe bet this was to be the shape of things. The second pizza was BBQ meat feast; he took a bite and melted in his seat, "Oh, Grodd. Somebody kiss the chef!"

As Bart surfaced from the preliminary wave of saucy meaty bliss, he took note of the expressions the men across from him; quite often, seconds felt like minutes, but he couldn't help but wonder if he was experiencing one of those rare occasions when the opposite was true. Such was the power of delicious pizza, he supposed. Inhaling the remainder of the slice, he got down to business:

"Mom is from the 30th Century. Or she was... will be. And that's Meloni Thawne, to you. Listen, can't you just take a swab, or a blood sample, or consult the ancient knucklebones? Do whatever you gotta do to verify who I am. It's cool. Check it out..." With a flourish, Bart removed his mask revealing a fresh-faced young man with a broad smile and a head of electrified hair, "No mistaking the West-Allen good looks. Check out those cheekbones. Impressive, right?"

Once he'd afforded them a generous look at his face from both angles - they can decide which side they like best - he vanished with a crack of light, materialising beside Booster with his fist clenched in anticipation.

"You can have a fistbump whenever you want, pizza buddy!"

The fistbump was a sacred tradition of the 21st Century, Booster had learned. A multipurpose gesture, from greeting to celebration, and often an alternative to the equally outmoded handshake for those averse to that degree of physical contact. It was a tradition that Booster had tried to adopt, to understand, to comprehend. It was a struggle. One of those strange backwards concepts that seemed to have a different set of rules and criteria based on age, gender, and familiarity. Booster had watched grown men embrace complete strangers in celebration of sporting achievements, and yet a fistbump offered with a Put it there, pal after saving someone with his own athletic hero achievements, was apparently frowned upon. Booster had also rarely witnessed women engaging in the gesture openly: perhaps because they were simply better adjusted to other forms of overt affection; or perhaps because of the assortment of strange upgrades and attatchments to their fingernails that they were concerned about injuring themselves with.

It had taken time, but Booster had come to understand the fistbump well enough to offer Bartholomew Allen a small shake of his head, and offer: "We're not there yet, kid."

With a sigh, Booster turned away, his attention returning back to Agent J'onzz. His attempt at confidence and composure lasted about five seconds, before his face betrayed him with a slight wince.

"Honestly? I have no idea who Bart Allen's mother is. But Skeets says that his answer checks out. Also, no speedster in their right mind would travel back to the 21st Century and expect that dropping the name 'Thawne' would do them any favours."

He glanced back at Bart, who thankfully had taken a break from trying insert yet another slice of pizza into his body like some sort of greesy, cheese-laden variant on Tetris, and appeared to still be waiting for his proffered fistbump to be reciprocated.

Booster's voice dropped to a low whisper as he leaned a little closer to J'onn.

"I'm inclined to trust him, sir. My read is honest and stupid, but not necessarily dangerous. Not on purpose, anyway."

J'onn's sigh escaped him almost with the edge of a growl.

"Your opinion is noted, Agent Carter."

Though delivered in a manner that suggested otherwise, there was truth to that statement. Carter's input was noted, and was even appreciated, even if the method of delivery was not. John forced himself to remember that Booster Gold was out of his element here, not only lacking in the kind of foundational background in law enforcement that other ARGUS agents had, but also lacking the desire and drive to actually be an agent. For Booster Gold, this was settling. This was the closest alternative to his preferred occupation, superhero, that current events allowed. This was not - allegedly - the version of history he had intended to arrive in, and Carter was doing the best he could with the situation that temporal mechanics had left him in. Quietly, J'onn wondered how much of that was also true for this Bart Allen.

The Martian considered Carter's words, and Allen's, more carefully. The name Meloni Thawne meant nothing to him, but Carter's comments had served as enough of a gentle reminder for J'onn to recall the list of names that Booster Gold had implied might be responsible for what he saw as alterations to the timeline. Carter had hoped it would provide validity to his story, examples of villains that J'onn might plausibly believe could be responsible for such changes. At the time, ARGUS had been aware of none of them, but those names had been logged away in J'onn's mind regardless, just in case: Per Degaton, Rex Hunter, John Osterman, Monarch, Extant, Chronos, Eobard Thawne. The Reverse-Flash, Booster had called him; or rather, a Reverse-Flash. Professor Zoom. An expert on metaphysics and temporal mechanics from the same era where Booster himself originated, and - by Carter's account - the chief rival and nemesis of Bartholomew Allen, from whom their current suspect also claimed descent, implausible as it all sounded.

If their errant speedster was presenting them with a fabrication, he certainly wasn't trying all that hard to make it seem plausible.

"There's no need for knucklebones or blood samples," John said at last, his voice escaping him as an ominous rumble. He focused his attention on the speedster directly, peering into him with all the intensity and insight that his currently human eyes could provide. He took a step closer, taking advantage of the height that his assumed form - still drastically shorter than his true form, of course - offered, peering down on the speedster. "If all of this is true, then I suppose you won't have any problems with me reading your mind to see for myself?"