It had been a week since Bette's death at the hands of General Eiling. August hadn't taken it lightly.
He'd thrown himself into training. Lab work by day, treadmill by night, pushing his body to exhaustion and beyond. If someone else dies because he wasn't fast enough, smart enough… he wouldn't forgive himself.
It was during one of these brutal sessions, running on an empty stomach after skipping dinner again, that he discovered something new. His foot slipped, sending him flying off the treadmill. But before he could slam his head against the ground, instinct kicked in, his hand lashed out, and a pulse of energy blasted from his palm, catching him mid-air and throwing him upright.
He hadn't fallen. He had repelled himself.
Later tests with JANUS confirmed it: he could generate energy blasts from his hands. More than that, whenever he ran, his body instinctively cloaked itself in that same energy. It reduced friction, protected him from windburn and debris, even let him carry people without them breaking apart from the speed he usually moved at. He dubbed it the friction cushion.
That wasn't all. He could now create energy constructs—solid shapes formed from the mysterious energy that powered his speed. He'd used it to coat his newly designed suit: white with gold accents, lightning motifs at the ears, a full face mask, and reinforced pouches for the gadgets he was developing. A symbol. A fresh start. A promise to do better.
But even as he evolved, a new problem emerged.
He wasn't as invisible as he thought.
A blog had surfaced: one filled with amateur sightings, blurred photos, and urban legend whispers. It called him The Streak. JANUS traced the blog back to a Central City Jitters waitress: Iris West. Eddie Thawne's girlfriend. And apparently a dedicated blur-hunter. Reports showed she'd been popping up at crime scenes and disaster zones, hoping for a glimpse.
August had hoped ignoring it would let it fade. No such luck.
Instead, #TheBlur exploded across social media. Viral stories sprang up: criminals tied up and dropped at precincts, citizens rescued by a rush of wind. One post even described four terrified robbers "appearing out of thin air," babbling confessions and begging for jail.
The unintended fame became a crisis.
People were putting themselves in danger, hoping to be rescued by a ghost. Hospitalizations rose by 7%. Civilians were chasing shadows—and getting hurt in the process.
So August stopped. Took a break. Stayed out of sight.
But even in silence, the myth only grew louder.
He walked into the Cortex and tapped the intercom.
"Team meeting. Now."
Cisco and Caitlin came in first, deep in a discussion. A moment later, Dr. Wells rolled in, wearing his usual expression of mild impatience and unreadable intelligence.
"Yo, August," Cisco said, "what's up? Is it another meta?"
"No," August replied. He tapped his tablet. "JANUS, bring up file 'Blur_Impact.'"
The Cortex screens came alive. A news article filled the display.
Injuries and Hospital Visits Spike: Growing Concern Over Central City's 'Streak' Obsession.
Cisco's face dropped. "Oh, crap."
Caitlin read aloud, her voice growing more strained with each line. "...hundreds of people reportedly injured while trying to chase sightings of the so-called Streak. Most reports trace back to a blog run by local waitress Iris West…"
"This can't be real," Caitlin muttered. "A friend of mine said her kids were trying to sneak out at night just to see you."
"I didn't want this," August said quietly. "I didn't ask for a spotlight."
"You didn't. But it found you anyway," Dr. Wells said, taking a sip from his ever-present coffee. "And if you keep going out there, that spotlight's only going to get brighter."
"So, what do I do?" August asked, frustrated.
"There are two options," Wells replied. "One: go public. Tell the world who you are, confirm the existence of metahumans."
August shook his head instantly. "Too risky. If they find out, they'll panic."
"Then the second option," Wells said, raising an eyebrow. "Talk to the source. Iris West. Convince her to stop feeding the fire. And if she won't... JANUS could help mitigate the damage."
Later That Night – Jitters Rooftop
Iris West had just finished a late shift and was uploading a new post to her blog—complete with a message for the Streak. A tip. A plea. An invitation.
She closed her laptop, locked up, and turned to leave when a gust of wind swept her off her feet.
She blinked—and found herself on the roof of Jitters.
"You got my message," she breathed, turning slowly.
He stood in front of her—tall, silent, crackling with power. Lightning danced along the edges of his suit, veiling his figure in energy. His eyes glowed a cold, white-blue in the dark.
"Iris West. We need to talk."
"Oh my god," she whispered. "You're real."
"You saw me once," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I saved people from a burning building."
"And now you're here. Talking to me." She smiled, breathless.
"This isn't a fan meet. I'm here because your blog is making things worse."
Her smile faltered.
"People are getting hurt. Putting themselves in danger hoping I'll save them. This... fascination? It's costing lives."
"I'm trying to help," she insisted. "You inspire people—hope. They need to know you're real."
"I'm not a symbol. I'm not a story. I'm a man trying to keep this city alive, and right now your blog is drawing fire."
"I left a message because I thought you'd want to know. A guy I knew as a kid—he's… different now. Obsessed with you. I think he wants to impress me, but he's dangerous. I saw him—his arm turned into metal. He's not like anyone else."
"I saw it too. And trust me, Iris—we're nothing alike." August stepped closer, lightning flashing across his body like a warning. "He wants attention. I want peace. And if he thinks hurting people will impress you, your blog just made you his number one target."
Iris faltered, the weight of it finally sinking in. "So… what do you want me to do?"
"Stop. Think. Every word you post puts someone else in danger. Including you."
She stared into the lightning, conflicted. "I'm not trying to hurt anyone," Iris said. "But I can't stop. Not yet. Not until they believe in you the way I do."
August's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "Belief without responsibility is just noise."
She blinked—and he was gone.
But not before she heard the soft ping from her bag.
Iris scrambled to grab her phone. Notifications were pouring in. At first, she thought it was more traffic to her site—but then her screen froze.
Error 404: Page Not Found
Her heart dropped.
She refreshed. Nothing.
She checked the backend. Locked out.
"JANUS," August said as he watched from a nearby rooftop, "erase her database. Scrub the mirrors. Leave the shell online, but gut the engine."
"Affirmative," JANUS replied in his earpiece. "Blog deleted. Backups neutralized."
He turned and disappeared into the night, lightning trailing in his wake.