VALE

A wormhole of lightning opened in the sky, crackling with electrical energy and ejected Barry Allen from inside.

"Slide into it," he muttered, repeating the advice his older self had given him on how to stop without tripping.

Looking up, Barry found himself in a completely unfamiliar place. This wasn't the future Central City he'd just escaped, but it wasn't the Central City of his time either. The rookie speedster was pulled out of his thoughts by the sounds of violence. Barry rotated in a circle to get a better view of his surroundings and his eyes fell on someone being chased by a large black creature. It was bipedal, covered in bony plates with red lines running across them, and solid yellow eyes. Evidently, the monster was chasing after the fleeing person who seemed to be tiring and there was nobody who could help in sight.
What the hell is that thing? Barry asked himself, terror gripping his heart.

The creature suddenly stopped chasing the person and turned to Barry, staring him down.

The monster snarled, charged, and leaped at Barry who instinctively covered his face with his arms and closed his eyes, preparing for the pain of claws raking across his body. It never came. Opening his eyes, Barry saw the monster was suspended in the air. Looking around, Barry saw that the person that it was chasing also froze. Barry noted that the screams and gunfire had stopped along with his surroundings became gray. Slowly erasing the distance remaining between him and the creature, Barry waved his hand in front of it. The creature didn't react. Barry drew his arm in and formed a fist and he did something he had never done before. He threw a punch. He fought back. His fist made contact with the monster at blazing speed and time resumed, color returned, and the monster's head detached from its body, flying away while melting into smoke.

After looking at the now disintegrating body of the former monster, Barry glanced at his fist. He hadn't meant to kill whatever that thing had been. He didn't even know his own strength, or rather, his own speed. Ever since Barry had woken up from his coma and discovered he had superpowers, they had been nothing but trouble for him. He spent hundreds of dollars more on food in order to keep his energy up, he'd spent even more on shoes that gave out after seconds of running, and to top it all off, he had traveled to the future and met himself. Speaking of his future self, he had said that the Cosmic Treadmill would take him home. Wherever Barry was, it clearly wasn't home, and it was fairly clear that his future self had punched a wrong number or two into the Cosmic Treadmill's console.

The person the monster had been chasing looked behind them and saw Barry standing there, the creature nowhere in sight.

"Did you kill that Beowolf?" the person asked.

"Yeah. I, uh, I did," Barry said, somewhat unnerved.

"Thank you so much. You saved my life," the person said, grabbing his hand and shaking it vigorously.

"I-I'm just doing the right thing," Barry said, "I have to go now."

Running off, Barry zigzagged through the streets of the unfamiliar city stopping for only half-seconds at a time to beat down monsters of varying shapes, sizes, and toughness. As he was killing monsters, Barry began thinking about the tremendous opportunity he had. Despite the plethora of problems these powers had given him, they also gave him a chance to do good. While he raced through this silent and monochrome world he began to think about his day job as a forensic scientist. He was always too late. Always at the scene of the crime after it happened, picking up the pieces. Things were different now though, Barry could save lives instead of simply bringing killers to justice. As Barry ran he asked himself, What choice do I have? None. These powers are a gift. A responsibility. It's my duty to use them correctly.

As he was running his eyes were pulled to a hardware store. Thinking back to his future self, Barry quickly hatched an idea. Running into the store, he searched around until he found exactly what he was looking for: yellow paint. Barry slowed to a halt in front of the can of paint and grabbed it.

As he dug his fingers under the lid and cracked open the can of paint, Barry knew that there would be no coming back from this. The moment he did this he would be a hero for the rest of his life. A life that would probably end prematurely. Strangely, he was okay with that. People needed him. No, not him. They needed something more. They needed The Flash.

Cracking open the top of the can, the pungent fumes burned as Barry sucked air into his nose. Barely ignoring the foul smell, Barry dipped a shaking finger into the viscous fluid before pulling it out and dragging his finger in a circle on his chest before he dipped his finger in again and moved it in a zigzag pattern inside the circle, creating a lighting bolt.

Standing up, Barry wiped the remaining paint on his jeans and closed his eyes. He was no longer just Barry Allen. He was The Flash. The Fastest Man Alive. Now another feeling gripped his heart. Not fear. Determination. Steeling himself, Barry opened his eyes and ran back out of the store and on to the street, pausing to grab a pair of red and yellow gloves and pull them on. He was ready. Ready to save lives. To be a hero.

So Barry did what he did best. He ran. Any witnesses who had seen him would later describe what they saw as many things, a blur, a streak, a bolt of lightning, but they all agreed on one thing. It saved their lives. It was a hero.