So, first order of business?
Get out of that damn suit.
The scarlet costume clung to him like a second skin, cracked with old battles, stitched with stories no one here would recognize.
Lightning still sparked off his limbs, faint and twitchy, as if even the Speed Force itself hadn't figured out if it belonged in this world.
"Alright, Flash," Wally muttered to himself, peeling off the cowl as he ducked into a shadowed alley.
"New universe, new drip. Let's start with not looking like a walking target."
Five something later—and by five, he meant half a heartbeat—he emerged looking like a man who understood the assignment.
Baggy black jeans hung low over scuffed sneakers, a plain white singlet showed off lean muscle hardened by speed, and a knitted black cardigan draped over his shoulders like casual armor.
The cardigan was vintage. Or maybe thrifted. Okay, let's be honest, all of them were stolen. Who cared. They were fire.
He admired himself in a shop window. Smirked. Nodded. Threw a quick finger-gun at his own reflection. "Yeah, that's streetwear hunk right there."
A gust of wind kicked up behind him. No one noticed.
That was the thing. In this world—wherever it was—no one seemed to be tracking him. No satellites pinging his presence. No Justice League communicator buzzing in his ear.
And, surprisingly, no other speedsters that tapped into the Speed Force. Which meant he could take a breath. Or better yet, a bite.
Stomach growling like a diesel engine, he zipped to a nearby vendor, eyed the food, then remembered the universal problem that transcended every dimension.
Money.
He blinked. Then grinned.
"Right. Gonna need some of that."
And so, Wally did what any reasonable, displaced, dimensionally-confused speedster would do.
He robbed the rich.
Not the good rich. Not grandma's savings account or the local diner till. No—he went for the untraceable, off-the-books, unholy amounts of money laundering through shell corporations, oil empires, and private militaries. Dirty money. Filthy, international, nobody-will-ever-report-it kind of cash.
In five minutes, he'd visited all countries, pulled bank account data from a dozen firewalled systems, and deposited modest chunks into several separate accounts across several fake identities he'd whipped up between blinks.
No alarms. No chase. No guilt.
Each account held couple of tens of thousands to live comfortably, travel quietly, and buy as many breakfast burritos as his soul required.
He can steal more but it'll be easier to track money transactions that huge.
"Man," Wally exhaled, flopping onto a rooftop billboard overlooking a city that shone like Tokyo and groaned like Detroit, "if I ever get back home, I'm definitely pitching a 'Fast Money Redistribution Act.'"
He stared at the skyline, neon cutting through fog like laser razors, high-rises stacked like Tetris blocks in a world that hadn't quite decided whether it was utopia or warzone.
Somewhere out there, he figured, were the people who ran this place—superheroes, supervillains, probably both.
He didn't recognize the skyline. But something in his chest—it thrummed like lightning, like anticipation—told him he'd meet them soon.
Sort of.
Maybe.
"Okay, now… some needed lunch. Then I'll find out what I wanna do for a while before researching the way to tap in to other Forces."
The scent hit first—charred meat, sizzling fat, something buttery and sinfully grilled.
Wally skidded to a stop right outside a wide, neon-lit diner-style restaurant with a pulsing red sign that simply read:
BURGER & STAKE.
"That's either a typo or the most honest branding I've ever seen."
He squinted up at it, then caught the detail that locked his feet in place: a small decal slapped on the glass door.
Mutant Friendly Zone.
That did it.
He stepped inside. Not sped. Stepped. Casual. Low-key.
The kind of entrance that said hey, I'm normal, please don't question the smell of ozone.
It was a strange crowd.
The booths were full—some people ordinary, some definitely not.
A bald guy with midnight-blue skin talked softly with a woman whose hands sparked with purple light every time she spoke.
A kid hovered three inches above his seat, flipping through a menu with both hands while sipping a milkshake without touching it.
Another table was full of hooded figures with glowing eyes behind dark visors.
Wally scanned the room quickly. Fast, but not suspicious.
Then he felt it.
Like a tug in his chest. A vibration in the fabric of the world.
A speedster.
His eyes snapped to the far right booth.
Two people sat there, opposite each other. The guy was lean, white-haired, and dressed in a slick dark-blue jacket with streaks of silver down the sleeves.
Arms crossed, posture relaxed, but alert in the way all runners were. The static around him buzzed faintly, like he drank energy drinks through a lightning straw.
Beside him sat a girl—no, a woman—who didn't belong in the background of anyone's life.
Pale, but not sickly. Like moonlight on fresh snow. Rich, dark brown hair fell over her shoulders in gentle waves, glossy and perfectly wild at the same time.
She laughed at something he said, mouth curving slow, eyes catching light and bending it into something haunting.
She turned her head slightly—and Wally's breath caught.
Hourglass frame, slender where it counted, and then not slender in the way that kicked his brain into a detour.
Curves that would get physics itself fined for indecency. Then she looked up and—
Dude, what are you doing?!
Wally blinked hard. Shook his head. His cheeks heated like he'd overdosed on jalapeños.
He dragged a hand down his face and muttered under his breath, "Get a grip, horndog. Bring you A-game now, Flash!"
Still… speedster.
And this world had been weirdly quiet about speedsters. If this guy was legit, that made… what, two of them? It's probably just the man though.
Wally had to say hi.
Faster than a breath, faster than any eye could catch, he moved.
Suddenly he was there, sitting in the booth beside the silver-haired guy, across from the stunning girl, legs crossed like he'd been there all along.
"Hey! You guys don't mind if I join, right? I mean, c'mon, speedsters gotta stick together—there's like, what, four of us? Two? One and a half?
I sensed you from the door, which, wow, by the way, mutant-friendly, that's dope—wish more places had signs like that. Anyway, I'm new here.
Kinda crash-landed without the crash. Whole other dimension situation, y'know? So I figured, hey, let's make friends, start fresh, maybe split a burger, talk about our favorite sneakers—"
The guy raised a hand. Calm. Palm out.
"Alright. Chill." His voice cut through Wally's verbal hurricane with a cold, European lilt.
"Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing?"
The girl didn't speak. Her eyes lit softly—glowing red, like embers. Not angry. Just watching. The table trembled slightly, metal legs creaking beneath invisible pressure.
Wally smiled. Not forced. Wide, goofy, unapologetic.
"I'm Wally. Wally West. Fastest guy you've never heard of. Scout's honor."
He threw up two fingers, then shot a wink toward the girl. "And I'd love to be friends with you two."
The glow in her eyes didn't fade, but she leaned back slightly. Studied him.
The guy looked at her. She shrugged. Barely a gesture. Like they'd done this a hundred times before.
He sighed. Dropped his hand. "I'm Pietro Maximoff."
He tilted his head toward her.
"This is my twin sister. Wanda Maximoff."
Wally leaned back, balancing the back legs of the chair like it was a lounge recliner and grinned.
"So... you're a speedster, right?" he asked, eyebrows raised, head tilted like a puppy sniffing something suspicious but interesting.
Pietro smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting with smug pride. He dropped his fork, leaned forward just an inch—and vanished.
The salt shaker on the table rattled.
The wind brushed Wally's hair in a single whip.
When he blinked, Pietro was already back in the same position, twirling the fork again between his fingers like nothing happened—except the napkin from the next table now neatly folded in a swan shape in front of Wally's plate.
Wally blinked again. Then laughed.
"Oh, ho-ho! Okay! Okay, that was slick. That was slick! You're legit!" He pointed at Pietro like he'd found a lost cousin at a family reunion. "Finally! A comrade in arms! A kindred kinetic soul! A..."
He paused, mouth hanging open for a second. Eyes flicked between Pietro and Wanda.
"...brother-in-law?"
Wally slapped his hands over his mouth. His cheeks burned red.
Pietro blinked, then burst out laughing, a short, sharp laugh that echoed off the chrome interior of the diner. He gave Wanda a jab in the ribs with his elbow. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and sipped her drink like she was reconsidering every decision that led her to this moment.
Wanda's eyes glowed faintly again. Scarlet light flickered beneath her lashes.
"What do you want, Wally?" she asked, calm but edged. Her voice held a low, regal kind of grace—like someone always a step away from setting the world on fire if she felt like it.
Wally straightened up, wiped the grin off his face, and sat a little more proper—still grinning, but more boyish now. Less chaos, more charm.
"I swear, nothing bad. I sensed Pietro. He's a speedster. Like me. I wanted to know him. Us speedsters—well, we're rare. Rare and fast. And rare things need to stick together."
Pietro raised an eyebrow. "You sensed me?"
Wally nodded. "I can feel speed. Not the kind on police radars. The real kind. The energy behind it. The cosmic stuff."
He leaned forward, voice dropping slightly. "You ever heard of the Speed Force?"
Pietro stared, chewing on the word like it was half-cooked. "Speed... Force? Like... the force of speed? I mean, I get the idea. Sounds like what I do. I move fast. There's a force. But... nah, not ringing any cosmic bells."
Wally's hand came up, finger wagging like a professor on a caffeine rush.
"It's the source. Not a metaphor. It's... imagine if time had an engine and motion had a soul. That's the Speed Force. It's where I get my juice. Or, well... where I am the juice."
He stopped, suddenly realizing he almost said too much. He backpedaled with a cough and added, "Point is—if you want—I can help you connect to it. Not just be fast. Be one with it. Like a river doesn't just flow... it becomes the current."
Pietro looked at Wanda again.
This time, she didn't sigh. Her gaze lingered on Wally. Red light shimmered in her eyes like fire behind glass. She wasn't scanning him physically—she was feeling through him. Peering behind the words and speed and grins.
"You want to give him power?" she said. Her voice was heavier now. The words landed hard.
no "Why? You don't know him. You don't know what he's done. Where we come from. What we've been through. Who our enemies are. Who we are."
She leaned forward slightly, her tone serious. "You don't know if we're your enemies."
In his mind, it didn't matter. None of it. Not really.
Speed Force wasn't a trophy. It wasn't locked behind divine gates or chained to some sacred bloodline. It was a current—living, endless, untamed. A river so wide it could drown time itself.
So what if someone else drank from it?
Wally blinked, slow, his shoulders rising in a lazy shrug.
"If I'm honest?" His voice drifted with an airy lilt, "Giving you access doesn't take anything from me."
He tapped his own chest, fingers curling lightly over the white cotton of his singlet."It doesn't make me slower. Doesn't make me weaker."
Then he smiled. Not the cocky, mouthy one he tossed out like business cards. This one landed slower. Like the world could burn and he'd still be faster than the flame.
"Besides," he added, "we know each other now, right?"
He wiggled his eyebrows, as if the last few minutes of conversation had forged some unbreakable bond. The kind forged in fire—or in this case, burgers and awkward introductions.
Wanda's gaze narrowed. Not with anger. Not yet. Her eyes, dark rubies simmering under soft lashes, simply tried to see through him. Like peeling back layers of fabric to glimpse the stitch beneath.
Wally didn't mind. Let her stare. She'd only see what he let her.
"Plus plus…" he leaned forward now, elbows to the table, voice dropping low—not whispering, but closer to it. More intimate. Like the city outside had fallen away and only this moment remained.
"In this world?" He tilted his head again, eyes glinting under the restaurant's dull lights. "You wanna stay safe… or dominate it? You can't be a little fast. That won't cut it."
His grin didn't vanish, but something behind it shifted.
And it hung there between the three of them like a tightrope begging to be walked.
Pietro leaned back, folding his arms, but the smirk on his lips had faltered into something else. Thoughtfulness, maybe.
Wanda exhaled slowly, her breath barely audible, but it carried the kind of surrender born from grudging logic.
She tilted her head toward her twin, a signal passed without words.
Then Pietro clicked his tongue. "Alright, then. Let's say I'm in. What do I do? Some kinda blood ritual? Gotta sprint into an alternate dimension? Get struck by magic lightning?"
Wally barked out a laugh, loud and genuine, head thrown back.
"Nope. Not that theatrical," he grinned. "Though the lightning thing does give you Speed Force sometimes."
He lifted both thumbs, jabbing them toward his chest like a used car salesman with too much charm and zero shame.
"You just gotta run with me."
Beat.
"Just for a while."
Then that boyish chuckle again. "Hehehe."
Pietro blinked. "That's it?"
Wally nodded, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
Wanda's voice sliced through the mood. But laced with something iron-willed beneath the silk.
"And what happens," she asked, "if you're lying?"
Her words didn't rise. Didn't need to. They sank, cold and deliberate, wrapped in caution and fire.
Wally didn't flinch. He just leaned back again, that lazy confidence returning like it'd never left.
"Then you'll be running beside a liar with amazing calves," he said.
A pause.
Pietro broke first—short, sharp laughter that came out before he could stop it.Wanda didn't laugh. But she didn't look away either.
She watched Wally like one might watch a match held too close to gasoline. Dangerous. Warm. Necessary.
And in her silence—she didn't say no.
---
The world blurs.
Two streaks tear through the edge of the city. One golden, smooth like sun-split lightning. The other silver, jagged and sharp, cutting through space like it owed him money.
They run. Not in competition. Not in desperation. But in rhythm.
Pietro wasn't sure when he stopped pushing to keep up.
It happened fast. Obvious, maybe, to someone like Wally. But for him? It took a few minutes to realize he wasn't lagging anymore. His stride wasn't struggling to catch the echo.
He was matching it. Step for step. Like something inside him had… clicked.
Like something woke up.
Wally eased down first, boots skidding to a halt in a quiet, cracked alley—empty, quiet, still humming with leftover lightning. Pietro stopped next to him, breath caught between amazement and confusion.
Wally tapped two fingers against Pietro's chest, right above the sternum. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
"You feel that?" he asked.
Pietro blinked. "Feel what?"
"The field," Wally replied, eyes sparking brighter than his smirk. "Your bio-electric signature. It synced with the Speed Force while we were running."
He said it like it was simple.
Pietro tilted his head. "So… you're saying we… paired up?"
"More like your engine started drinking the good stuff." Wally clapped him on the back.
"You've always had a speedster's spark. Kinetic energy, self-sustaining charge, ionic friction lining your aura—classic mutant speed. But now?" He grinned, teeth flashing.
"Now it's tuned. Refined. You're not just skating across reality—you're tapping the force that is motion."
Pietro didn't say anything for a long beat. He stared at his hands like they held secrets, then looked up. His breath misted even in the late heat.
"I'm faster."
"Obviously."
"No. I mean…" He turned his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers. "I think I can do something more. I don't know what it is yet. Like there's a word on the tip of my tongue—but for my body."
Wally smirked.
"Good," he said. "Find it. That's yours now."
Pietro looked at him, unsure if the smirk was encouragement or challenge. Probably both.
Footsteps didn't announce her—air did. The sudden shift, soft and unnatural, as gravity decided to ease up for someone very specific.
Wanda floated toward them from the bench across the street. Her boots kissed the pavement without a sound. Her hands stayed by her sides, fingers trailing flickers of hex-light.
"How does it feel?" she asked, landing beside her brother.
Pietro exhaled through his nose, chest rising as he stretched his neck side to side.
"Feels great."
"You look lighter," she murmured.
He rolled his shoulder. "I might be."
Wanda turned to Wally, face soft but cautious.
"What's the payment?"
The question hung like a slow spell, quiet but filled with gravity.
Wally blinked. For a second, he looked like he didn't understand. Then the laugh came—loud, sudden, unguarded.
"Nothing!" he grinned. "Seriously. This?" He waved his hands around. "Easy for me. I lose nothing. You don't owe me a damn thing."
Then he lifted his chin, gave a lopsided smile that almost passed for regal.
"Well, maybe one thing."
Wanda's eyebrow arched.
"How about being true friends?"
Pietro snorted. "That's it?"
"Yeah. That's it."
The silver-haired speedster crossed his arms, pretending to think it over with all the gravity of a world leader signing a treaty.
"Fine," Pietro said, voice light but honest. "Speedster-to-speedster. We'll be your friends."
Wanda's smile came slowly, but it was real.
"Then both of us Maximoff will be your friends."
They all laughed.
Not too loud. Not forced. The kind of laugh people made when walls cracked. When the tension eased and the world, briefly, didn't feel like it wanted to kill you.
Wanda tilted her head. "So what now?"
Wally blinked. "Now?"
He looked up, stared at the sky like it might write him a schedule.
"Honestly? Nothing. I've got, like, zero responsibilities right now. Free as the wind. What about you two?"
Pietro looked at Wanda.
Wally didn't miss that. That moment of pause. Like Pietro was checking if it was okay to talk.
Wanda gave the tiniest nod.
So Pietro sighed. And talked.
"Left Magneto," he said, tone dry. "Again."
"Didn't like the uniforms?" Wally teased.
"Didn't like the genocide," Pietro shot back.
Wally blinked. "Right. Fair."
Pietro kicked at a loose rock. "He's our father, technically. Magneto. But lately… he's too much. Too angry. Every plan involves some declaration of war or mass extinction event. No middle ground."
Wanda added, quiet and unflinching, "We wanted to help mutants. Not erase humans."
"So we walked," Pietro said. "Tried to fix our mess. Joined the Avengers for a while. Redemption arc, you know?"
"They keep tabs on us still," Wanda muttered. "But at least we're not in hiding."
Wally nodded, listening, eyes thoughtful for once.
So they're in the same boat, he thought. No home, no chain around their necks, no grand plan right now.
He clapped once.
"Well, shoot," he said. "Sounds like we're all unemployed superhumans with crazy powers and no obligations."
Pietro arched an eyebrow. "And?"
Wally grinned wide, throwing his arms out like the solution was obvious.
"Let's go on vacation."
Wanda blinked. "Vacation?"
"Yup."
"Where?"
"Anywhere. I've looted like a hundred dirty bank accounts. We could go skiing in the Alps. Sunbathing in Brazil. Eat sushi in Tokyo. You wanna crash a Stark party? We'll dress nice."
Pietro laughed. "You serious?"
"I am deadly serious," Wally grinned. "I got speed. I got time. I got money that definitely wasn't mine originally. Let's go live a little."
Wanda looked at Pietro again. This time, he didn't wait for permission.
"...You know what? Sure."
Wally snapped his fingers. "YES! Speed Force Vacation Squad!"
Wanda sighed. "You're naming us now?"
"Absolutely."
Pietro rolled his eyes. "You better not make t-shirts."
Wally grinned wider. "I already have designs in mind."
And with that, three former strangers, forged by chaos, exile, and one impulsive act of generosity—walked off into the twilight, talking over each other about passport restrictions, teleportation logistics, and which country had the best street food.
Not heroes.
Not villains.
Just three anomalies against the universe.
Together.