Blonde hair, warm eyes and a smile. Crimson... or maybe vermilion.

Some sort of red. All red is red to him... but for some reason the exact shade seems important.

Copper hair and eyes like his own, but set upon a woman's face.

Black and yellow fluttering on the breeze.

Hair that feels like silk and took 11 years to grow out.

The world slowing to a standstill as his mastery of his powers slips, and his powers become the master of him.

These are things he dreams with absolute certainty... until trying to focus on the details. Then they disintegrate into sand and slip through his fingers.

Wally wakes in his bed, sweating and inexplicably nervous. his heart is palpitating in his chest, as if unaware he was supposed to be sleeping, not running. These nightmares upset him.

He's been trying to condition himself to only think of nice happy things, like sipping mohitos on a beach while wearing an overly obnoxious Hawaiian shirt, or the Swedish bikini team.

But they keep coming back.

The flashing red digital display of his alarm clocks in at 5:26 am. The alarm itself wont go off until 10:30. He wonders vaguely if its slobby to be asleep until mid morning? Nah. If anything it must qualify him for an authentic all day-bed head with no hair product needed, and the gals love a nice bit of (bed) head.

He sniggers at his own joke as he clambers out of bed, hitting up his closet for some running gear and the pair of now-ratty bat-sneakers he somehow hasn't managed to replace in the last 3 months of living in Central. The damn things are just too comfy. Like a jock-strap made of feathers.

He pauses, examining that mental analogy. Its at times like this he wonders if he really wants to know his past... based on the exceptionally weird things he seems to think about or have knowledge of.

Nevermind.

He's out the door for a brisk jog around the block (ie, the whole city) by 5:52, queasy from the lack of sugar in his blood upon waking but also knowing from trial and error the near-diabetic sensation will die down in time. It only makes him feel worse if immediately fed. His metabolism's pretty crazy.

Then it'll be a shower and back to the ye olde job hunt.

Which is not to say Central has been bad to him – quite the opposite.

Within a week of putting down the deposit for his apartment he started looking for a bit-job to keep himself going.

Retail seemed the natural for a young man his age with no previous job experience – forgoing the alternative option of the food service. Sniffing everyone else's meals all day would have been the worst form of torture.

He got a little interest from a local pharmacy and superstore before being weeded out of their recruitment process by the psychometric testing, which seemed designed in essence to punish anyone who treated the customers like human beings. Then, while substantially more desperate to make ends meet – he managed to score himself a sweet deal as a life drawing model.

It was a little weird standing around all day and trying to keep it down while hotties drew his wang, but the money was great.

After just two sessions some 'talent' scout – cos, yeah he's really talented; got like 8 inches of talent at least, teheehee – picked him up for modelling the hottest new cheap knock off men's underwear sensation: Kalvin Clein.

They got sued out of business shortly after, but it wasn't too bad. They paid well for the short time he was with them and rumour had it they where going to ditch him anyway if he didn't start eating less. Plus, he now got some great shots of his ass to charm the ladies with online as a last resort.

At a moderate pace he's finished his run by ten past seven, favouring distance over speed with the rare luxury of extra time. His muscles and sweat glands remain stubbornly unimpressed, hardly bothering to note any extra exertion on his part. He swears it's like his body has a mind of it's own sometimes.

He showers; jacks it and makes a wholesome and nutritious breakfast out of microwave meals. Anything that takes longer to cook than it does to eat just inst worth fooling with – and for him nothing takes very long to eat.

He's not even sure if he can cook.

Memories and learned behaviours seem subconscious at best and can't be prompted at will. He wishes his brain had it's own google search function. He learnt the hard way this is not so; staring at his kitchen counter-top for a whole 15 minutes in an attempt to make himself an omelette before reluctantly admitting he wasn't going to magically remember how, or Green Lantern one into existence through shear force of will.

Upon having such a thought he spent the next 7 minutes researching what a Green Lantern even was and how it was applicable to his situation. To his profound sadness it too proved inedible... without straying into the realms of cannibalism.

He's not totally against it, but he wasn't quite that hungry yet.

He polishes of a second microwavable roast beef and mash potato monstrosity, slurping the gravy off the flimsy black plastic tray it's packaged with and listening to the thunderous sound of footsteps scrambling down and then back up the apartment's staircase. A few overly loud feminine mutterings of 'shit' and 'fuck' resound outside and the erratic jingling of keys comes from the corridor beyond his flat.

He pokes his head outside, spying Mrs. Jackson stressed out and fumbling while attempting to get her house key back into the adjacent keyhole. She has apparently locked herself out.

"Uh, you okay Mrs. J?"

She leaps at the sudden question, turning about to stare at him flushed pale and wide-eyed with a hand on her heart. "Wally! You made me jump."

"Sorry" He grins sheepishly back, the expression catching as Mrs. J hesitantly returns it in kind.

"Whats the matter?" He asks kindly, stepping out of his flat and setting the door ajar behind him.

She sighs in defeat, air whooshing out of her body to leave behind a tired deflated husk. "God, sounds so cliché. My car wont start."

In a way Wally sympathises with the car. If he where a beat up old Dodge with that much rust he'd probably pack it in too. The things probably been needing a suspension overhaul and new break-disks for the last 10 years.

She scrubs her hands through her mousey brown hair "Shit. If I'm late one more time -"

"- I can take a look at it" He interrupts. He's not really sure why he said that or if it's true but Mrs. J's haggard expression lifts momentarily so maybe its worth it.

"Would you? Your such a lamb. I think Tom's actually got some old tools lying around here somewhere!"

Wally laughs boisterously at the previous statement as she grabs up something from within her flat and leads him out into the parking lot. A lamb. Tch, he'd be more like some incredibly manly wolf or bear or something if he was anything. So he tells himself.

The car's old enough to have a manual locking system, the key slipping into the socket beneath the driver's door handle. Wally slips sideways into the seat as Mrs. J fretfully wrings her hands. It smells like a heady combination of cigarettes and perfume

"You know the worst part is my husbands a fucking mechanic" She laughs dolefully, but theirs no humour in it, only embarrassment.

Wally shoots her a reassuring smile, like he's got nothing better in the world to be doing. Because he really doesn't. The feeling that he should has been nagging at him every waking moment for the last two months.

He turns the key in the ignition, the unfortunate vehicle loosing a hoarse spluttering sound as if begging to be put out of it's misery.

"You gotta double pump the clutch" Mrs.J is muttering from outside the car as he tries a second time, the car managing to sound even more terminally ill than the first try. He's got some vague notion of something that might help, but he suspects it'll only be a temporary fix.

"Can you sit in the driver's seat for me?" He asks, leaping from the car's inside to prop up it's hood.

"Okay."

Inside is like a great winding metal intestine, punctuated with tubes and hosing. The battery sits off centre as a large black cube, and although it's the only thing he knows the name of his hands seem to know exactly where to probe and what to twist to reach their desired goals.

God he hopes sex comes back to him this easily or it's going to create some really uncomfortable situations.

"Try now." He calls back. Mrs J responding with some sort of affirmation before the vehicle awkwardly sputters to life. Her resulting cheer is muffled by the sound of the engine.

"Your a life saver!" She repeats as he closes the hood and whips around to talk to her through the lowered car windows.

"I just patched it; you need to get this thing to a garage as soon as possible!" he bellows back over the sound of the stupendously loud geriatric engine.

"I will right after work! Thanks so much, Wally!"

He flashes her a smile and a thumbs up – saving his voice the effort – before she pulls out of the parking lot, the elderly car's exhaust spewing smoke like an old steam train.

Honestly, he's pretty sure any mechanic will tell her that's a write-off. Even if not for road safety, you could probably suffocate the whole of Beijing with carbon emissions like that.

He shrugs before heading back upstairs to his forth floor apartment. Whatever works, works.

Once more he's proven to be quite handy. The first time he managed to fix the old broken tv the landlord 'generously' donated with the apartment. He was pretty sure that was just a fluke at the time. It's still not 100% functional. The brightness periodically increases and lowers itself as if possessed by ghosts but thankfully he's not very superstitious... apparently.

He turns it on as he trots past it through the living room and back into the kitchen. Best clear up the microwavable meal trays before the toxic brown substance they call gravy melts right through the plastic... and possibly eats straight through the floor beneath him.

Gravy for breakfast. Yep. He's living the good life.

The familiar jingle of 'breaking news' headlines thumps self-importantly from the tv set's tiny speakers, the tune becomes little more than background ambiance to Wally in the next room before something that seems to have become one of his go-to hot words leaks through white noise.

"Batman - "

"Batman!" Abruptly he's zipping into the room at a speed that makes the carpet smoke.

"'s response to the Joker's threat remains unknown as we head into the 8th hour following the midnight broadcast proclaiming the capture and intended execution of the Boy Wonder. The footage; which we are not allowed to air during daytime viewing hours; unmistakably shows Robin gagged and abused at the hands of Gotham's deadliest criminal. The thought's of all of us here at Picture News are with him. Back to you John"

"Thanks Iris, coming up next -"

Shit.