Living History

The snow was gray and thick, the slush blending with ash that coated the muddy ground. It was the same sickening color as the sky, the same muted gray that spoke nothing of the sun. He might not have recognized the difference between the two if not for the trees. Bart had been told a few stories from the past; he'd been told that trees had been beautiful once, that the sky had been a vibrant blue, and it hadn't always been cold, the weather unforgiving – he didn't believe it. The hollow brown husks with sickly bare, black limbs were evil-looking, with their bent and twisted shapes as their branches scraped at the sky. They reminded him of shriveled demons that were doomed to endure the eternal winter where they stood. They plunged their misshapen branches into the air, as if they remembered a blue sky with fluffy white clouds, and believed that they could reach into time, pulling it back towards them. Back to a time with blue skies and shining suns, back to a time when snow hadn't covered the ground everyday of every year and the horizon hadn't been a continual gray.

The inhibitor color was tight around his neck, chaffing his skin as he moved. Dirt was caked into his clothes, sweat and grime cementing the filth into place. His hair was greasy, and he could taste his rotten breath echo in his mouth, his tongue still savoring the meal he'd scavenged a few days ago. He wanted to wash away the foul taste, but his flask was low and supplies were scarce. He probably had two days of water sloshing around inside the metal container – and that was if he was conservative. He couldn't afford to do anything frivolous; water was precious, a rare commodity that he couldn't waste on simple pleasure. He would have to wait until he found a purifier, or if he were lucky a resistance group before he could refill on supplies – both of those ideas were laughable. Purifiers were Reach property, items that weren't exactly left lying about, and the Resistance? It was more likely he'd find an unpolluted river surrounded by a patch of gorgeous trees and blue skies. He pocketed the flask he'd been unconsciously twiddling pathetically in his fingers, sighing as he told himself he had to be careful. Besides, the tang of crow was still lingering on his taste buds, making him feel a bit fuller than he actually was. That was something, right?

Suddenly Bart halted, his body freezing on instinct as his ears were greeted by the unfamiliar sound of twigs breaking. No, Bart felt his heart rate pick up as his eyes turned into scanners and he began dissecting the scene before him, They couldn't have found me already.

He'd run away from his Camp a little more than two weeks ago. Two weeks he'd evaded them. Sixteen sleepless nights huddled up in trees – praying he hadn't seen, hoping he wasn't being followed, wishing that he wouldn't be caught. Sixteen days of meager meals that consisted of either crow or rat. Two weeks without beatings or chores, no Blue Beetle, no crack of the whip, or searing pain as the tip would bite into him.

Sixteen days of freedom.

It couldn't have all been for nothing.

The woods appeared still to him, dead, like always. Ashen snow falling against russet colored bark that reached into a dim, unimpressive sky – no signs of life at all, save the outlines of tennis shoes he'd left behind him. Bart wished he could hide them somehow, but he had to keep moving – and carefully filling in footprints was far too time consuming. Bart knew that if he could just keep moving, he'd make it. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew enough: it was away. Away from the sunken faces of his fellow prisoners, away from Blue Beetle's sadistic control, away from the Camp. He just had to keep moving. But he was still halted, his body frozen as he strained his ears, listening. He listened so hard his ears rang, he could feel the blood pounding in his head, and he was getting so hot that even in the cold he could feel sweat dripping into his palms. His mouth was painfully dry, and he wished more than anything that his inhibitor color was gone. He wished he knew how to run, that the Camp enforcers hadn't locked it onto him when he was young, wished that he'd been allowed to learn to control his powers.

But he hadn't.

Bart forced a shaking breath down his throat – forcing himself to calm down. He steadied his breathing, running a quick hand though his thick, greasy, hair.

Don't be stupid, he hissed to himself from the confines of his mind, You've made it this far. You're the first person to have ever escaped a Camp. You're a survivor.

Bart shook his head, readjusting his jacket, thankful for the thin green material despite that small holes scattered along the sleeves and pockets. He realigned his fingerless black gloves, wiping the sweat off of his palms with the wooly fabric – he would be okay. The logical part of his brain kicked in, telling him that obviously he would be totally moded by now if the twig had been anything. At any rate, it was getting late.

The sun would go down soon, and that meant he had to find a tree. Not a lot of things lived in the woods, luckily. He'd been told that they used to be teeming with rabbits, foxes, deer, and birds, but not anymore. The only thing that lived here was the Pack. The Pack was a wild group of dogs, named because, well, they ran in a pack; wolf mixes of old pets that had been abandoned when their owners had been captured. The Pack was mean, snarling and vicious; sharp teeth, like razors, and claws that sometimes maimed the Earth. They were excellent hunters, had to be to find food in a place like this; they had powerful muscles and smell. And, as Bart had discovered on his second night in the wilderness, the Pack was hungry. He still had a claw marks tearing down his shoulder, from where he'd been pounced.

From that night on, he'd been sleeping in trees; the dogs weren't all that fond of trees. Maybe they were afraid of heights, like he'd been. Or perhaps they were lazy, and decided it was much easier to dig up a rat, vole, or vermin of some kind than it was to catch a human boy that had taken a liking to trees. Or possibly Bart had been deemed dangerous, considering the dog that'd jumped him was still nursing his snout. Good, he'd wasted an entire blade by madly slashing about, trying to rid his back of the beast all those nights ago. Whatever the case was, Bart huffed, deciding the twig snap had been the work of an early hunting trip – which meant it was time to find a tall tree and settle in for the night, and hope it snowed thick enough to cover up his prints.

The moon was peeping down at the Earth from behind the foggy clouds, and Bart was peering up at it through the cluster of tree. It might have pretty, had the howls of the Pack not been stalking the night. He'd found it was hard to fall back into the lull of sleep whenever he could hear a mutt going in for the kill. The sound of ripping fur, terrified squeaks, and claw against bone was nauseating, the sounds of blood gurgling down their throats as they swallowed – it was revolting. He couldn't help but feel bad for the creatures that were perishing, couldn't help but liken himself to them. That feeling of being hunted, of knowing something bad was going to happen and being unable to stop it – that fear. He still held it in the back of his heart, was always slightly prepared to feel Beetle's big hands clasp around his torso and drag him back to Camp – or kill him. He knew he'd probably be killed if he were found at this point. Beetle would make an example out of him, a warning to anyone foolish enough to escape.

Bart frowned at the sky, his mind taking him back to time.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she murmured, her hands gripping the wire fence as she stared off into the distance. Bart was younger, almost seven. He focused his big green eyes onto the distance, trying to discern where the dull landscape ended and pale sky began. It was hard, considering it was snowing and everything was blending together. He glanced up at Aunt Dawn, trying to figure out whatever it was she saw.

"I don't see anything." He stated bluntly, crossing his arms in disappointment. He wished he could appreciate whatever his aunt was seeing, but all he saw was gray. Gray wire fence, gray sky, gray ground, and brownish-black trees littering the ground. Aunt Dawn looked down at him, a small smile on her face – it was a sad smile.

"You have to look hard for it," she told him, "Past the snow and through the fog."

"There's nothing there," Bart replied stubbornly.

Dawn shook her head, kneeling down to his height, the snow clumping to the worn material of her jeans, "It's always there, Bart. You can't look with your eyes to see it. You have to use your heart."

Use his heart to see? What did that even mean?

"What is it?" he asked, squinting his eyes to see out past the fence.

"Hope." She answered simply.

He looked again, and this time he saw something different. He didn't see the wire fence that ran the area of the Camp, or the leaden snow or the gloomy sky. He didn't see the crippled trees or the ugly black crows.

He saw a horizon.

Bart sighed – he missed Aunt Dawn. He missed her stories, the ones she'd whisper to him after the work day was out. She'd told him about his grandpa, the great Barry Allen – he'd been a hero, a speedster. He'd saved the world a dozen times, along with other heroes with different powers. Aunt Dawn was a walking history book, filled to the brim with knowledge that felt almost taboo to speak of. She told him about the speed he had, the reason a collar was gripped so firmly on his neck.

He yawned, feeling sleep sneak up on him again.

"Ugh, this itches." Bart complained, grabbing at the collar for the umpteenth time that night. He could feel his skin tingling, but his fingers were too big to slip under the skin-tight collar and scratch at it – it was unbearable. "I don't even know why I have to wear it."

He was on his and Aunt Dawn's cot, the rough canvas material rubbing against his skin as it caught on his clothes. He could hear the other people turning and twisting in their own cots all around him in their sleep. He could feel the cool snowy breeze biting at the tips of his fingers, but the mass of people provided collective warmth, which he appreciated even though it was a nasty warmth formed from sweat and foul breath. Aunt Dawn was next to him, her thick scarf poking out from her patched-up blue jacket and tickling his nose.

Aunt Dawn shifted to face him, keeping her voice quiet so the enforcer, Beetle, wouldn't hear them, "You know why you have it on." She murmured. It was too dark to see inside the tent they were in, but he could sense her sad little smile.

"Because I'm fast, a Meta." Bart replied. Duh. All Metas had to wear them after the age of four, sometimes sooner if they were powerful enough.

"Because they are afraid of you." Dawn whispered, "They know what you are capable of."

"Afraid of me?" He questioned. Blue Beetle had never seemed all too bothered by his presence, didn't seem to have a problem with beating him around for the heck of it. He never looked afraid of him, and why should he? He was a scrawny little kid with only eleven years under his belt.

"Yes," Dawn had smiled, "They know who you are, who you share blood with. They know you're dangerous, just like Jay and the Flash. Just like your father, just like your cousin."

Bart looked at her disbelievingly. Somehow she caught the look, even in the dark.

"They know what you can do Bart," she whispered to him meaningfully, "Do you?"

Morning knocked on his eyelids, trying to pry them open. Bart groaned a little, twisting as much as was safe to when balanced on a branch. His neck hurt, but he ignored it, instead enjoying the sensation of his muscles stretching and back popping. Mornings were the only thing he allowed himself to take leisure in, considering the nights were typically uncomfortable. Plus, they were the brightest parts of the day, when the sun could be vaguely seen between the ugly clouds. Mornings were special.

Before leaping from his perch, Bart glanced down on at the ground, then left and right, then the sky – his routine scan before he determined the coast was clear. Bart threw himself off his branch, the snow crushing beneath his weight. His ankles protested against the movement, but frankly Bart didn't pay all that much attention to the sting that clenched them as he hit the ground. Something always hurts when you drop a good eight feet to the ground, but it always beat getting mauled by the Pack. Besides, he could walk it off, easy. Without pausing, Bart zipped up his jacket, dipped his hand into the outer breast pocket, pulled out the flask and took two delicious gulps of water before treading on.

The snow, like always, was falling. An old lady that'd been at the Camp had told him that snow was white once. She even told him she used to run outside, catching the flakes on her tongue. That was ridiculous, he'd told her. Snow was toxic, bad for you – the pollutants in it caused people to get sick if it got in their mouths. The old woman had gotten the saddest look on her face when he'd pointed that out.

"I know," the woman murmured, a faraway look in her eyes as she turned away from him. She coughed a few times, her whole wrinkled body thrashing with her. A sickness was going around camp, and medicine was being reserved for the young people, who stood a chance against the virus. People like him, a thirteen-year-old, not her, who looked to be in her eighties – Bart had tried to give her medicine, offering some of his, but she refused.

"You're special, kid," she'd told him, a serious look in her eyes, "I know who you are, Allen."

"What?" he asked, surprised, "Why does that matter?"

The old lady smiled up wisely from her wheelchair, "I remember the League, boy. I can see it in you."

"See what?" Bart questioned, suddenly jaded and suspicious – that was his nature. Living in a Camp tended to do that to people, once they realized that survival wasn't guaranteed just because they had you where they wanted you. The Reach didn't care if a human or two died. They might have had a problem if lots of people died, like the entire Camp; but they knew that, if nothing else could be said for the race, humans were really good at surviving. Needless to say, Camps were usually an every-man-for-himself type of deal, unless you had a family that managed to survive together, or close friends – but that was rare.

The woman had a smile even sadder than Dawn's. Her dark gray hair was twisted into a bun, and for the first time Bart took in her appearance. She must've been pretty once, before the years stole away her youth. She had dark brown eyes, almost black, and they stared into him, they ripped apart his soul as he stood in front of her. Asian decent was obvious in her features, and even though she was old, her body laced in wrinkles, it was lean – remains of an active life.

"I see the hero in you, kid." She replied, "It was in my sister, too. I see it in your eyes – and I see that collar on your neck. You're going to do something, kid. I don't know what, but whatever it is, it will be big."

"Who are you?" he asked, this time with less distrust in his words, "Who's you're sister?"

The woman smirked, her eyes giving a gleam, "Me? No one knows me," she said in a quiet, amused voice, "But my sister was Artemis."

The old woman died that night, and Bart had felt…bad. She wasn't the first person to die, but it never had left an impact on him like she did. He'd found a weed-flower, and placed it where her cot had been.

The next night, when the guards had left the tent and everyone was asleep; Bart nudged Aunt Dawn awake, and asked about his grandfather, about his father, about his cousin – all of the heroes.

Bart sighed, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He'd been remembering things a lot since he left the Camp. He supposed he was lonely, but that wasn't quite it. He'd been lonely in the Camp, too. Ever since Aunt Dawn had been taken away two years ago, it'd just been him. Him and a sea of gaunt faces. He supposed he'd been the happiest person in the group, probably the most stable too. Which was fairly depressing, considering he wasn't happy…and it could be argued he wasn't sane either, because he had thought up a way to escape.

But he wasn't insane, because he had a plan. He had years of stories, knowledge of the past that Aunt Dawn had so graciously given to him. He was going to find the Resistance. He had a chance, a chance waiting just over the horizon.

Suddenly, Bart flicked a look down at his collar – the lights were glowing a deep and dark red. Fear pounded in his heart, and he jerked his head back and forth. His hands flew to his collar, trying desperately to pry it off even though he already knew tugging at it was pointless. It was an animal instinct, fueled by the desire to escape. The need to survive.

Unfortunately, his efforts proved useless, and his knees buckled as a powerful wave of electricity knocked him to the ground, his skin itching like he'd been set on fire. The current traveled though him lightning fast, and he bit his tongue as his hands collided with the ground. He tried to keep himself from toppling over, but a powerful kick landed on the side of his ribcage, knocking him into the snow. His face was instantly plowed into the ashy snow. He couldn't move anymore, the air gone from his lungs and his limbs tingling from the collar's shock.

"This has been fun," he heard the all-too familiar voice say with amusement in his voice, and a foot landed stiffly on his back, "I haven't been hunting in years. I can only imagine what it would have been like without your collar."

"Take it off and see." Bart coughed into the snow. He felt a hand pull the back of his jacket and lift him into the air.

"What was that, ese?" Blue Beetle laughed, pushing his face into Bart's, "The wild has made you brave? Think you're tough now?"

Bart squirmed, his shirt digging into his neck, burning his skin. Fear was mixing with anger, which was creating a dreadful sense of false bravery. He didn't want to go back to Camp. He had plan. He was so close to that horizon. But his limbs were still jittery from the collar's shock, and his head was burning from the blood pumping in his ears and the fear lighting up his brain. He felt sweat start to drip down him.

"L-Let me go!" he snarled pathetically, giving his legs a pitiful kick, his foot bouncing off of Beetle's torso. The laughter that rumbled in the enforcer's chest shook his whole body, and by extension, Bart's. Which hurt. A lot.

"As you wish, little one." Beetle rumbled, releasing his grip on Bart and watching him plummet to the ground. Bart hardly had a chance to catch his breath before his collar lit up again, the electricity coursing through him like fire.

And his world went dark.

Author's Note: I should be writing Illusion, so updates on this will be sporadic. Basically this is Bart's story, before Bloodlines. A bit of background before Chapter 2 comes out: Basically, a lot of our loved heroes are dead. These include most of the League and team. The Reach is in complete control of everything, facing little opposition from everyone but the Resistance (rag-tag survivors – unknown population, as of yet; theorized to be minimal)

Bart has lived with Aunt Dawn in Camp (basically a slave camp the Reach set up) since he was young, in the five range. Since then he lead a super crappy life. In this fic, Bart is 15.

Questions? Comments? Review?