It was a whirlwind day at the Team Flash base in Central City, the usual controlled chaos magnified as I juggled my systems. I had one eye on the main monitor tracking Barry, another keeping tabs on Wally’s trajectory, while my fingers flew across the keyboard, rerouting comms between Ace and Bart. Managing a bunch of speedsters was like herding lightning.

The screens flickered as data poured in, location markers pinging around the city. Barry’s voice cut through the stream of information, his tone almost too calm for what he said.

“The army is gonna be so mad at me.”

I froze mid-keystroke. “Wait, what?” My brain did a quick reboot, trying to catch up. Even by Team Flash standards, this was new. “Barry, what are you doing?!”

No answer. Instead, Bart’s voice crackled through the comms with an enthusiastic, “Meep Meep!”—a classic Road Runner impression, no doubt aimed at whoever he’d just sped past. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, half-listening to his laughter echo through the channel. I could picture him grinning ear to ear, probably racing in circles while causing some poor soul in Central City to double-take.

“Bart, focus!” I snapped, fingers typing furiously as I patched into the security feed near Barry’s location. My screens lit up with a live feed of military trucks scattered on a highway, and—of course—Barry in the middle of it all, calmly disassembling what looked like a missile launcher.

“Phoenix to Flash,” I said, my voice tense. “You care to explain before the National Guard shows up?”

Silence. Then a sheepish, “Uh… working on it.”

Typical. Just another day managing speedsters who thought faster than they could explain.