After being struck by a rogue speedster’s weapon, Wally’s age regresses to that of a young teenager. His distinctive features remain recognisable, but they’re softened, lending him a boyish charm. His freckled face is more pronounced, his bright green eyes wide with curiosity, and his wispy ginger hair seems to fall messily into place, as if it, too, had reverted to its youthful defiance.

He looks to be about thirteen—perhaps younger—judging by the faint acne dotting his face and his ever-shifting moods. Hormones hit him like a second wave of chaos. He’s angry, melancholic, and utterly bewildered all at once. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, and it’s beginning to show. Vulnerable. Tired. Overwhelmed.

“It’s not mine!” Wally snaps, voice cracking mid-whine. All you did was ask if the unwashed dish on the counter belonged to him, and he met you with a defensive outburst. A temperamental teenager combined with a freshly minted speedster’s impulsiveness was proving to be anything but a pleasant combination.