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Superheroes. We love them, we admire them, and, as members of an online community of sleuths and amateur detectives have taken to doing so, we try to find out just who, exactly, might be under those skin-tight suits and fancy cowls of theirs.
The theories range from realistic to the other-worldly (quite literally, in some cases) but most of the time, they’re just funny. Last year, Twitter popularized the now famous internet meme of Batman secretly being Superman in a different costume. The evidence? According to one user, it was “the vibes”.
But just what have they been saying about Central City’s very own superhero, the Flash? Let’s take a look at a few of the more famous theories...
“My favorite is the one where you’re an alien warlord,” says Hal. They’re sitting at the top of a McDonald’s and Hal’s got his legs in Barry’s lap, one arm holding his head up from where he’s laid out across the concrete roof. He’s got a fry balanced precariously out of his mouth and Barry’s phone—swiped midway through the JLA meeting they’d been in not even two hours before—perched atop his chest.
“Really, I mean it,” Hal continues. “Because this? This is a goldmine. I think it may be the best thing to have ever happened to you.”
Barry just sighs. He fiddles with the edges of the hamburger wrapper, folding the paper into and out of itself, ripping, smushing it together. It’s getting late and there’s a chill creeping up in the air and truthfully, Barry doesn’t particularly want to be huddled down on a high ledge right now. Especially not when it’s windy.
Hal seems comfortable though, and the only reason Barry hasn’t run home yet is because he doesn’t quite want to leave Hal either. It’s been months of back-to-back forays into space, universal crisis’, and just plain old life—so sue Barry for wanting this quiet little peace to last just a short while longer.
Space always leaves Hal jittery; with a tight line to his shoulders, holding himself up with a straight back and a devil-may-care grin. It’s something that Barry has gotten used to seeing; because it’s a strictness that also comes out when he’s fighting--and that’s something that they’ll never be without so long as they keep putting on their suits.
Still, it’s never quite as natural on Hal as how he acts when he’s off-duty. Hal’s lost that tension as time had gone by; mock fighting with Barry over a soda he didn’t even want, bumping their shoulders together with a wrinkle crinkling the corners of his eyes. Perhaps the best way to describe it is to say that Hal’s more settled like this.
It's nice. It feels like something only they share, even if it’s not.
Though Barry could do without Hal reciting the newest Flash gossip to him. He gets enough of that at work.
“Thanks, Hal,” Barry deadpans. “I love being compared to a tyrant.”
Hal looks up from the screen. “You mean that you aren’t one already? Every time, and I mean every time I come over, you tell me to put my shoes on, like you don’t keep the place looking like an IKEA catalogue anyway—”
“I wouldn’t keep telling you if you would just put your shoes on. It’s honestly not that hard to remember.”
“See? Tyrannical.”
“Or, consider the following, I’m just trying to keep things clean.”
Hal waves his hand, screwing up his face in a so-so gesture. “Neat freak,” he complains, as if he didn’t start screaming that one time when Barry had wiped a little slime on him. Barry rolls his eyes.
Behind Hal, dusk has started to peek over the sky, darkening the clouds pink and hazy. It softens the world’s edges so that everything is lit gently and vivid; glazing into calm.
Barry sets down the wrapper. He stares into the distance and absent-mindedly starts to tap out a pattern on Hal’s ankle--one two, one three, two two--and wonders what the sky looks like in Central. It’s a habitual pull in his gut nowadays; to go to where home is and linger there.
There’s salmon in the freezer, and he vaguely recalls Iris telling him to defrost it before she got home. There are papers he needs to organize, and he still doesn’t know where he put that blue bow tie, and now that he thinks about it, it’s probably a good idea to buy some ice cream on his way back. Having snacks in the house is pretty much a requirement if you’re a speedster.
But, he’s not in a rush. It can wait for just a while longer.
“Oh wait, here’s my new favorite theory: the Flash is actually a shapeshifting android who defected from the CIA. How come you never told me about this?”
“...I’m a human being, Hal. You know this. And—just who’s coming up with this stuff anyway?”
Hal grins at him. “Geniuses, Bear, geniuses. I wish I had what you had. Just picture this,” he sets the phone down, arching an arm out in the air like he’s presenting something, “Green Lantern: an ancient king.”
“I’ll ask Iris if it’ll hold any water. But don’t get your hopes up, your majesty.”
Hal starts laughing.
Perhaps the theory with the most credence behind it is the one claiming that the Flash is a time-traveler originating from two centuries back. While at first, it may seem like pure speculation, there is actual evidence supporting this hare-brained conjecture.
In the early 1800s, the only American ‘superpower’ had been a vigilante only known as the Windrunner. The few historical documents relating to him describe him as, “a lanky, quick-footed, and deeply purposeful man—though the look in his eyes, well, I wouldn’t dare to imply any particular emotion to it. Whatever it was, it was bone-deep...though be it from the likes of Heaven or Hell, I truly cannot determine in full confidence.”
All records of Windrunner abruptly cut off after a scuffle with the American military over native resettlement. The next American speedster showed up a near century later, in 1891, and called himself the Blue Streak. Similar figures intermittently showed up in the 20th century, popping in and out without any rhyme or reason. This list of names includes Whip Whirlwind, Lightning, Quicksilver, and Thunderpace.
But what’s interesting about these figures, is that all of the aforementioned disappeared without a trace. There were no records of retirement—as was and still is the custom in the superhero scene—though, this just may be because prior to the first Flash of WW2, all speedsters were reclusive, rarely ever going out of their way to partner with others.
To top this all off, their bodies were never uncovered. Because of this, some people believe that these speedsters are all the same person. After all, is time travel truly unreasonable for a superbeing?
As another example, their descriptions match. A comparison of handwriting between Lightning and Quicksilver further identifies a unique likeness, though experts are unsure of the validity of the sources to begin with.
We asked Professor Rolling, a historian employed at Central City’s Flash Museum, what he thought of the theory, and he had this to say:
“Well, it’s plausible,” Rolling told us. “Quicksilver, the Blue Streak--they’re all figures whose deaths were never truly confirmed. There’s no way to know whether or not they survived from their last appearance, but just the same, there’s no way to tell whether or not they even had the ability to time-travel in the first place.”
“And what do you, personally, believe?”
“Oh, I’ve been convinced.” Rolling nods rather seriously. “I’ve devoted a few pages on it in my latest research paper.”
Though it must be noted, that there is an alternative theory postulated from this, claiming that instead of the second Flash being the time-traveler, Max Mercury is. But to this, Rolling only scoffed.
"You too?” Barry says into the phone, looking down at the paper newspaper in his hand with a grudging smile. “ You , Iris West-Allen, my darling wife, really just wrote an article about Flash conspiracies. How could you?”
Iris laughs. The sound is distorted over the line, too high and too quiet to be completely accurate. Barry would know; he’s heard it a million times before, can pick it out from damn near anything at this point. A part of him has grown with it.
“Sorry honey,” Iris says, still holding a laugh at the back of her throat, “but I had the inside scoop. I had to. It was my moral obligation as a reporter.”
“Uh-huh.” Barry flips to the next page of the newspaper, balancing the phone between his ear and a tilted shoulder. “Right, how could I forget, it’s your moral obligation. But, just as a side note, why’d you write that I’m an astral projection from uh…” he squints at the page, “...Mars. An astral projection from Mars...Iris, was there really nothing else?”
Iris chokes. “I mean,” she begins, her voice squeaky, but breaks out laughing midway through her sentence. “It was funny!” she cackles through the phone.
“I’m going to astral project my way back to my alien planet.”
There’s another laugh. “No, no, don’t. I love you; pinkie-promise. I won’t write any more articles bullying you.”
Barry folds the newspaper back up. “Somehow, someway, I just don’t believe you,” he says faux-moodily. “This is harassment. What’s your boss’s number? I need to call him and report slander against our city’s beloved hero.”
“Oh, do try. I would love to hear that phone call.”
“I will. Right now. What’s the number?”
“I don’t have it on me. Google it.”
“That’ll just take me to public relations.”
“Yeah. That’s usually how you complain about these types of things, Bear.”
“On second thought, I’m not going to do it now.”
Iris snorts. There’s the sound of rustling papers on her end, a hurried scurry across a keyboard. “What’s for dinner?” she asks, tapping a pen onto her desk.
Barry hums. “You up for takeout?”
“Ugh, not today. I’m more in a home-cooked type of mood right now.”
Barry nods, even though Iris can’t see it, and thinks back to what they have in their fridge. Not much—they’re due for grocery shopping tomorrow—and options are limited until then. “Alright. How do you feel about omelets?”
“Just don’t put mushrooms in them.”
“Ok. What about potatoes?”
“Sounds good. With onions.”
“Of course. I love you.”
And even from a phone call, Barry knows that Iris is smiling. He can tell from the soft uplift of her voice, lulling and sweet. “I love you too,” she says to him. “I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon.”
The call ends.
Then, we move onto the outlandish. Some conspiracy theorists believe that the Flash is a bonafide ‘fish out of water’ Atlantean. Though rather lacking in facts, this theory makes it onto our list out of its sheer popularity.
Believers argue that we know little to nothing about Atlantis. Any known information about it is elusive and furthermore, the kingdom is highly selective as to who learns more about it. To this date, the largest database of Atlantean documentation belongs to researchers at an international marine wildlife center, though that knowledge is purely scientific in nature.
What we do know paints a cryptic picture. Apart from the fact that they live underwater, the only facts we know for certain is that their government is a monarchy, that they require mandatory military service (though for how long has never been confirmed), and they have four main religions unrelated to the ones we ourselves have.
This mystery has led some to conclude that the Flash, a mystery in and of himself, gained his powers from underneath the depths of the ocean's blue. Where else, they claim, but the unknown can a man gain powers such as that?
To this, Aquaman was not available for comment.
Wally runs in just as Barry’s waving the last of the smoke away from the pan, coughing and wheezing with his eyes watering pitifully and his ears ringing from the way-too-loud smoke alarm blaring above him.
“What happened?!” Wally screeches, waving his arms, goggling and gawking at the scene. But before Barry can answer—already blazing through every excuse in the book and coming to the unfortunate conclusion that none of them apply here—Wally’s darted off.
He returns, triumphant, with a fire extinguisher. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to do this,” Wally gushes, and without hesitation presses down on the handle. White foam flies all over the kitchen and Barry gags as some of it lands at the back of his throat.
He croaks, pounding on his chest. He’s tearing up again. Wally zooms in closer so that they’re eye to eye, looking panicked.
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO DO THAT!” he shouts. “SORRY UNCLE BARRY!”
“It’s fine,” Barry rasps. He really hopes that this isn’t poisonous. He can’t afford a trip to the hospital right now. “Good fire safety technique, Wally.” He gives a weak thumbs-up.
God, he needs to lie down—he feels light-headed.
Barry stumbles to a chair, hooking it with an ankle to pull it out before tumbling down, arms limp at his sides and feeling seven different kinds of defeated. Wally tugs a chair right beside him, peering at Barry with a narrowed gaze and twitchy fingers. He looks concerned and for that, Barry feels a momentary pulse of guilt.
“So...” Wally begins. He pushes on his palms, lifting his body so he could just slightly see the inside of the pan. “I thought you were good at cooking?”
Barry stares at the ceiling. It’s a horrible popcorn finish. “I am,” he says. “I am.”
Wally makes a noise. Without remorse, he points at the creation; charred and near carbonized. “Um. That’s completely black.”
There’s a sigh. “I know.” It’s said morosely.
He was just trying to make some stir fry. Stir fry . It shouldn’t have...imploded, for lack of a better term. And like, okay, he’s not the best at cooking, and everything he makes ends up being a little lumpy, but he’s decent! Decent is good. But more so, Barry knows he’s not bad enough to completely screw up making some stir fry.
Wally just nods. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says humbly, reaching out to pat Barry’s bicep in a way that would be patronizing if he didn’t know that Wally was being completely serious, “I don’t know how to cook anything.”
Barry starts. “Not even an egg?” he says incredulously.
“Nope.”
“Alright. Actually, no.” Barry shakes his head. “Today, I’m going to teach you how to cook an egg. It’s an important life skill and it’s not even that hard, promise.”
Barry grunts as he shoulders himself up from the chair. He still feels sore from Captain Cold yesterday; the bruise on his back just isn’t going away regardless of his speedster healing. Any longer and Barry’ll have to beg off to the Watchtower and get the medics to poke him around.
...He really hopes that it doesn’t come to that.
Then as he looks around the kitchen, he pauses. “Ah,” he says to himself. “...How do we get rid of the foam?”
Wally stares. “Um….” he hums. He taps a finger on his chin. Then he shrugs. “Dunno. Sorry.”
Barry only sighs resignedly. “Don’t worry about it. But um. Before we teach you how to cook an egg, we’re going to learn how to dissolve fire extinguisher foam. Now, where did I put my phone, I have to google this…”
He stops again, turning to Wally. “Oh wait, what were you running in here for in the first place?”
“...I wanted to show you a funny picture.”
“Oh!” Barry can feel a smile creeping up on his face. “Can I see it?”
“Yeah!”
It ends up being a meme about the Flash being Batman’s long-lost twin brother.
There’s reasonable and then there’s pure conjecture. Where do heroes get their powers, one might ask themselves? From a stroke of lightning perhaps, a million to one chance of just being there at the right time, at the right place? The options are nigh limitless. But limitless does not always equal plausible, which is without a doubt how this next theory somehow came into existence.
This conspiracy claims that the Flash is Superman and Wonder Woman’s love child from a nuclear wasteland future.
Yeah. You read that right.
Originating from a picture of Superman shaking hands with the Flash, the first appearance of this theory notes that their eyes have a similar blue color and the “same shaped Dorito shoulders, if you know what I mean”. Furthermore, we know that Superman has limited superspeed, even if he rarely uses it in a fight.
By that conclusion, it could be said that any potential child of his would also develop superspeed. And--here’s the real kicker--radiation poisoning from nuclear fallout would theoretically jump-start those powers into something resembling what the Flash has today.
Wonder Woman comes into play as being the only superpowered woman that is a) frequently around Superman and b) not already in a relationship.
Now far be it for us to put down any claim, but we are not a superhero tabloid. We are respectable. And so we can say with complete and utter confidence that this theory is bullshit.
“There you are!” Jay shouts as he opens the door, a beaming grin stretching from one cheek to another. He’s pepper-haired and sprightly even in old age. “The man, the myth, the legend! The secret international spy for NATO!”
“The what? ” Barry squeaks. There’s blood rushing to his face. “I’m—I’m not...wait, have you been reading those Flash conspiracy theories? Please tell me you haven’t.”
“Well then I’ll have to disappoint you, son,” Jay says cheerfully. With one hand, he clasps Barry on the shoulder and leads him into the living room, seating him on a plush couch as Jay plops down opposite of him. “I’ve spent my entire weekend going through them all. Very fine entertainment, if I do say so myself.”
Oh god. That’s horrifying.
Barry closes his eyes. Everyone around him is doomed to be obsessed with conspiracy theories about the Flash, aren’t they? Just what is it about him that leads people to this? He’s lived a good life, he doesn’t think that his karma is this bad. And it’s funny, sure, but the sheer extent of it all…it’d make a lesser man never want to move out of bed again.
Barry shakes his head, opening his eyes to meet Jay’s not-so sympathetic look. Then, he takes a glance at the coffee table.
Specifically, at the printed-out papers laid out over it.
“Wait,” Barry says. There’s dread in his voice. “Is that...is that what I think it is?”
Jay looks down at the papers. “Ah. Well, yes. Because if you’re thinking that I printed out some of my favorite theories to put on my wall, I did indeed do that.”
Jay meets his eyes head-on. “Sorry. The house has been looking a little barren lately, you understand.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not sorry at all.”
“Sorry,” Jay parrots as he leans back on the couch, self-satisfied and not at all repentant. Barry envies him just a little for it. “Home redecoration is a hobby of mine.”
Sure it is.
“So what’d you want me over here for?” Barry asks. Might as well find out what the agenda for today is. Though, if it’s a supervillain Barry’s going to need something to eat first. Hopefully, Jay has food in his fridge.
“Oh, it’s nothing too serious.” Jay picks up the papers. “As I said, I’m redecorating. I’d like your expert eye to help me out, of course!”
Of course...
Now, there is one more posited theory that is infamous for just how inconceivable it is. While first thoughts may lead you to believing the worst, it is in truth, perhaps the tamest one we could find. The theory in question?
That the Flash is just another ordinary, not that special, run-of-the-mill man.