Ordinary Man to the Fastest Alive

Chapter 2: What Now?

Ethan stood in the middle of his living room, the remnants of his first super-speed run still crackling faintly in the air. 

The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a growing sense of unease. 

"Let's say this isn't a dream... and I really am a speedster," he muttered to himself, pacing the room. "What do I do now? If I'm not wrong, speedsters need around 10,000 calories a day. I can't afford that type of lifestyle." 

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Great. I finally have superpowers, and I'm too broke to use them." 

Ethan wandered into the kitchen, his mind racing. 

He grabbed the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, the steam rising in slow, lazy spirals. 

As he stirred in a spoonful of sugar, an idea struck him. 

"Wait a minute," he thought, his eyes widening. "I can use my powers to make money! Loads of it. But first... I definitely need to get control over my powers. And I can't tell anyone about them. Ever."

He took a sip of coffee, the warmth grounding him as he began to plan. 

'Telling people about my powers would be beyond stupid. After all, I don't know if I was the only one suddenly given powers.' Ethan thought rationally. 'If there were other speedsters, I don't want another reverse flash situation where an evil Speedster from the future is hell bent on ruining my life.'

Ethan set the mug down, a determined glint in his blue eyes. For the first time in years, he felt a sense of purpose.

*Knock*

*Knock*

Ethan's heart skipped a beat as the knocking grew louder. 

*"Ethan, open up! Rent has been due for over a week, and you still haven't paid me!"* 

Ethan knew that voice…of all the times, it just had to be right in the morning! 

He did NOT want to deal with this man right now.

He glanced around his apartment, the mess suddenly feeling like a monument to his failures. . 

"Screw this shit," Ethan thought, his jaw tightening. 

He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and moved to the window. 

He lived on the second floor, so it wasn't a far drop, but it wasn't exactly safe either. 

Still, it was better than facing his landlord empty-handed. 

Ethan pushed the window open, the cool morning air hitting his face. He glanced down at the alley below, then back at the door, where Krumpnick's knocking had turned into pounding. 

"Ethan, I know you're in there! Open this door before I—"

Ethan didn't wait to hear the rest. He climbed onto the windowsill, took a deep breath, and jumped. 

For a split second, he felt the rush of freefall, the ground rushing up to meet him. Then, instinctively, he tapped into his speed. 

The world slowed. 

The air around him thickened, and the ground seemed to pause mid-rise. 

Ethan landed lightly, his knees bending to absorb the impact. 

He straightened up, his heart pounding, and glanced around to make sure no one had seen him. 

The alley was empty. 

"Alright... deep breaths," Ethan thought, trying to calm his nerves. 

He adjusted his bag and focused again, feeling the familiar hum of energy coursing through him. The world blurred as he took off, moving faster than any human should be able to. 

The streets of Brooklyn flew by in a haze of gray and brown, the sounds of the city reduced to a low rumble. 

He skidded to a stop in a quiet park a few blocks away, the lightning around him fading as the world snapped back to normal.

 He leaned against a tree, catching his breath, and pulled out his phone. 

Ethan crouched underneath a bridge, the faint sound of traffic echoing above him. 

The air was cool, and the ground was damp, but he barely noticed. 

His focus was entirely on the notebook in his hands, the pages already filled with scribbled ideas. 

"The easiest should be gambling for a small immediate amount... like Barry did when he was wrongfully imprisoned for DeVoe," he wrote, tapping the pen against his chin. 

But as he thought about it, the problems became obvious. 

"To gamble, you need starter money. Most casinos require a minimum amount, and I'm flat broke. Plus, I'd have to be careful in a way that no one can tie me to using super speed. If I start winning too much, too fast, people will notice. And if they notice, they'll start asking questions." 

He sighed, leaning back against the concrete wall of the bridge. 

"As far as I know, I'm the only one with superpowers. While that doesn't mean there aren't others, I want to make sure the government can't track who I am. With how crazy the people in power are, they'll probably experiment on me like crazy. Or worse, lock me up and throw away the key." 

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He'd seen enough movies and TV shows to know how this could go. Men in black suits, secret labs, and a life spent running. 

While realistically, he could rule as a tyrant with superspeed, Ethan didn't know if he wanted to live that type of life…yet.

"No," he thought, shaking his head. "I'm not going to let that happen. I need to stay off the radar. No flashy heroics, no public displays. Just... quiet, careful, and smart." 

He flipped to a new page in his notebook and began jotting down a list: 

As he wrote, a plan began to form in his mind. 

"First, I need cash. Small amounts, nothing suspicious. Once I have enough, I can hit a casino or a racetrack—somewhere I can use my speed without drawing too much attention. But I'll need to be careful. No big wins, no patterns. Just enough to get by." 

He paused, tapping the pen against the page. 

"And control. I need to figure out how this works. How fast can I go? How long can I keep it up? What are the limits? If I'm going to survive, I need to know everything about these powers." 

Ethan leaned against the cold concrete of the bridge, his notebook clutched tightly in his hands. 

The morning sun was climbing higher, casting long shadows across the ground, but Ethan barely noticed. 

His mind was racing, trying to find a way out of the mess he was in. 

"I can always pickpocket or steal some amounts of money... with how fast I move, it isn't really a problem," he thought, the idea forming in his mind. 

He glanced down at his phone, checking his bank account balance for what felt like the hundredth time. 

$20.47

The number stared back at him, a stark reminder of how dire his situation was. 

He didn't have anyone he could ask for money—not that he would. 

Ethan was prideful, and the thought of borrowing from friends made his stomach churn. 

"And my family... they're already struggling as it is. I can't ask them for help."

He thought about his student loans, the credit card debt piling up, and the unpaid rent that would drive him out of his apartment at this rate.

But the idea of stealing left a sour taste in his mouth. 

"I'm not a thief,"* he muttered to himself, pacing under the bridge. "I've never stolen anything in my life." 

He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up inside him. 

"It's fine, as long as I return the amount I can have a clear conscience."

Ethan stopped pacing and took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm in his mind. 

He took a deep breath and focused, feeling the familiar hum of energy coursing through him. 

The world blurred as he took off, moving faster than any human should be able to. 

He made sure to run in abandoned alleys, places which would have the least amount of cameras and people.