"Hm-hm-hmm—" Lola hummed as she fiddled with a camera.
A Leica camera, a German brand with no flaws apart from its price, produced exceptionally good images.
"Why are you taking pictures of Barry?" Roland asked curiously. "Planning to trap him inside a photograph?"
"Of course not. I mainly wanted to bring back a few souvenirs," Lola said. "You know, this antique camera really is pretty interesting."
"Oh." Roland paused. "So where did you get the money to buy it?"
"Uh—take a look at this picture first." Lola hastily changed the subject. "I took it at the picnic. Can you see the black shape behind Barry?"
"That black ink blot in the air? It looks like a stain left during printing." Roland examined it. "You're not very good at this."
"But it showed up in another Speedster's photographs too, taken shortly before he died—" Lola said. "I've seen that afterimage myself. A long time ago, I was in a crisis and thought I wouldn't make it. Before you arrived, I caught sight of that thing in the corner of my eye, rushing straight toward me."
"Huh?" Roland froze.
"Native Americans have a name for it. They call it 'slow lightning.' But Speedsters call it Black Flash," Lola said. "Death has many faces, and this is the one it chooses to show Speedsters. Black Flash waits for all of us at the finish line."
"So that's Black Flash." Roland nodded.
"Now we'll see whether The Flash can escape his fated death," Lola said. "There's only one way for Barry to defeat Black Flash. If he succeeds—then I won't have come here for nothing."
Central City.
The Flash was having dinner with two Iris Wests.
"Barry, say ah—" The older Iris West held a spoonful of ice cream toward The Flash. "Try this.