There was blood in the Crimson Flash's mouth.
He hoped it had come from biting his tongue, or a cut on his lips, or maybe from having run from his nose, which he was fairly certain had been broken. As he gasped for breath, he could feel broken ribs moving, grinding, and he worried that one might have pierced a lung. One arm was useless, the bones in the forearm snapped. Much of his body, he was sure, had been transformed into a large, uninterrupted bruise. The pain was intense, and he could barely remain conscious for it, and the weakness it brought, as the old man held him up by his shirt and frowned down at him. He was beaten.
The night had started so normally.
...
When he set out to run, there seemed to be nothing beyond the ordinary lower life forms preying on the streets. Muggers, gangs, rapists. Of course, in Rhy'Din, there would be no shortage of such types. The dregs of society, perhaps, but not the sort which took more than a few moments of his time to be taken care of. Those who he came to aid were rarely aware of more than a stiff wind and a red blur as their assailants were whisked away.
It being late, there were also the usual stumbling drunks, careless as they strolled into a streets or too near the side of a bridge. These were aware of strong hands on them, pushing them one way or pulling them another, perhaps a glimpse of a dark eye through yellow-tinted lenses. Of course, a number of this type were unaware of even being in danger in the first place.

And then he heard the scream.
Screams were, truly, not particularly uncommon in the streets and alleys at night. The truth to be told, he could probably count the nights he did not hear screams on the fingers of one hand.
This scream, however, ran through him. The air was warm, but he felt a chill run up his spine as the call came. It spoke of pain, and of loss, and of fear. The voice, and the emotion in it, was familiar to him, and he ran to it. The source was not the one he had been expecting.
The old man was leaning against a wall, arms crossed over his chest as he looked to the scarlet speedster with a tranquil gaze. He nodded, once, and stood straighter, arms dropping to let hands dip into the pockets of his long coat. His face was expressionless as colorless eyes moved over Crim's costume, before he spoke, "You came. Good."
The Crimson Flash's eyes were narrow as he regarded the other man. His voice was somewhat muffled as he spoke. "Where is she, and who are you?"
The man sighed, shook his head. "She is, I assume, wherever she would normally be at this hour. It was an excellent impression, though, was it not?"
Crim was not amused. "Who are you?"
"That is very much not important. All you need to know is that I am an old man, here to test you. In battle."
"...you called me here, to fight me?"
"That is, as they say, the gist of it."
"You're out of your mind. I'm not fighting you."
"You are mistaken, my friend. I know your type. If you do not fight me tonight, I need only begin to kill some of the children who consider themselves the big men of the streets. Then, you will be happy to fight me. Now, or later, it matters not to me. If you live to be my age, you will see that a period of few days or a few weeks becomes nothing. We must fight."
"You need help." And so the Crimson Flash turned to walk away, without another word.

___________________________________________
((A note on timing:
The events of this story can be considered, for all intents and purposes, to take place late on the night of June 1, sometime in the few hours after midnight.))

((The old man in this story is Abram))

"This is pathetic." The old man looked down at him, kicked him in the ribs. "You have to be better than this. You defeated one who, I am told, was nearly as fast, and quite a bit stronger, than you. Yet, here you are, wasting our time."
The man turned, even as the Crimson Flash pushed himself to his feet with his one good arm. Rather than try to end the fight with one strike, Crim simply tried for contact, fist moving fast enough to hurt but pulling back for another strike too soon to cause any real damage with any single swing. And while he did, indeed, land many blows, it seemed that the old man was ready for all of them, even as the speedster's one usable hand became a blur. When his fist struck the old man's stomach, it met with tensed muscles. When he struck a shoulder, that shoulder was moving away before the blow came. No matter his speed, the old man seemed to know where he was planning to strike, and when.
Interspersed through these lightning quick hits, the old man would occasionally make an attack of his own, knuckles driving into ribs, foot lifted to let the heel strike a shin, elbow driven into the speedster's cheek, and so on. It was true that Crim was landing ten times as many hits, but the old man's blows were stronger, better suited for hurting and slowing his opponent.
Finally, one foot shot out, even as the old man bent backwards to let the streaking fist shoot over him. That foot struck a knee and, though not enough to break the bone, created enough pain, in the right place, to drop the speedster to the ground once more. He straightened, foot brought back and dropped again, heel driving hard into Crim's sternum, driving all of the air from his lungs.

"That was better, but not good enough." The old man knelt, hands digging into the fabric of the crimson shirt. As he stood, he lifted the scarlet speedster, who hung like a rag doll for the moment. "You are still wasting both our time. What will it take to make you stop holding back? I know you are holding back. I can feel it." The old man shook the Crimson Flash, anger distorting his features. "Do not play with me. Fight back. Damn you, you have to fight back!"
The Crimson Flash lifted his head, dark eyes glaring balefully at the other man as his voice rasped, "Why?"
The old man snarled and dropped Crim to the cobbles. "Because you need to be better than this. You're a waste of good steel. Strong and swift, to be sure, but you lack an edge. See to it that you find a way to acquire one. I'll be seeing you again, when you've had time to become as good as you have to be. Do not waste this time. Find your edge." With that, he turned on a heel and stalked off down the road.

Some time passed (due to the half-conscious state he was in from his injuries, he would not later be sure if it was minutes or hours) before the Crimson Flash found the strength to push himself to his feet. He held his broken arm in his good hand, breathed heavily through his mouth, and looked one way down the road, then the other. He sighed, muttering invectives under his breath, and walked off to seek a medic.