Anarchy | Book Two, The Genesis Series

Thirteen

Runners, take your marks. Get set. Go.

A rustling breeze whipped through the golden, carefree hairs of Dylo's head as he plowed through the sound barrier. A distorted boom reverberated throughout his ears. Willing his speed to increase further, he watched as the entire world warped around him, taking the shape of a twisting, cone-shaped funnel.

Faint traces of golden kinetic energy swarmed around his musculature. He was getting into stride. Having dealt with speed as much as he did, estimating the velocities of objects was no problem for him. He didn't even need to look at his wrist-mounted speedometer to know that he'd trespassed into the domain of Mach Two.

But, as always, that wasn't fast enough for him.

Dylo feared he'd have to invest in dentures with how hard he was gritting his teeth. The whirring hum of his yellow energy aura had morphed into a low, sporadic crackle; his misty trail had been replaced with golden bolts of kinetic electricity upon reaching Mach Three.

But he wasn't done. He still had more left in the tank. Hundreds of failed attempts to break his speed limit would cease today. This run right here would be his last. His success would be cultivated by his failures.

Calling upon every ounce of strength his strained fast-twitch muscle fibers had to offer, his upper lip curled as he pumped his arms faster and harder than ever before. His strained face adopted a hue reminiscent of a cherry's. Gravity ushered droves of sweat from the top of his forehead to the bottom of his chin.

Run, Dylo, run.

He'd breached Mach Three ever-so-slightly. Even through the rapid motion of his body, he could see that the blocky, red numbers on the screen of his speedometer weren't increasing anymore. His rage sprouted up like a geyser in Yellowstone National Park. A grimace slipped onto his face as he pushed further, putting his willpower to the test.

"Come on!" Dylo yelled. "Almost there!"

Black splotches began to impede his waning vision. He tried to convince himself they didn't exist; he was fighting a losing battle. If anything, he actually appeared to be decelerating. His labored breaths cycled in and out of his mouth as fatigue began to swallow him whole.

His body couldn't keep up anymore. Tripping over his own feet, he found himself being catapulted into the air. A shrill shriek was ripped from his throat. Like a comet hailing from the cosmos, the blond struck the abrasion-resistant running track, bouncing and rolling across the black and gray rubber like a tumbleweed.

Dylo didn't think he'd ever stop rolling. Eventually, though, his momentum ceased. He'd landed flat on his back, limp like a dead fish. Sweat and dust marred the black, dry-fit tank top he donned. A pain-filled groan slithered out of his throat and permeated the air as he staggered to his feet. He paid no mind to the scrapes and cuts marring his legs; they'd all be patched up within a few minutes tops.

Waiting for his blurry vision to focus, he caught sight of his speedometer. It must've fallen off when he'd received a one way ticket to the floor. Not wasting another millisecond of time, Dylo zipped over to the gizmo, harboring a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd ended up shattering his current speed record at last.

That hope vanished when he saw the numbers.

Mach 3.3. His max velocity.

"Damn it!" Dylo bellowed. His voice echoed around the room, clinging to the hollow, circular wall of The Track. His blood boiled as he launched the small device at the wall. The tiny contraption shattered into fragments due to the velocity it attained. That was fine. He had spares.