By the time Henry had arrived at the scene the outcome had already occurred. The shield had went down. No matter how many gifted they had on their side they could not beat professional heroes with M.A.G.E’s eyes in the sky. This had been their ace up the sleeve. The institution had found it wanting.

He set up the bipod on his gun and gathered his breath before peering through the scope. Victorious Stadium was like a sponge, leaking fleeing groups of ‘villains’ as the battle quickly devolved. Many were being pursued. Some looked as though they might get away. Then he saw a bright smear tracing the latticework of the streets. He tried to track it with his scope but could not. All he saw were his people running, then in a flash they reappeared next to lampposts and trees, tied and cuffed.

It was the danger they had foreseen from the data they stole from M.A.G.E. The speedster. No one in this city was faster than him. If the operation was finished, Henry at least needed to guarantee that at least a few of them got away. Maybe then they could regroup and try again.

The streak paused to meet up with the other heroes. Henry peered through his scope again, and saw a man taking off an air mask. The hero was talking rapidly. The parabolic mic on the scope could not untangle the words. He was dressed in warm colors, and wore a complex air supply rig on his lower back. Henry aligned the crosshairs with the back of the hero’s head.

His finger hovered above the trigger. His life briefly flashed before his eyes. He couldn’t understand why; it wasn’t he who was about to die. But he had never killed before. Not directly. There was blood on his hands, to be sure. But he had never gone into the mud himself.

There was a first for everything.

He pulled the trigger. Powder ignited, thrusting a conductive sabot into the magnetic rails of the weapon. High currents generated immense Lorentz forces. Steam rose, a hot combination of aluminum and air, trailing behind a bullet that easily exceeded the sound barrier several times over.

Fleetfoot never heard it coming. He was talking with the others, trading exploits and sitreps. Ace Pilot managed to interject with a story that happened in the stadium. Fleetfoot admitted he had never liked Ace. The man was a show-off and a bit of a braggart, but because Fleetfoot could not help but speak quickly, he knew he was often lumped in with Ace’s personality. He needed to wait before speaking, to let a pause run its course before he began talking. It made him seem too eager to be heard.

Today however he was ready to kiss the braggart on the lips. When Ace talked over him, he had looked away in annoyance, and he saw that Vigil—the steel giant—looked extra shiny despite the time of night.

Speedsters had general rules that they need not train to understand. One of them being: ‘Don’t trust all your senses’. Sound most of all. At their relative velocities everything compressed in a Doppler nightmare of high-pitched noise. And if one had sensitive skin, their suit would be built to numb their touch. Fleetfoot relied almost entirely on eyesight when working. And he recognized that flash anywhere, reflecting off Vigil’s silver skin.

The air became viscous. His hands pushed through the invisible jelly to shove his mask back on his face. Accelerated oxygen entered his lungs. The gathering of heroes in front of him looked like a diorama set. He turned his head and followed the cone-shaped shockwave with his eyes. There, the point of convergence at the tip of the wave, a bullet was racing towards him. It was fast. He had time to get out of the way. But he would not have been a good speedster if he rushed. If he stepped out of the way, it would hit Vigil. Was the man’s skin strong enough? He was not certain. So he had to assume it wasn’t.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He flexed the exotic component in his muscles and nerves. His reference frame began to accelerate. His knees left hot trails as the air collapsed behind him in cavitation bubbles. His footfalls were accelerated as well, exceeding gravity’s ability to recover his stride. He positioned himself beside Vigil, placed his hands against the metal skin of the big man’s ribs, and began to push. It had to be done slowly in a relative sense. His sped-up frame did not extend very far outside of his skin. He could not test the continuum mechanics of Vigil’s ultratough physiology too much. The flesh rippled like sheets of cloth rather than steel, travelling throughout Vigil’s body in waves. Fleetfoot glanced at the bullet. It was almost there, crawling through the atmosphere like a stubborn mole, but carrying the energy of a tank shell.

It was a meter away, then a half a meter, then closer still. Fleetfoot had done all he could. The bullet would still hit, but the blow would be glancing. In his mind, he crossed his fingers.

Henry blinked in confusion. The big metal hero fell onto the ground clutching the hot streak on the side of his chest, crying out in pain. But by the way he was rolling around it was clear he wasn’t seriously hurt. Fleetfoot on the other hand was gone.

Henry immediately retreated from the edge of the roof and slung his weapon over his shoulder. He had not hesitated, knowing how crucial time was when facing this kind of gift. When he turned towards the staircase however, his target was standing in front of him.

Fleetfoot pulled his mask down, revealing a man who looked young but had grey hair. His eyes were so green they were visible through the goggles. He looked winded, just a little.

“It’s always the last one you look,” he said.

Henry slowly raised his hands. “Big fan,” he said.

“I’ll bet,” the hero replied.

The air rushed. Henry realized his hands had been cuffed. His body wobbled unsteadily from the reference acceleration. It was an odd feeling to be restrained by a speedster, like a break in causality. One moment his hands were up, the next they were behind his back.

“I’m running out of cuffs,” Fleetfoot remarked. He flipped out a communicator from one of the many compartments in his suit. “Got a guy here. Scrawny looking. Big gun… Uh-” Another rush of air. “-TriRail APMRDS… Hold on.” He cupped the communicator.

“Who gave that to you?” He asked.

“My mum, for Christmas,” Henry said.

“Not squawking,” Fleetfoot said into the communicator. “…Yep. I’ll bring ‘em in myself after I catch my breath.”

“You know I’ve always wondered how you people cope with the perspective,” Henry said.

The hero sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll bite. What perspective?”

“How do you see the world, while going so fast?”

“I slow down when I want to smell the roses. Is this one of those ‘you don’t know what you’re protecting’ rants? I’ve had a guy give me that lecture. He told me I live in my own bubble while life passes me by, stopping meaningful change as a job. My hobby is growing cactuses.”

“No. I’m saying I think you ignore most of what you see when you’re running,” Henry said. “Vision is your most reliable sense, but you see too much.”

“Okay?”

“That’s all,” Henry said. “I’ll save the rant for later.”

After hours of sending messages, he had finally gotten a response. Fleetfoot had put Henry’s hands behind his back, close to the pocket where he kept his phone. He had gotten his whereabouts out. A second later, a third person came into existence behind Henry, leaving Fleetfoot alone on that rooftop in the following instant.

Henry recovered from the break in causality to see the interior of a garage. He was gasping for breath. His weapon clattered on the concrete floor. It seemed there was something faster than Fleetfoot, but only just. The last thing he remembered on that roof was the hero’s fingers reaching for his neck.