Flashbolt

Silence, save the sound of a pair of nike soles pattering along the road.

Heart rate: Accelerated.

Speed: Accelerated.

Chance of critical failure: High.

Lamp posts flickering, lights burning out, birds chirping, and cars humming.

Amongst the myriad of sounds shone darkness, revealing nothing that betrays it's position with audacity save that runner of the night. His body, dripping with sweat, chest rising and desizing, foot fall after foot fall, careened on through the cool air.

Twas a normal night of normal occurances. There were no gangbangers riding about, puffing joints, unleashing hell. There was nothing to be thought of amiss.

A moment, he stopped. His breath escaped him.

Fzzt. Bzz-bzzt. The streetlights all went out, but an illuminescence pervaded.

This boy, one of no more than twenty, glew in the vapid darkness overlooming.

Beads of sweet satisfaction for a good run sizzled on the large metalic plates embedded along his spinal chord, giving off the smell you would get should you attempt to incinerate that long molding pair of runner's heels.

His mind in thought of future exploits, his breath finally catching him on the last mile and yet his eyes roved about his almost perfectly sculpted body.

Abs fit for Abercrombi models with leg's capable of encaving hummer car doors.

If it weren't for all of the scars, he'd probably be attractive.

His fingers glided over his center chest cavity. Inside, working tirelessly, was a toy that singularly made everything about him possible.

Badum bum. Badum bum.

A screech of tire richoched magnificently from wall to wall of the local accomodations.

Shouts broke the previously peacful atmosphere. Shouts accompanied by blaring rap music and the revving of engines. Perhaps those gangbangers decided to come after all.

The runner muttered numbers, "fifty laps, should be about eighteen miles giving me about three hours... I left at ten so It's one."

"Hey, what chu doin' out he-ya at one in da mornin'? You runin' or sumtin? God DAMN thas an ugly ass fuggin' body. What'chu do man, get knifed o' sumtin?" They exited their vehicle.

"Three wanna-be-desperados who were looking for a fight, huh?"

He was surrounded now.

"Dawg, you mus' be packin' an ipod or sumtin. Give it hea, and we'll leave ya alone."

His hand twitched.

"Ah man, come on. You ain't wanna have a beef wit us. Jus' gimme wat you got, an' I'll leave you at that. How 'bout it?" His gun clicked, cocked and ready for action. Ready, Aim....

Arm raised, the runner closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He was concentrating on something, hoping that it wouldn't come to be anything drastic.

"The fuk you doin' man? Ya look like I shot ya already. We'll, ain't goin' through life lookin' like a id-jit."

"And I shall smite the wicked in the valley of evil, for nay are those who do good deeds."

Flash. A bolt of light arced from the tips of his alloyed fingers, breaking the insulation of the air, traveling to the man's outstreatched gun hand, and into and across his body.

This time the smell of burnt flesh was all there was to be had.

He spun, sending two more bolts to greet his peers.

"And no more shall thou walk amongst us, causing wicked deeds, sowing evil things."

Slowly walking to the car, the runner rested his hand upon it. Plasma arced from steel to hand instantly depriving the car of all life it had previously had.

He turned out, and continued his run.

The End

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