Chapter 60: 60. Claws, Brawls, and Balls

"She saw my face — … — get her — … — I'll finish the job."

In the midst of barreling down the wavy corridor of the Hall of Discovery, sweat turns to ice against Avery's skin. She tilts into her sprint. No. A pompadour-having ogre does not get to murder me.

Then, as if someone ripped open the blinds of a dark room, Avery's mind swallows her up and spits her into a crisp, vivid world of possibility. An intrusive thought as tangible as the monster hurtling after her.

Her viewpoint switches. No longer behind her own eyes, but from the side. A profile view of the hallway and herself running. The man is there too, gaining a couple inches each second. She struggles: pumps her legs and arms even harder to outpace him.

Something tears.

Pain shoots up her leg; pain even her disembodied self can feel. She collapses to the carpet. A single bound is all it takes for him to reach her and...

Avery mashes her eyes shut. "Not now!"

The man calls out, closer than she expects and with a distinct, New Boston accent. "Yeah? Well that ain't an option."

She whips her head around. Whoa, how did I miss an accent that thick?

He's about twenty feet behind her: not gaining, but definitely not losing. He forces a hand into his coveralls.

Avery's eyes go wide. A gun?

No. A shiny, metal ball emerges within his grasp. He squeezes and the ball hisses open, bisecting itself to reveal a fine mesh.

That's probably worse.

He winds his arm back. "Sturgeon's Leap!" On the final word, he whips his arm forward. The ball screams toward her and white powder sprays out of its mesh interior in twirling threads, like the outline of a whirlpool in midair.

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Avery forgets she's afraid; forgets she's running away from some weird-ass, pompadour-wielding murderer. It's a scene straight out of a pro wrestling match. Complete with an announcer yelling some ridiculous move name and —somehow — no one laughing at it.

He slaps a grasping hand through one of the trailing threads. In between his clenched fingers, white powder ignites into blazing plasma of amber and ochre. Bright enough that tears flood Avery's eyes.

His form shifts: starting from his hand, all two-hundred pounds of him zips into the plasma like a deflating balloon. A bead of glowing amber burns down the trail of powder. It engulfs the metal ball and the next moment, it explodes with dazzling, eye-rending energy.

Avery careens around another curve. Not good, not good!

Blonde hair inflates out of the center of the plasma-powered starburst, followed by the rest of the man's body. He rolls midair, snatches the still-intact ball out of the dissipating light, and lands on his feet. His stride barely breaks.

Dread and resignation creeps from the back of her mind. Of all the powers for the person chasing her to have, it had to be teleportation. She pounds feet against carpet. Turn down a maintenance hallway? No, I might get lost and —

He reaches into his coat and withdraws another, unspent ball.

Terror rips the breath out of her chest. I'm not fast enough... is this it?

Metal separates with a hiss to reveal an identical, fine mesh core. It all repeats. The throw, spiraling powder, and blazing amber. Him flitting inside like a cartoon character, then reappearing at the end of the powder trail in a burst of light.

Dread no longer creeps: it crashes into Avery with all the subtlety of an arctic tsunami. What little breathing she's managing stalls out and her limbs cry for her to give up. He's only a couple feet away. Too close. He reaches out, turning feet to inches.

Crack.

Everything happens in a flurry: Avery's heart jumps past her throat; Pompadour man lands a hand on her shoulder; and a cat pops into reality in between his ankles. His hand slips off and both the man and the cat crash to the floor; a ball of flailing claws and limbs and feral yells.

Avery tears off down the hallway and screams. "What the hell is going on?"

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