faster than Omega

“The first part of the battle will be a test of speed,” said the Director.
The crowd of lemmings parted in anticipation of a race.
“Begin where you are,” intoned the Director. “Run to the opposite castle wall and back, four times. May the better man win.”
I gritted my teeth. The Director was a sexist pig on top of all her other faults.
The wall was about six hundred yards away. There and back, four times.
Someone scraped a line in the dirt with his boot, and Omega and I stood on it. What else could I do? I was shook up and barfy from the electric shock. I didn’t think being a conscientious objector would go over well at this point.
Omega seemed unruffled, cool, and not like he’d just popped his shoulder back into place.
“You can’t win,” he said calmly, not looking at me. “No human can run faster than I can.”
“Bite me,” I replied, and leaned over to get a good start. “Also, watch my dust!”
“Go!” the Director cried, and we were off.
Well. I must say, Omega was a speedy little sucker, I’ll give him that. He hit the opposite wall several seconds ahead of me, and I was dang fast, and taller than he was. By our third lap, he had about a quarter length on me. Neither one of us was breathing that hard—he was Superboy, and I was designed to be able to breathe in very thin air, way up high.
But he had no emotion—he wasn’t angry, didn’t seem determined to win at all costs, didn’t seem invested in beating me.
Which made three more differences between us.
Finally we were on the last lap. He had almost a three-quarter-length lead on me. The crowd was silent—no one dared cheer. The only sounds were our breathing and the pounding of our boots on the ground.
When Omega was about thirty yards away from whipping my butt, I suddenly dove forward, pulled out my wings, and went airborne. I thought I heard the crowd gasp.
Keeping very low to avoid the electrified net at the top of the castle walls, which Max II had warned us about, I streaked toward the finish, my wings working smoothly. I tilted as I passed Superboy, so I wouldn’t whap the back of his head with a wing—tempting though it was.
Then I shot across the finish line, ten feet ahead of him, and ran to a somewhat clumsy halt, trying not to careen into the gray sea of spectators.
I stood up, breathing hard, and punched my fist in the air. “Max, one!”


Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports Chapter 117