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It was the best part of Velocator's day.
He ran on Florida's Interstate 5 at
his usual near-120 mph, letting the wind whip around him. He felt like a bird,
a really fast bird. He also liked how the strong winds fluffed his brown hair
dry after shower.
As Velocator zoomed past interstate
exit after interstate exit, he looked at his agency- “approved” suit to see
what colors it was turning. It was grey, green and blue to match the road,
grass and sky. Velocator rolled his eyes; to him, the suit looked like a bowl
of crayons that was sitting too close to a fire.
The suit, which was made for
“beginners,” changed color with its surroundings to give newbies extra
disguise. The agency's theory was that beginners weren't seasoned enough to
protect their identities. Velocator argued with agency members that someone,
like him, who can run near 500 mph and is, at best, a blur to normal human eyes
doesn't need extra disguise. The members nodded, then told him to wear the
suit. They also wanted him to wear the helmet, which was larger and rounder
than a bicycle helmet and twice as uncomfortable.
But the highways were his. Velocator
loved swerving among cars, looking at drivers do double takes as they swore
they saw something out there. That day, the interstate was wide open
And then came the siren. He saw the
red lights moments later as the highway-patrol vehicle got closer. Velocator
rolled his eyes and gradually decreased speed. Two hundred yards later, he came
to a stop. The patrol car pulled up behind him, and a tall officer got out. The
officer threw his shoulders back and puffed out his chest as he approached
Velocator, who smiled with the knowledge of what he could do with his powers to
the cop trying so hard to look tough.
“Yes, officer, need help with
anything? Some evil mastermind painting things on walls?” Velocator said,
grinning.
The officer didn't grin back. “You
know what speed I had you clocked at, son?”
“Um, gee, no, Dad. What was I
going?”
“One hundred and fifteen. Miles.
Per. Hour.”
Velocator whistled. “Wow, that's
some fast running. As in, not in a car. You're supposed to be pulling drivers
over, Officer …?”
“Officer Davis. Doesn't matter.
Anything going that fast on my road gets pulled over. You could've been one of
those supervillain types for all I knew...”
While Davis spoke, Velocator zipped
around, just beyond the ability to be seen, and investigated the officer's car.
Everything looked regulation in it. Velocator remembered one superhero who was
killed after a villain posed as a cop seeking to help at a crime scene. All
Davis saw was a momentary blurring of Velocator.
“... and we are sworn to protect no
matter what. You understand?” Davis said as Velocator returned to his original
spot.
“Yep, uh-huh, you betcha, sir,”
Velocator said, not knowing or caring what Davis said.
“This road is 75 miles an hour, son.
You were going 115. That makes you 40 miles over the speed limit, by my
calculations.”
“Wow, you finally got to put that
doctorate in math to good use. Good for you!”
Davis walked closer to Velocator,
trying to look taller. “How would you like me to take you in, punk?”
Velocator stepped closer to Davis.
“And how would you like to be the dummy who put a hero in jail for doing what
he does best?”
Davis ground his teeth and moved his
right hand toward his gun. Velocator grinned slightly, tensed up - and suddenly
got nauseous, which was hard to do to someone who scale a mountain in a few
minutes. However, the transportation device that brought him instantly to Washington,
D.C., used a different kind of motion.
Even if the trip didn't make him
sick, the destination usually would. In an eyeblink, he was in the agency.
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