Chương 50: 49: The Eleven Abominations V

Clock didn't even look at him. He had already solved the equation. Trading blows was pointless. Gurtu was conceptual lava given form. He could lift continents with a finger, crumple moons in his grip, regenerate endlessly, and refuse to stay down. Even with Clock's superior strength, a prolonged brawl only favored the others. So Clock chose leverage.

A skyscraper-sized telekinetic hand erupted around Gurtu, ripping the ground from beneath him and hurling him skyward like a foul ball, denying him footing and momentum. The brute pinwheeled upward, a comet of pure rage. Clock raised a hand. One. Two. Three. Three compact spheres of violet reverse-blast energy lanced into the sky, locking into a perfect triangle.... The beauty of Reverse Blast was its arithmetic. It tripled in power every meter it traveled. Distance was fuel.

Clock had thrown Gurtu exactly 8, 046 meters, five miles. He'd done the calculation as he threw him. Each sphere began at 250, 000 newtons, roughly the force required to support twenty-five metric tons, accelerated at 100, 000 meters per second, and burned at 1, 500°C. After a hundred meters, conventional mathematics ceased to produce numbers with physical meaning. By five miles, the result no longer described force so much as the collapse of any sensible scale. Gloom, expressed as exponential law.

The three spheres held far more than enough energy to collapse the entire universe. In the real world, Clock would never have unleashed them at full yield; the backlash alone would have forced him to stitch reality back together as it tore itself apart beneath the attack's impossible arithmetic. Gurtu understood the equation. Survival instinct roared. He detonated every reservoir of conceptual lava within himself, blasting sideways toward impossible speed. Clock had anticipated it.

His telekinesis had already declared the space Gurtu occupied immutable. The titan's acceleration slammed into that law. The resistance was catastrophic. Though stronger overall, Clock met all of Gurtu's explosive power compressed into a single instant. The difference between a foam block and a scalpel. As Gurtu poured everything into escape, Clock held the weight of infinity in his palms. His legs trembled. Distant fingers burst apart with wet cracks. Bones splintered.

Psychic backlash ripped through his mind as blood streamed from his nose and ears. The world dimmed. He screamed.

"STAY!" More Gloom flooded the fixation, bought with broken flesh and burning neurons. Gurtu remained trapped at the triangle's centre. He had to die. The basalt giant roared, pushing back with everything he possessed. Magma erupted from every pore, muscles bulged beneath volcanic stone, and cracks raced across his towering body. For one impossible moment, he resisted. The Reverse Blasts reached him. His basalt shell was torn away.

Mountains of volcanic rock exploded from his frame, revealing the true body hidden beneath: a hulking brown-skinned man over eight feet tall, broad and powerfully built, with a hairy chest, wild dark hair, thick bushy eyebrows, blazing molten eyes, and an enormous beard. Ancient black tattoos coiled across his shoulders, arms, torso, and back like living scars. Loose black trousers were all that remained as he threw back his head and roared, "CURSE YOU!", pouring every shred of hatred and defiance into the scream.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! A violet flash erupted with the violence of a newborn Big Bang, swallowing the false world in incandescent light. Hills, ruins, and distant mountains became black silhouettes against an endless canvas of radiant amethyst as the explosion painted the horizon in impossible colour. The universe shrugged. The titan, frozen mid-roar, dissolved into superheated ionized dust that glittered like a newborn constellation before fading into nothing. Only then did Clock release the lock.

His ruined hand hung limp, trembling uncontrollably. The psychic backlash ebbed, leaving only a hollow ringing where parts of his mind had been scorched away. He breathed in ragged, wet gasps as dark blood dripped from his chin onto the glass below. His shattered fingers twitched. A pained chuckle escaped him.

"…Heh…" Another followed, quieter this time.

"…That…" He winced, shoulders shaking.

"… That was the hardest thing I've ever done." His vision dimmed. The violet wasteland dissolved into streaks of colour. — Tyres shrieked across rain-slick asphalt as a dark grey Nissan GT-R R35 rocketed down the highway, weaving through traffic with impossible precision. Neon lights smeared across the windscreen while distant sirens vanished beneath the engine's howl. Behind them thundered the convoy.

Half a dozen motorcycles flanked three lifted black pickups, their riders and passengers leaning into the rain with Uzis, pistols, and sawn-off shotguns. A broad man with a shaved head bared gold teeth as he screamed curses. Another, his cheeks carved with old knife scars, slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon while hanging halfway out of a truck. A younger biker with tattooed eyelids laughed hysterically as he emptied his Uzi. RATATATATAT!

Bullets stitched glowing lines through the storm, tearing apart road signs and showering sparks across the tarmac. Behind the wheel, Prism laughed so hard he nearly snorted. He looked no older than sixteen, tall for his age, with warm tan skin, dark hair streaked vivid red, yellow and blue beneath a backwards cap, and brown eyes fractured by shimmering ribbons of red, yellow, and blue.

Matching circular tattoos wrapped around both forearms beneath dark arrest wear, while a toothpick bounced cheerfully between his teeth.

"They're still coming!" Clock glanced into the mirror.

"…Yes."

"That means they're having fun too!" This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

"I suspect they're attempting to murder us." Prism giggled.

"They can do two things." The GT-R snapped sideways through a gap between two lorries, their mirrors exploding as the pursuing trucks forced their way through. Clock reached for the door handle.

"I'll stop this."

"Nope." Prism slapped his hand away.

"No cheating." Another burst of gunfire hammered the rear bumper. RATATATAT! Prism ducked instinctively, then burst into laughter.

"Ooo! That one was close!"

"They are firing submachine guns at us."

"I know!" He swerved around an overturned construction barrier by centimetres.

"That's what makes it exciting!" Another pickup surged alongside, forcing civilian cars onto the shoulder. The shaved-headed gangster leaned halfway out the window.

"There! Light 'em up!" RATATATATATAT! The Uzi barked. The rear windscreen burst inward in a glittering cloud as bullets shredded the headrests and dashboard. Prism ducked just enough for the burst to whistle overhead.

"Missed."

"…Barely," Clock replied.

"They're improving!"

"You sound proud."

"I am." The highway curved sharply. Prism flicked the wheel almost lazily, sending the GT-R into a screaming drift that showered sparks from the guardrail. One pursuing biker copied the manoeuvre, misjudged the angle, clipped the barrier, and cartwheeled into a ditch.

"Aww."

"You're disappointed?"

"He was getting better." Another truck pulled alongside. The scarred passenger grinned through broken teeth before raising an assault rifle. Clock sighed.

"There are now thirty-six firearms aimed at us." Prism's eyes lit up.

"Really? I counted thirty-five."

"You overlooked the revolver beneath the driver's seat." Prism blinked.

"…Oh." A grin spread across his face.

"I like playing with you." THUDTHUDTHUDTHUD! The rifle hammered the GT-R. Rounds punched through the doors, one pierced the roof, another shattered the rear-view mirror.

"You're up." Without another word, they switched places. Clock settled behind the wheel with effortless precision, holding the drifting GT-R perfectly balanced while Prism climbed halfway out the passenger window.

"They're making a funny shape."

"…What shape?"

"A triangle." Clock already knew he was calculating.

"If the bikes keep those angles and the trucks accelerate another… seven seconds."

"They'll box us in." Prism raised his pistol.

"One." POP. A motorcycle's front tyre burst.

"Two." POP. A pickup swerved instinctively.

"Three." POP. Another tyre exploded at exactly the wrong moment. The trucks collided, one spinning into a motorcycle, sending it cartwheeling into another. That rider crashed through the windscreen of the last pickup, which clipped the central divider and rolled three times before skidding to a smoking halt. Prism watched the chain reaction unfold exactly as predicted.

"…Yay." RATATATAT! Another burst of Uzi fire rattled through the cabin.

"OW!" Prism dropped back into his seat, rubbing his forehead. Clock glanced sideways. The toothpick had snapped cleanly in half. Prism stared at the broken pieces in genuine heartbreak.

"…That was my favourite one." Clock stared at the snapped toothpick.

"…You're unharmed."

"I know," Prism said mournfully.

"But the toothpick isn't."

"…That's what you're upset about?"

"It was a good toothpick." Flattened bullets tinkled harmlessly into his lap, having mushroomed against his face without leaving so much as a scratch. He sighed, pulled another toothpick from his pocket, and bit down.

"Always carry spares."

"You keep a box of them?"

"A responsible hero prepares for emergencies."

"You define emergencies rather broadly." Another motorcycle screamed alongside as one ahead vaulted the central barrier, landing in a spray of rain before levelling a shotgun at the GT-R. Prism's eyes widened.

"Ooo." BOOM! Buckshot spiderwebbed the windscreen.

"…That was expensive," Clock said.

"We'll bill them." The biker laughed. Prism rolled down the window.

"Excuse me!"

"What?"

"You're driving very dangerously."

"…What?"

"You could've hurt somebody." The rider stared, screamed incoherently, and fired again. BOOM! Fresh cracks spread across the glass. Prism gasped.

"He ignored constructive criticism."

"I noticed."

"You drive." Clock slid fully behind the wheel while Prism climbed halfway out the window, rain soaking his backwards cap.

"You're lucky," he called.

"Lucky?"

"You're today's tyre." POP! The front wheel exploded. The motorcycle folded beneath itself, catapulting its rider headfirst through the scarred gangster's pickup.

"…That worked," Prism said proudly.

"It generally does." Another truck drew level as a second motorcycle closed from the opposite side. A"Shoot the kid!" the scarred gangster yelled. RATATATATAT! BOOM! Bullets and buckshot hammered the Nissan, fresh dents blooming across the passenger door. Prism looked down.

"…Rude." The gold-toothed gangster leaned out with another Uzi, veins bulging.

"You little freaks!" Prism pointed at himself.

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" He glanced at Clock.

"I think he's talking to us."

"I reached the same conclusion." Prism studied the convoy through the storm of bullets.

"If I shoot the rear tyre…"

"The truck will rotate approximately eighty-three degrees before striking the guardrail."

"…You already did the maths?"

"I became bored." Prism pouted.

"You're stealing my job."

"I apologize."

"You're not forgiven." POP! The tyre burst. Exactly as predicted, the truck slewed sideways into the guardrail, bounced into another vehicle, and triggered a spectacular chain reaction. One motorcycle slammed into the spinning trailer, another flew across a pickup's bonnet, and the final truck struck the torn-out central barrier broadside. Metal screamed. Three vehicles collapsed into a tangled heap of steel and sparks. Prism clapped.

"I got all of them!"

"You predicted all of them."

"That too." Only one battered pickup remained. The gold-toothed gangster leaned out again, spraying the GT-R with his Uzi.

"Pretty." Clock sighed.

"…May I end this now?" Prism watched the shrinking chase through the rear window before smiling.

"…Okay." Clock clicked his fingers. The highway fell silent. The last vehicles twisted sideways as invisible force crushed them together with surgical precision. Driveshafts folded, engines crumpled, axles snapped, and the pickup rolled harmlessly onto its side, steam hissing from beneath its crushed bonnet. Clock rested one hand on the wheel.

"I'm tired." Prism folded his arms dramatically.

"Next time I'm driving longer."

"There will not be a next time."

"There'll definitely be a next time." The GT-R continued at exactly the speed limit. Prism leaned against the rear window.

"…Aww."

"You wished them to continue?"

"For another minute." He settled back, hands behind his head.

"You're no fun."

"You requested that I refrain from interfering."

"I changed my mind."

"You did."

"You're supposed to know when I do."

"I did."

"…Then why'd you wait?"

"I wanted you to enjoy yourself." Prism blinked, then smiled.

"…Thanks." Neither spoke again until the city lights replaced the empty highway and they pulled into the driveway of a modest house. Prism climbed out, stretching theatrically.

"My legs are sleepy."

"You spent the journey sitting."

"They're still sleepy."... Inside, the television was already replaying the chase.

"Authorities remain baffled after a high-speed pursuit ended with what investigators are calling a series of mechanically impossible failures. Experts have yet to explain how multiple engines, transmissions, steering systems, and axles catastrophically failed within the same few seconds…" A helicopter replayed the pile-up from above. A helicopter camera replayed the impossible pile-up. Trucks collided, motorcycles spun harmlessly away, and the final pickup rolled onto its side before sliding to a stop.

Prism burst into laughter.

"They think the engines exploded first!"

"They're close," Clock said.

"They're not close at all."

"That's true." Prism collapsed onto the sofa, still giggling.

"Today's adventure gets... eight-and-three-quarters points."

"What prevented nine?"

"My toothpick died." Clock couldn't argue with that. Prism immediately reached for the game console.

"First to ten?"

"You said that yesterday."

"I'll mean it this time."

"You did yesterday."

"Shush." The match began. Prism picked the weakest character as always, controller loose in his left hand while his right absent-mindedly twisted a scrambled Rubik's Cube. Click. Twist. Click. Clock rushed him. Without looking at the television, Prism parried, countered, and launched a flawless combo that sent Clock's character bouncing helplessly across the screen.

"You're watching the cube."

"Yeah."

"You haven't looked at the game."

"Yep."

"You're still beating me." Another click. Another twist. Clock deliberately varied his timing. Prism answered every attack with effortless precision as another face of the cube aligned.

"You're cheating."

"I don't know how."

"You have mathematical powers." Prism finally glanced at the screen for half a second.

"Woah. I almost lost."

"You were on full health."

"That doesn't mean I wasn't emotionally threatened." Clock smiled despite himself.

"You're impossible."

"I know." The final layer clicked into place. K. O. Prism set the solved cube on the table.

"Three seconds slower than yesterday."

"You timed yourself?"

"I time everything." Clock sighed, leaning back into the sofa.

"I dislike playing games with you." Prism grinned around a fresh toothpick.

"No, you don't."

"No," Clock admitted, picking up his controller again.

"I don't."