• Footsteps. Footsteps in the dark.
    Uncountable flashes of light sent shadows dancing around him. Roaring voices deadened his senses. He slid his sunglasses on, hiding behind the thin lenses of photoreactive plastic.
    Security personnel held the crowd back as he passed through, seemingly in slow motion. Casting his gaze skyward, he retreated into himself. His racing suit was sweaty and uncomfortable, but he didn't notice, nor did he notice the thousands of fans screaming his name, begging for his signature on pieces of paper or pictures of him. He snorted derisively.
    These people had no idea. They thought he was some kind of hero, something to be worshiped and looked up to in reverence. He hadn't chosen this life. He had no right to their praise.
    A large door slid upwards ahead, and he continued through while the guards held the crowds back. The door sealed a few moments later, leaving him in blackness. Bright lights illuminated the room, dazzling him temporarily. In the center sat a machine of great beauty, but also one of great contempt. Its curves were a pleasure to behold, though its cockpit was like a coffin.
    Number five. That was the number painted on the sides in large font. Black and red and gray stripes twisted around each other along the body of the racer, from the pronged front all the way back to the rear where the propulsion drive was housed, the same colors that his suit bore. The whole thing hovered a few centimeters above the floor.
    He checked his chronometer – five minutes to race time.
    Tonight would be the biggest night of his life. This was what he'd been preparing for.
    “Tonight,” he said to the biting silence, “is the end.”
    Tendrils of nothingness bound around his heart. Adrenaline flooded the void where his blood once was. Air filled his shriveled sacks of contempt with each breath.
    Tonight is the end.
    He leaned against the side of his craft, crossing his arms in a gesture that most would see as a casual nothing, but what really was his desire to close himself off from all else. This lifestyle, this fame, what had they brought him? To race was to lose all feeling. That brought him the only comfort he could get, but at what cost?
    Four minutes.
    Was this really the height of human potential? Was this our true purpose? They loved him for it, and he despised them in kind.
    Three.
    The canopy of his racer hissed as it opened, and he slid himself into the seat as he'd done a thousand times before. It closed back over him, leaving him once again in silent darkness. A low hum flooded the cockpit, and soon a hundred tiny lights from the controls brought light to the dark. Each one reminded him of another faceless person in the crowd that awaited him outside.
    Light flashed again, dazzling him, and the next thing he knew was looking out through his helmet at the eleven other contenders at the starting line, hundreds of thousands of cheering fans in seats above the track. He looked to his right, seeing the ground a few hundred meters below the suspended mag-track. Neon colored lights of every hue shone down, and music blared from loud speakers.
    But he heard nothing.
    One minute.
    He knew what he had to do. This would be the last race, the biggest moment of his life. “Tonight,” he reminded himself, “is the end.”
    The giant screen above the track began the countdown from ten. Each second lasted an eternity, and each breath a lifetime. He felt older than the universe, older than time. The thrum of his engine drowned out all sensation. He felt nothing.
    The clock reached zero, and his acceleration pinned him to his seat as the twelve racers quickly made it up to five hundred kilometers per hour. Levitating on magnets above the fantastic winding track, he made his way through the pack, all while navigating nauseating turns and life threatening drops. He was the best. Everyone knew he would win the last race.
    The first lap ended in thunderous applause. He led the race by several seconds. The second lap ended similarly.
    Darkness crept up and threatened to spill over. He had to keep it at bay for just one last lap. Time stopped.
    He could look down and see himself, see his racer, floating there so serenely above the track that wound its way through the clouds. So close to the stars, so close to the void was he, yet so close to the dirt, the filth, the grime. Hundreds of thousands of cheering sheep, oblivious to the world around them, so focused on the race. That's what it was all about, he supposed. It was a race to the finish.
    And he was their poster boy.
    He drifted back down into his body, and time resumed its flow. None of the other racers were in sight behind them, and the crowd loved it. He had to end it. He knew that what he did was wrong, leading them on like this, setting an example for them to live by. It was a race to the finish. At least that's what he taught them.
    He had to end it.
    The finish line was in view, just over one last climb and a drop. He gripped the control wheel tightly, as if hugging it goodbye. This would be the last race.
    He crossed the checkered line to roaring cries of ecstasy, and then shoved his thumb onto a button on the control console as the second and third place men crossed the finish.
    His racer detonated. He could watch himself from high above, could hear the cries of ecstasy transform into cries of fear. Shrapnel careened through the air, causing the second place racer to veer into the retaining wall. This was how it had to be.
    He could see what was left of his own corpse rolling along the track as the rest of the competition finished the race. Finally it was over.
    Tonight is the end.