The world was black.

Standing on a floor he could not feel, in a place he could not see, Rusty was perplexed but unfazed by the blankness that surrounded him. His mind told his limbs to twitch but they would not budge. There was no movement in this place, not the blink of an eye or the flaring of his nostrils; he wasn’t even breathing. He stood this way, a living stone statue, for an eternity, because time didn’t exist.

Then there appeared a flicker of light.

It was a pinpoint of red, far in the distance. Captivated by the only other object in existence, Rusty stared with frozen eyes as the light seemed to grow closer and larger. As the light travelled it took on shape, morphing into something at first rectangular and eventually not unlike the fuzzy outline of a human torso. As it drew nearer it began to dart around erratically, popping up into the air before falling silently back down to the invisible ground and then dashing off at another angle.

Finally the form came into focus and Rusty could see that it was in fact a red shirt, void of anyone or anything inside, but glowing with an ethereal light. It moved as if attached to a running man, the cloth shifting and stretching in accordance to the man’s movements. When the shirt was less than a stone’s throw away the word RISE suddenly exploded into sight, a triggered bomb of brilliant white on the shirt’s front.

Racing ever closer to Rusty, the young man came to the realization that the shirt was much larger than he had originally thought. In fact, its size dwarfed Rusty, making him appear like an insect before a mountain. Rooted to the spot, Rusty watched in horror as the monstrosity barreled toward him, picking up speed and threatening to smash headlong into him. Wanting to scream but having no mouth with which to speak, Rusty could only stare as the massive, ghostly figure collided with him and, in a silent eruption of destruction, completely obliterated even the faintest hint of his existence.

Rusty simply ceased to be.

“Rusty, wake up!”

Jenna pulled back her foot and delivered a swift kick to Rusty’s side, awakening him with a rush of shock and pain. Jarringly snatched from the dream world back to reality, Rusty sat up with a start, breathing heavy and coated in sweat. In the next instant he felt the pain in his gut from Jenna kicking his bruised ribs and he doubled over, holding his stomach tight and hissing loudly through his teeth. Looking around for the first time, he saw that he was on the floor of the school gym, still wearing the same clothes he’d been practicing in, still in his shoes, still in the same spot where he’d passed out a short while before.

Glancing up at Jenna, Rusty groaned. He had been practicing so hard he must have fallen asleep in the middle of a rest break. The gym was mostly solid walls and the few windows it had were covered over. The dim light that came down from overhead made everything seem exactly the same as he’d left it. He spoke in a raspy voice, saying, “What the hell, Jen? Did you really have to kick me awake?”

Obviously in no mood to play games, Jenna grabbed Rusty by the arm and started yanking him up, forcing him to stagger to his feet. “Yes you idiot, it’s nearly half past noon! If you’re not at the Amateur stage in six minutes they’re gonna disqualify you!”

Half past noon? Rusty lurched forward, wincing as his tight, sore muscles awoke even slower than his brain. Running past Jenna to a nearby window, he threw open the blinds and cursed loudly as blazing sunlight streamed inside, blinding him. The situation finally starting to make sense, Rusty ran to his pile of belongings and began frantically stuffing everything he owned into the duffel bag. He slipped his jacket over his grimy shirt and snatched his cell phone from the bag’s side pocket, slipping it into his pants pocket. He threw the duffel over his shoulder and headed for the gym exit at a desperate sprint.

From behind, Rusty could hear Jenna running after him. Bursting through the gymnasium doors into the frosty January air, Rusty chastised himself for forgetting to set an alarm. The pair sped across the school grounds, hightailing it to the Amateur Freestyle Stage.

Luckily, it wasn’t exactly hard to find. The school grounds had transformed into a human zoo, crawling with thousands upon thousands of spectators, competitors, media crews, and contest staff. The whole city turned out for the event. Forget the Freestyle Round; it was a battle in and of itself just for the two to pick their way through the mobs, resorting to shoving on more than one occasion. As he ran Rusty pulled his phone from his pocket and turned it on to find that he had over a dozen missed calls from Lee. Hitting the auto reply button, Lee picked up on the very first ring.

“Damn it Rusty!” Lee screamed on the other end, “Where have you been? The show starts in, like, two minutes!”

“I know Lee, I know,” Rusty said apologetically, “I got held up but I’ll be there any second. Are you in place? Is everything ready?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Lee said. “But this security is no joke. They could find me any second. I can’t guarantee I’ll still be able to do this when the time comes.”

Rusty elbowed his way past an overweight woman gnawing on a chicken wing and saw the stage dead ahead of him. He was going to make it on time. “If anyone can do it Lee, it’s you. Just be ready.”

“Famous last words.” said Lee. And then he hung up, leaving Rusty to stash his phone away as best he could while at a flat out run.

Reaching the competitors-only gate, Rusty flashed his Runner’s pass and stopped barely long enough to turn and wave goodbye to Jenna. Jenna rushed to the edge of the barrier and leaned over the fence, her face red and flush. She called out to him, “Wait, I forgot to ask! Did you nail the sideflip or not?”

But Rusty was already too far inside to hear her over the blare of the loudspeakers.

It was practically a repeat of yesterday’s entrance. He arrived simultaneously with the horn blast that signaled the official briefing, receiving a few wary glances from fellow competitors who had hoped he wouldn’t show up. Standing at the back of the collected group, Rusty folded his hands on top of head and did his best to get his breathing back under control. His muscles ached from being pushed too hard and too fast. His skin felt oily and his hair was a tangled mess of red ropes. He could hear the whispers of the boys around him and hoped they were at least positive comments.

Moments after the horn went off the same grey-haired man with the mirror sunglasses climbed the steps of the judges’ stage and declared loudly, “Welcome back everyone! This is the briefing for the Amateur Boys 18 and Under, Freestyle Round. There are only two stages so if you’re in the wrong spot you are seriously bad at directions.”

“Here’s the deal for today. As per Pro/Am rules, all Runners will begin their runs from the same starting position on the stage. Today’s event is being held in Jam-style: each competitor gets 60 seconds for their run, best of two rounds counts. Runs are scored according to style, variety, proficiency of Techs, speed, and creativity. Runners will begin their jams immediately following the end of the previous Runner. You’ll have 10 seconds to clear the stage before the next guy goes so, gentlemen, be prepared to move.”

“Failure to begin or clear on time, use of out-of-bounds obstacles, and serious injury are all grounds for disqualification. Your best score is added to your placement from the PK round to determine the overall winner. Unlike yesterday, run line-ups will be chosen at random by drawing lots. Any questions you may have regarding the event should be directed to me. Any issues? No? Than here we go.”

A young girl in a bright yellow event staff T-shirt wheeled in a tumbling raffle cage and set it up next to the grey-haired announcer. Filled with slips of paper that had each competitor’s number on them, the man spun the cage several times and then opened the trap door, pulling out the first number.

“22!”

A lanky kid with a Libertas beanine in the front row groaned. Going first was a huge disadvantage in the opening round, particularly during Jam-style competition since each competitor usually built his run on the one that came before. Huge points could be scored for brand new uses of obstacles and by performing a Tech the other guy might have failed.

The raffling continued for quite a while before Rusty’s number was finally called. Positioned seven runs before the final man, it was a good slot but not fantastic. Rusty knew the men behind him would capitalize on his largely flip-less run, especially if he happened to fail any of the inverted moves. The cards were further stacked against him when he saw that the final slot was given to the Runner who took second place in the speed round, a powerfully built kid with a dark, five o’clock shadow beard. He looked like he should have been twenty-five, thought Rusty.

The raffle complete, the announcer bellowed, “Get yourselves ready boys. You’ve got the customary thirty minutes to look over the course and then runs begin. Good luck.”

And with that he left the judges’ stage as quickly as he’d appeared. Left in the wake of his speech, all the competitors hustled to the back entrance of the Freestyle course, chomping at the bit to be the first one on the field. Rusty had expected such a reaction and took his time catching up, knowing that the other Runners were much more concerned with this portion of the contest than the speed runs. Though he faced tough odds he knew he still currently sat in first, offering him a decent buffer against the majority of the pack. His chances hinged on getting a good, solid score in the first round and then betting it all in the last.

The back gate was opened and the competitors stormed onto the course, most heading for the starting gate which was marked by two green flags. Rusty was the last man to enter the arena, his head low as he crunched possible score numbers in his mind. He took one step inside, looked up, and froze in his tracks. His eyes grew wide. His mouth fell open.

It was beyond all imagination. Having slept late, Rusty had missed the official unveiling of the Amateur and Pro freestyle courses and, since he’d been so engrossed in making it on time, he’d never bothered to look around until just now. All he had seen was the maze of metal bracing that held up the unused backing of the course. But what he saw now made his heart skip.

It was a retro-inspired course. Unlike the stages of previous years, which had been growing more and more elaborate, this course was practically prehistoric. By Rusty’s estimates it was close to 2,000 square feet, roughly 200 feet wide and 100 feet deep, although that was probably a skewed guess because most of the course rose vertically.

Dominated by two towers made of composite and bounce-back sheeting, the structures rose to a height of nearly four stories at their flat-topped peaks, with one of the peaks ringed on three sides with metal railing and the other completely open. The only open side of the ringed peak faced the other peak, separated by a gap of about eight feet. In between them was nothing, a sheer drop four stories to the unpadded floor below.

Branching out from the peaks were lower levels made of the same materials, giving the two towers a visual that reminded Rusty of building blocks. Railings and pipes stuck out at random intervals, with something that looked like a standalone fire escape on the wall of the open-topped tower. At the bottom of the course, on ground level, there were a few walls and monkey-bar apparatus that straddled the front of both towers, linking them on the first floor with a maze of metal.

“It looks like the courses from the first Freerunning competitions, the Barclayard and Redbull ones.” Rusty said to himself. “I never thought they’d bring back this beast.”

Managing to tear his eyes off the behemoth next to him, Rusty dropped his bag and finally got his first good look at the gathering crowd. The course may have made his heart skip but the sea of humanity stretched out before him made Rusty’s knees weak. The number of faces were innumerable, a literal ocean of spectators. Their numbers had to be over 10,000, and growing steadily. Even though this was small compared to contests like the Nationals it still struck fear into the core of Rusty’s soul.

Jumbo projection screens and heavy bass speakers the size of small cars bombarded the audience and the Runners, washing them in colors and sounds. An attentive camera man, perched on a boom crane off to the right side of the course, spotted Rusty’s arrival and trained his recorder on the boy. The instant his face came up on the screens there rose a collective scream like a rock concert, drowning out the thumping hip-hop soundtrack. A reporter on the scene saw this and began running over excitedly, her microphone primed and the first question already on her lips.

Before the reporter was close enough to hear him Rusty muttered under his breath, “Well Rus, this is what you asked for. Now what?”

“Can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“Oh shut up,” Kirra said, “You wanted to see him as much as I did.”

Owen snorted but remained quiet, knowing she had called his bluff. Wading through the sea of people, Owen kept the hood up on his white sweatshirt and his hands jammed tightly into his pockets. His face was a scowl and his eyes barely slits. He walked behind Kirra, a noticeably intimidating figure compared to the lean, smiling woman. He fought the urge to knockout every person practicing a flip.

As they passed a vendor hawking DVDs and knockoff sneakers, claiming they could make you jump 20% higher instantly, Owen snarled, “This is a god damn travesty.”

Kirra sighed, realizing she should have been prepared for this reaction. “Look, just follow me and try not to explode. We’ll be at Stage Two any second.”

Any second proved to be a good guess, because within a hundred feet they arrived at the entrance to the stage. Flanked by two security guards, a pudgy man with thinning hair crisply asked, “Tickets please, tickets.”

Kirra stepped forward and flashed an ID card, which seemed to startle the pudgy man. Motioning for one of the guards, the man opened the locked service gate behind him and beckoned them through. Led by the guard down a nearly empty path, the pair was eventually deposited inside the front row spectators’ section, less than thirty feet from front stage right. Bewildered by the whole event, and the fantastic view they now had, Owen looked down at Kirra, puzzled.

Kirra shrugged her shoulders. “What can I say? It pays to work for the government.”

Owen could only snort once again and look away. He folded his arms against his chest and scanned the arena, gazing at the size of the course, the number of fans, the sights and sounds and smells of the competition. They’ve come a long way from your day, Jim. Owen thought to himself. I wonder if you’d approve or not?

It felt like hours before Rusty was finally able to shake off the paparazzi. He was leaning against one of the walls that lead to the starting gate. He was the next in line, the man on deck. He ignored the echos and commotion on either side of him, the competitors and staff far to his right and the flash of the competition to his left. The world was closing in fast. He had to concentrate hard to keep the plan fresh in his mind.

The starting gate – nothing more than a long tunnel from the back to the front of the stage – was located dead center on the third floor of the left tower. When the Runner was finished his run he exited off the side of the course but, when he began, he came through this tunnel, let loose right in the heart of the arena. There were television screens and speakers surrounding the gate, allowing the incoming Runner to be easily seen and identified.

This was where Rusty stood, leaning against the cold, plastic interior wall that led to the opening on stage. It was dark inside the long tunnel, the only light coming from the two open ends. As the next in line Rusty had watched as the competitor before him left only seconds before. Now, alone for the first time all day, he had time to think. Something he was desperately trying not to do.

Rusty held out his hands and stared down at them, gazing at the chapped skin and miniature tears, the calluses built up and broken over hundreds of hours of practice. He looked further down at the shirt he wore, the tattered, faded crimson and the still vibrant white. He kicked his heels against the wall, feeling the snug fit of the sneakers originally designed by his father. Noticing a few stray strands of hair, he pulled off the rubber band holding it all back and readjusted the tie, feeling the scratch of stubble on his chin and lip. His muscles ached, the sinews tense but sore from sleepless repetition and mounting stress. His eyes were bloodshot and unable to focus. The walls of the tunnel seemed to sway back and forth, nothing would hold still.

A chill wind ripped through the tiny space, causing Rusty to shiver uncontrollably. His fingers quivered. His toes were cold. He stamped his feet and breathed into cupped hands, trying to stay warm. Everything in his body felt worn down, his senses drained and his morale hanging by a thread. Nothing felt the same as it had before. He was disconnected - cut off - from the world around him. All alone in an endless haze.

Was this how dad felt all the time? The question surfaced in Rusty’s mind without thought. Was he always tired, always hurting, always feeling detached? That couldn’t be true, who in their right mind would choose something as grueling as this? But if it was true, why did he keep doing it, year after year? What drove him on? What was the point?

A loud roll of approving screams outside caught Rusty’s ear. Looking at the monitor on the wall, Rusty could see that his fellow competitor was catching his breath on the ground level, just below the monkey

bar station. He must have done something pretty incredible. Rusty could hear and feel the hard thumping bass of the soundtrack, the same music that every Runner was required to use for their runs. It irritated him, the way it pounded and reverberated in the cramped tunnel, how it crawled on his skin and made his teeth grind.

He looked up at the timer, seeing that the Runner had thirty seconds to go. That meant, with the additional exit time, Rusty had forty seconds. He glanced at the entrance gate, then back to the exit on his right. There was still time to drop out. He’d be disqualified, humiliated, but that was better than dying on the course, right?

The cell phone in his pocket began to vibrate. Pulling the phone out, he saw that it was Lee calling. He flipped the speaker open and answered numbly, saying, “Yeah Lee?”

“This is it, Rusty.” Lee said, a hard edge of nervousness in his voice. “The network security is getting antsy, the firewall won’t hold any longer. Are we still going through?”

Rusty stared at nothing, his hair flapping hard against the back of his head as another stiff breeze blew through the tunnel. It had come down to this. Yes or no.

“Yes,” he replied, “Do it.”

And then he hung up, dropping the phone on the ground by his feet. The warning bell rang: ten seconds to impact. Rusty took a deep breath, stepped up to the edge of the bright sunlight filtering in through the opening, and waited.

The thumping bass stopped, the music silenced in mid-beat. Even the announcers’ cries and the advertisers’ shouts were cut out. There was now a deathly, eerie silence. A moment later the huge screen above the starting gate flickered, popped, and went white. A single voice suddenly spoke above the hushed audience.

It was the voice of JK.

“Think back to when you were a little kid. You woke up in the morning, you got ready, you went outside. Went out into the world. Back then everything was new, everything was an adventure. You soaked up stuff like a sponge and you asked questions about everything, but didn’t question anything.”

They were lines from the JK Speaks video. On the white screen scenes of JK in action began to flash by, set to an old, classic rock and roll song. The clips were incredible and inspiring, thing like JK winning championships and performing death-defying maneuvers over massive expanses of open air. The audience was at once silent and ecstatic, cheering one moment and restraining themselves the next. Everyone was unsure of what to make of this turn of events.

“The idea with moving, with our sport, is to be like a kid again. Ask questions about what is possible but don’t question why. Like, what it means or anything.”

The words from the video continued but now the action on screen became much more subdued. They were of JK in everyday environments, in The City, doing simpler Techs and laughing with friends. The music continued but it seemed to grow stronger, louder, and more intense.

“…you need to stop looking for limits. Stop looking for reasons and words. You go out and just…move, you know?”

Finally the video settled into what looked like a family home movie, fuzzy and low quality. It showed a young JK, his eyes gleaming and blue as he hugged his wife. He was practicing handstands, performing vault combos, and working out in a tiny backyard filled with debris.

“But it’s just me being me.”

As the final phrase was uttered the video froze on an image of JK holding a baby. It was a small pale thing with a head full of wild, fire-red hair and eyes like dark emeralds.

Then Rusty stepped out on stage, into the bright light, his father’s shirt displayed proudly across his broad shoulders.

The dam broke. The intermittent silence of the crowd shattered. There arose a thunderous, deafening roar, a howl of enchantment reverberating across the entire competition grounds. It was the entrance against which all future entrances would be measured. The rock and roll song reached a driving crescendo and the timer, which had been stalled at sixty seconds, now began to roll.

Rusty cracked his neck, hopped once in place, and launched off the stage.

**For those interested, the rock song playing is “I’ve Got A Feeling” by The Beatles (Let It Be Naked Remix). Rusty’s run begins at the 1:05 mark of the track.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s4GC0yO3zUQ**