Akira's Flying Wheelchair Chapter One Preview

8/19/2019 Akira's Flying Wheelchair Chapter One Preview

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by marco balsamo

AKIRA SFLYING WHEELCHAIR


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Hey everyone! Below is Chapter One. Keep in mind that it is a rough draft and the content may besubject to change. Feel free to give me any feedback at [email protected]

Love you all,- Marco

mailto:[email protected]


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⼀

Chapter One

A Change of Pace

San (三), ni (⼆), ichi (⼀).

Translation: three, two, one.

A pair of youthful hands press firmly against the tartan track, hard enough that all ten

nimble finger tips have turned white. Beads of sweat trickle down branches of veins that pulsate

in sync along to a thumping heart. Between every synchronized beat, stifled cheers can be heard

in the near distance. Calf muscles tighten, revealing razor sharp tendons that are geared for takeoff. A large number eight (hachi, ⼋), filled in bright yellow paint, is labeled onto the

polyurethane surface directly ahead as a pair of fixated blue eyes peer on. A platoon of baby arm

hairs stand at attention, so perfectly upright that even the most stringent of lieutenants would be

pleased. Those fingers gently tremble, practically lifting off from the ground in eager

anticipation. A long breath is released, calling for calm and demanding focus.

An elated voice comes over a loudspeaker, piercing the silence.

“On your marks!”San (三).

It is a cool, clear night in the heart of Tokyo. Usually on evenings like this, swarms of

businessmen and women battle their way through crowded subway stations, wrestling one other

so that they may jam themselves into overfilled compartments resembling crammed chickens in a

coop. Countless waves of humanoid livestock (seasoned with blazers, loosened neckties, and

briefcases) overflow from the open sliding doors. Stewards, much like wranglers, forcefully

shove passengers inside while keeping others attempting to enter at bay in order for the train to

successfully depart. Shinjuku Station alone receives more than half a million people, commuters

who repeatedly participate in the same routine of organized chaos, on a daily basis. The outside

world above ground is no different, as an enormous organic mass of people by the thousands

hustle and bustle their way through the streets, with everyone having a place to go and seemingly

in a rush to get to wherever that place may be.


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A symphony of blaring horns and sirens, orchestrated by drivers anxiously awaiting to

finally arrive home after a lackluster workday can be heard from Rainbow Bridge. The traffic,

perpetually congested like a sickened child stricken with the flu, is a boundless haze of gas

exhaust, cigarette fumes, and overly repeated radio jingles. Along the avant-garde skyline,

massive skyscrapers emit a kaleidoscopic assortment of bright and glistering colors,

complimented by a non-stop barrage of neon lit advertisements. A myriad of billboards that

feature exquisitely airbrushed models, new shiny European cars made out of premium plastic,

and cosmetic products display messages (mostly subliminal) that constantly remind citizens how

they can improve their lives. Slogan after slogan. Trademark after trademark. Conditioning after

conditioning. Teenagers, excited by the prospects of the night’s potential offerings, flock from

their schools and migrate to their favorite hangout to meet their friends at the nearest karaoke

bar, arcade, or café. Worried mothers remain awake throughout the long hours of the night,

counting down the minutes for their little sparrow to return to a broken nest of a home.

Daughters, donned with lipstick and mascara, attempt to emulate their favorite actress or singer

in order to catch a flattering whistle or two. All playing their part in a typical weekend evening in

a city that never ceases to take in a moment.

But tonight is far from typical.

A healthy crimson Japanese maple leaf drifts playfully in the ebony sky. Were it not for

the rapture of light beaming from the city edifices, the night would be a starry one. Long

removed from its tree of origin, the leaf now belongs to the wind as it sails throughout the city.

With the exception of a handful of zipping cars, it hovers nonchalantly across a relatively

deserted Rainbow Bridge. There is no obnoxious honking, outstretched arms, swearing mouths

or irritating but admittedly catchy pop song hooks. Tonight the cars peacefully coast by over a

beautiful, rare lull. The jungle of people weaving in and out amongst one other inside train

terminals has transformed into a barren desert of quasi-emptiness. Inside cafés, karaoke tunes

play on a loop, but without the accompaniment of fairly poor tween wannabe singers. The

hulking towers that peer over the landscape seem almost unoccupied. Corporate advertisements

can only preach their indoctrinations to an audience of crickets. The city streets are a blank

canvas as the leaf brushes across it.

In the distance, near the city outskirts, feint muffled cheers are heard. The maple leaf rises

past Tokyo Skytree, the highest tower in the city, and embarks towards the bedlam. The chorus of


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jubilation grows louder in intensity as the leaf begins its descent, propelling its way toward a

sporting event stadium. The businessmen and women, the teenagers, the fretful and overbearing

mothers seem to have all gathered together sitting among the tens of thousands in attendance.

Forget sitting. They are standing, clapping, jumping, and rallying at the top of their lungs. The

city has converged into the arena, its citizens transfixed at the euphoria of the happenings taking

place down in the middle of a track and field. Those, unable to be present at the event, have their

eyes glued to their television screens within the confines of their homes.

The leaf, as if attracted to the ruckus, disembarks toward the grounds where a

congregation of several young runners warm up in preparation for a race that will soon begin.

The athletes are young boys, ranging between twelve to fourteen years old. They are the reason

for the ovation of those eagerly watching, if not worshipping. The athletes/idols stretch their core

muscles in various positions, lunging their legs forward while others jog in place discussing

strategies with their trainers. They constantly hydrate themselves with flavored sport

performance drinks, each complete with their own catchphrases labeled on the bottles. The leaf,

still swirling gleefully with an impish nature, sails past several runners before finally resting

gently onto the shoulder of a participant who is busy tying his shoelaces.

Noticing the leaf’s presence, the young boy brushes it off his shoulders apathetically and

continues to lace up. Seemingly unfazed by the thunderous chanting around him, he coolly

attends to his other Nike running shoe, fastening the volt colored laces. “ Akimoto” is proudly

embroidered above the trademark swoosh as a sole of gold studded spikes support a vibrantly

designed upper; a silver sleeveless top and shorts accented with sky blue details complete the

sprinter’s flashy outfit. A handsome man in his early thirties, wearing jeans and a chambray

collared shirt, approaches the runner and reassuringly places a hand on his shoulder. The boy

acknowledges him and looks up, revealing a pair of striking azure eyes.

“Akira, are you ready?” the man asks excitedly, albeit with a hint of uneasiness.

His jet black hair is neatly parted to the side, the glisten in his hazel eyes cannot be cloaked by

the flickering reflection emitting from his rectangular framed eyeglasses. The young boy forces a

slight smile, looks back down to continue tying his sneakers. Without looking up, he subtly nods

his head.

“I’m good.”


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Good is an absolute understatement. Akira is oozing with confidence, possessing a

demeanor ripe with certainty and assurance. He suddenly springs from the ground, pistons his

legs like a revving engine, pumping back and forth with venomous speed. He stretches, allowing

the blood to circulate throughout his body.

The adult is about to say something when he is cut off by a event coordinator in passing.

“Coaches, trainers parents! Anyone who is not a runner, you must all make your way to

the waiting area right now! We are less than five minutes away from race time!”

“That means I have to go now. We love you very much Akira-san, good luck.”

The man leans down to kiss Akira on the top of his head and departs.

Ni (⼆).

Akira finishes loosening up his hamstring and stands still, his face bursting with

concentration, and looks up. He finally seizes the moment and takes in the grandeur of the

majesty happening around him. Before his eyes is a galaxy of camera flashes going off amongst

the sound of roars that would send the mightiest of lions into hiding. The amount of people

jammed into the venue is staggering, almost overwhelming. But despite the multitude of

onlookers, Akira is unable to make out a single face in the crowd. All he can see is just a giant

blur, an endless sea of waving arms and jumping bodies hysterically salivating for the start of a

historic race.

A rambunctious woman, armed with a clipboard and an assortment of multi-colored

highlighters, heaves her way to the athletes. On her blazer lapel, there’s a name tag: Chiaki.

Placing her index finger onto her earpiece to hear instructions, Chiaki does what Chiaki does best

and hollers.

“All runners! Please make your way to the starting blocks, we are about to begin. Hurry

or I’ll be the death of you!”

Akira and the other runners oblige obediently, if not fearfully.

The supervisor hastily reads/screams off her list:

“Tsubasa, you’re at block one. Yamada, block two. Nakashima, block number three.

Anzai, Hazuki, Kago: four, five, six. Saruwatari, you're positioned at block seven. Akimoto,

block eight. Rise and shine boys, let’s go! We do not have any more time left!”


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The group make their way past others who previously finished an earlier race. Akira

passes by an injured runner, carried off by a stretcher, who is crying and hugging at his ankle in

sheer agony. The brash youngster pays no mind and continues to make his way to block eight.

Like they say, no pain no game.

As he nears the block, the ecstatic voice of a commentator erupts over the stadium’s public

announcement system.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the final event of the seventy-first

annual Tokyo Track and Field Competition! It has been a remarkable evening thus far, but rest

assured that it will be an even better one in what's guaranteed to be another unforgettable

spectacle in tonight’s main event!”

Akira stretches his right leg while keeping the left one bent, akin to Spiderman. Like the

friendly neighborhood web-crawler, the name Akimoto has become associated with that of a

local super hero. A hometown legend, Akira has been entitled the nickname Lightening thanks to

a nationally aired news special that lauded his feats of breaking several city records in past

competitions at such a young age, labelling him a prodigy of the sport.

The fervent announcer continues to shamelessly plug his promo: “Over a thousand

runners have competed fiercely to earn the privilege to run in tonight’s competition for the Boys

Under Fourteen Age Group One Hundred Meter Dash. However, only eight qualified and made

the cut. Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes and give a warm welcome the fastest runners in

all of Tokyo!”

The crowd goes into euphoria.

Akira slowly rotates his arms and neck.

“The best of the best! The crème de la crème! Only one of these elite participants will

achieve the ultimate bragging right, the opportunity to become immortalized in the history of this

glorious competition, to earn the honor of being crowned this year’s Tokyo Track and Field

Champion!”

The crowd erupts in an uncontrollable frenzy of clapping and cheering.

“From Bunkyo, thirteen year old sensation Tsubasa Koizumi! Warrior boy Yamada

Naozumi, age fourteen, from Kita! Shinjuku’s fourteen year old wonder child Nakashima

Junichiro! Anzai Kazuma from Toshima, thirteen!”


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Akira closes his eyes, controls his breathing by inhaling with his nose, then exhaling with

his mouth.

“Ota’s thirteen year old champion, Hazuki Ryo who is celebrating a birthday today!

Superstar Kago Makoto from Nerima, fourteen! Meguro’s golden protege Saruwatari Masaki,

age fourteen!”

We see Akira’s eyes as they gaze forward intently. the cerulean hue of the boy’s irises

radiate luminously.

“Last but certainly not least, this runner is from another planet. He is the youngest runner

ever to qualify in the history of this competition and already a two-time champion, at the tender

age of eleven. Yes, you heard that right, eleven. Don’t be fooled, this kid’s got the blood of a lion

and the speed of a falcon! A natural predator on the track, he is Akimoto Akira from Koto!”

The crowd reaches the zenith of delirium as they begin chanting “Lightening” in unison.

The clear fan favorite grins and waves in gratitude to the warm reception.

“Now, time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Runners, please get in your set

positions. The time to race is upon us!”

Chiaki commands the runners. “Everyone, prepare yourselves, ninety seconds!”

Akira employs a psychological tactic by waiting for everyone to arrive at the starting

blocks first. Making sure that he is last, he plays to the crowd by smiling and casually propping

himself in the set position which draws a couple of sneer remarks from his opponents. Assuming

a crouching position, he posts his feet against the starting block of track number eight and places

both hands securely at the edge of the starting line.

Akira peers down to the ground and focuses his attention on the finish line draped with

yellow tape directly ahead. Despite the bladed strides of confidence displayed through the facade

of a magnetic smile, Lightening has secretly always had the jitter bugs moments before a race.

He closes his eyes and envisions the precise details of his forecasted performance, from the

trajectory of take off to which pose he should go with when it’s time to celebrate.

Chiaki counts down. “Forty-five seconds!”

It all goes quiet.

All Akira can hear now is the sound of his beating heart. He continues to take long, deep

breaths.


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He assures himself and mutters apprehensively, “Relax, just relax.” The sound of

Lightning’s heart beat storms throughout his eardrums.

“You got this, c’mon.”

“Fifteen seconds!” can be barely heard from a highly caffeinated and bloodshot Chiaki.

Akira exhales once more when water vapor slowly escapes from his mouth. Perplexed,

Akira bewilderedly watches his breath expand and diffuse into a thin mist that quickly spreads

and rises across everything around him. Within seconds, everything within hindsight is murky.

Akira looks to his left and can just barely make out Saruwatari at block seven. Only silhouettes

of the runners further down the track can be made from Akira’s point of view.

The announcer, now sounding as if he were a kilometer away.

“On your marks!”

The entire arena is now engulfed by a silver, foreboding fog. Lightning’s dauntless

disposition exhibited earlier has completely faded away. His forehead is drenched with

perspiration and he shakes anxiously.

“Get set!”

A pint-sized snowflake unexpectedly wafts in front of Akira’s face, softly settling on his

right hand. It quickly melts upon contact as water droplets drip down the side of his dorsum. In a

state of confusion and anxiety, Akira becomes totally discombobulated. He begins to gasp so

vigorously that it hurts his chest. He lifts one hand and clamps on to his shirt, right above his

heart and grinds his teeth. This subdued cheering reverberates and the commotion of the event

surrounding Akira grows in crescendo. Akira roughly shakes his head and tries to regain his

composure.

Ichi (⼀).

The starting pistol blasts, instantly snapping Akira back to reality. He automatically

propels his entire body from the ground. His arms wind, darting up and down the side of his

torso. His hands ball up into two clasped, clenched fists. His toes barely touching the ground as

he takes long, flawless strides. He is level with the other runners, sprinting forward with wicked

speed.

The announcer, earning himself a paycheck, calls the action.


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“Great start from Makoto who passes Ryo and Naozumi! Makoto, Makoto, Makoto! Oi,

Koizumi’s just a hair away from him! Followed by Junichiro. Kazuma, Kazuma takes a slight

lead! Lightening is in the mix along with Masaki but don’t you dare count anyone out! It’s too

close to call, impossible to predict a favorite!”

Akira turns on the turbo, gains momentum, and starts to pass the other runners with jaw

dropping acceleration and impeccable grace.

“What’s this! Our cheetah cub has taken off out of the blue! Lightening is distancing

from the others! Incredible, just incredible! Such a combination of class and power! Lightening,

Akimoto Akira! Remember the name! Akira, Akira, oi Akira! You’re almost there!”

Akira is in a league of his own, with the closest runner already several meters away. He

paces himself with quick rapid fire breaths as beads of sweat tumble down his face. There’s no

stopping the little stallion as he gallops closer and closer to the finish line. This is nothing new,

just another typical race which precedes another typical Akira “Lightening” Akimoto victory.

That’s how he earned his semi-celebrity status after all. But as it was concluded earlier, tonight is

far from typical and this is race is just not one of those typical trophy grabs.

Akira darts past the race’s midway point when the sound of an appalling crack, a shrill

crunching howl that would make the mightiest of men mask their eyes in dolor, makes an

unwelcome entrance. Akira’s left tibia contorts unnaturally snapping inward at the knee. A split

second motion that sends the boy screaming in affliction. He stumbles but keeps himself from

falling by using both hands to stay afloat. He winces and can feel tears flood his eyes

immediately but endures and races on despite slowing down excessively.

The crowd, realizing what has happened, lets out a collective gasp. The impassioned

announcer shoots up in the press box and bawls into the microphone.

“What’s going on Akira! Keep going! Go, go, go! Don’t you stop now!”

Akira isn’t stopping, but the overwhelmingly expected outcome of him passing that finish line

before the seven other competitors is now in dire jeopardy. Hearing someone gaining on him, he

quickly glances behind to see Masaki closing distance.

The announcer chimes in on the looming threat. “What’s this?! Masaki’s right on

Lightening’s tail! Akira, watch out! You’ve got company!”

Akira resets his sights on the finish line and trudges on, despite the worsening condition

of his leg. Masaki is merely just a couple of split seconds behind and will shortly acquire the


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lead. The others are not too far behind and will surpass Akira in no time. Refusing to accept the

reality that he won’t be tonight’s champion, Akira droops on.

But before Akira can think of a way to keep the pace, Masaki is right beside him. He

starts to pass Akira when, suddenly, the boy’s entire body explodes violently into a powerful

cyclonic cloud of wind and snow.

Akira staggers from the forceful blast, but still proceeds making his way towards the

finish line. The other runners close in on Akira. Akira is panting even heavier than before.

Another runner, Ryo from block five, is on the brink of passing Akira. Akin to their unfortunate,

fallen rival, Ryo savagely erupts in a otherworldly tempest of wind and snow. Akira careens,

stammering from side to side due to the burst. He still valiantly makes it to his feet and continues

running while looking back in panic. Unable to escape from the bizarre madness, another ill

fated crackling tear sends Akira down to the ground. This time, it’s the right tibia that shatters.

He opens his mouth to yelp but not a single audible sound comes out. He collapses onto his

knees and hands. Akira sluggishly picks himself up but he is incapable of running. He clings on

to his thighs for dear life and just teeters miserably towards the finish.

The announcer doesn’t lose hope. “C’mon Akira! Almost there! You can do it! Energy!

Where’s your energy!”

The rest of the pack near in on his position. As each runner passes, they blast into a vicious

whirlwind of snowfall causing Akira to topple and slump ever so vigorously in an incessant

barrage. He grows increasingly disoriented by the blitz and flops right onto his back. All seven

runners are gone. It’s just Akira and that bright yellow-taped finish line. With a weeping face,

Akira ganders at the merciless heavens above. Exhausted, he uses what energy he has left and

spits towards the sky with disdain. The stadium light towers blare down incandescently, straining

his strained, dilated pupils. His whole body is hyperventilating, the only thing he wants to do is

close his eyes and not exist. But something in his mind urges him to try to get back up. He

attempts to, but his arms quiver and give in sending him to fall stiffly on his stomach.

“What’s this? Akira! You’re giving up? You’re almost there! Just a little bit more!”

Akira looks down the track and makes out the finish line. It is just about twenty or so

meters away. The tape’s yellow hue grows in brightness, creating an invitingly ominous aura.

“Akira is all alone! No one else is around! Just him!”

“Akira! Akira! Akiraaaaaaaaaaa!”


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The broadcaster’s voice deforms, distorting into a mechanized jowl. The calling of

Akira’s name sounds less human and articulate, mutating into an prolonged electronic screech.

Instantly, the entire crowd, ruptures into a massive mountain of snow which cascades nefariously

down the stadium tiers into an avalanche. Tens of thousands disperse into a monstrous clouds in

a torrent that gushes directly towards Akira from all sides. He desperately scratches and claws his

way to the finish line. The onslaught of snow gets closer. The announcer’s boisterous howls

persist, amplifying in volume sounding like a monotonous blaring horn. Within seconds, Akira is

engulfed by a gargantuan heap of snow. The numbingly freezing blizzard overtakes his entire

body. He helplessly gasps for air, shaking uncontrollably as the stream begins to mercilessly

assist him towards the finish line which is ablaze with a burning yellow radiance. Akira’s eyes,

blindly darting in every direction, sees a brief flash of the man with the rectangular framed

eyeglasses, positioned on the other side of the finish line. His arms are outstretched towards

Akira. He yells alarmingly to the boy but his words are inaudible. Akira is then spun viciously

and becomes lost in the tempest’s onslaught charging directly towards the finish line and man

with remorseless speed and force. Both are reflected in Akira’s fearful and wide open eyes. He

closes them shut and gives in, waiting for it to all be over.

Within the darkness, Akira listens to a deafening crash and a heavy, unforgiving thud of

his limp body colliding to the ground along with the man tearfully crying out his name.

It all goes quiet. It all goes black.

-

Akira's Flying Wheelchair Chapter One Preview

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