CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 577
If you could be in the Olympics (summer or winter), what event/sport would you want to do most? Why?
The crowd hushed under almost imperceptible waves of fingers pressed quietly to lips, voices ushering other voices into being hushed, people suppressing sounds of rivalry and allegiance, companionship and sheer competition. Young people were young people, and they wanted to win.
Ecklie raced around a corner, his stride matching that of the policeman, his gloves already discarded, stuffed in a jacket pocket. His body remembered how to run, and his breathing regulated itself as shoes not meant for running pounded hard cement pavement all the same. A runner, as it was called, the running criminal, streaked ahead of them, a blaze of dark clothing, short hair and flashy shoes, his youth not mattering as much as the fact that he had a head start.
He balanced on hands and feet all placed on the ground, poised and ready to leap into the air, to lunge at the chance for victory. Muscles relaxed but ready to be tense and taut, positioned under his skin, in his body, waiting to be strung into motion, to be played like the finest of instruments, the most specialised of technologies. He was ready to run, ready to flee the starting place and find the finishing line, to run home.
Ready as ever, Conrad Ecklie ran, and one officer younger and more unburdened than him, sped ahead, but the runner had the head start, had the advantage over all of them, and while still in sight, he was continuously out of reach. Something shifted inside the Dayshift though, some small, minute, irrevocable point of determination, and he ran faster, he shifted ahead, a lifetime of experiences driving him. He crashed into the runner with many years worth of memories pounding through his blood, nothing so much physical driving his sudden increase in speed, as it was pain and regret and the present desire not to let this criminal get away. Dancing helped though, so did running in his youth, and so did all the cumulative training and knowledge gained by so many years spent seeing the worst in people. He felt down to the ground, the man struggling underneath him, and soon enough, all was won, and the runner received purposeful justice.
It was the wind in his ears this time, not the noise of the crowd. The starting gun had cracked and he had flown into perfectly synchronised movement, running steps and pumping arms timed to the most tiniest and innate detail by a mind that was endlessly cataloguing and remembering all the facts. All the important facts at least. The plastic ribbon strung across the finishing line burst against his body, and a sense of winning, the joy at being first, spiralled up through his heart, up his neck, and was slammed dead against his head. For him, winning was victory and victory was success. Success was purposeful, intentional, and controlled, and there was nothing ordered or controlled about feeling joy at success. He played the part though, he smiled and grinned, laughed, and was congratulated by his fellows and superiors in turn. He was cheered, and while he gloated, it was controlled, satisfied gloating, an ordered display of false, almost false, happiness. It was the success he enjoyed, the presence of it, not really the achievement of winning something so silly as a running race. It put him in good stead of everyone around him though, so it would suffice.
Success. It would suffice.
Justice. It would suffice.