"Deux cents!" Marcell roared over the whine of the supercharged V8 at a com on the '37 Challenger's dashboard, calloused palms strangling the steering wheel, eyes darting between road and speedometer as it touched 201.
"Bien, Marcell!" Tilly, lying prone on a steel girder above the 34th Street singularity, yelled in her com. "Libby!?"
"Je suis ici," Libby drawled, blades ready, crouched in an adjacent window.
"Sois prêt!" Tilly ordered, rising, a pistol in each hand. She lept as translucent causality-bubbles formed.
"DIE!!!" Tilly cried, her voice deepened by slowing time, falling, praying Marcell and Libby hit their cues perfectly.
Copyright (c) 2021 by D.Lasala -- Image by D.Lasala with DALL-E, 2022
