Rain slicked the city streets, blurring headlights into smears Mike Tanaka's eyes barely processed. Just more gray. He walked beside Vince Carter, the only person who still managed to punch holes in the monochrome haze of the world. Vince was animatedly recounting a disastrous pickup basketball game – "...and then Dave tripped over his own shoelace, swear to god, Mike, it was glorious chaos!" Mike offered a half-smile, the warmth of the terrible convenience store coffee a faint, pleasant buzz against the pervasive numbness.
The "Genius" curse. The word wasn't a title but a cage. By sixteen, he hadn't just rewritten physics models; he'd mastered them physically, applying science to physical sports. Basketball arcs calculated mid-air, shots sunk blindfolded. Goals scored from insane angles during soccer matches. Martial arts forms dissected and replicated in minutes. Languages, instruments, strategies – all yielded to effortlessly to his mind with terrifying synchronicity. But every conquered peak, every effortless win, bleached the world slowly of its colors. Labs, press conferences, competitions... predictable puzzles solved before they began. Life faded to exhausting, featureless gray. Except Vince.
Vince, who knew the kid before the freakshow. Though he knew he was smart then, he never saw him as a genius.Vince who remember the lunch room fiasco, the embrassing 3rd grade volcano. Vince, who saw "Mike," not "The Prodigy." He was Mike's anchor. The only color left.
A banshee wail of tires ripped through the rain. Mike's head snapped up, his body already processing. Down the street, a delivery van had lost control, fishtailing wildly onto the curb. Time didn't slow. Mike's mind, the cursed engine he couldn't switch off, calculated instantly: Trajectory. Velocity. Mass. Impact force. Probability of survival: Vince, standing slightly ahead and oblivious, chatting over his shoulder – 3.7%. Himself, positioned further back – 98.2%. Evasion paths: Multiple. Optimal solution: Step left.
But Vince.
The gray world slowed. Vince's bright blue jacket. The shock freezing his familiar grin. The anchor, the only thing that mattered in the numb void.
"Calculations be damned," Mike thought, a profound weariness settling like stone. Spotlight: agony. Mastery: numb. Gray: quiet. Vince... real.
Effort. So much pointless effort. But for Vince? For the only color? Maybe just this once.
He flowed, his despised, perfect body exploded with controlled power. Not a shove, but a precise, physics-defying transfer of momentum. Palms connected perfectly with Vince's shoulder blades.
WHOOSH-THUD!
Vince sailed forward, clearing the impact zone, sprawling onto wet sidewalk, coffee erupting. The van's grille filled Mike's vision – chrome death.
CRUNCH!
Weightlessness. Then the brutal slam into brick. A distant, wet crunch – his own bones yielding. He slid down the wall, landing on cold concrete. Pain? A distant throb, irrelevant. Rain mixed with coppery warmth on his lips. The gray deepened, pulling him down. Stillness… at last.
Then, movement. Scrambling. Vince's face swam into view above him, rain-slicked, eyes wide with horror. Unscathed. Safe. Alive.
And something miraculous happened.
The gray world... ignited.
The rain wasn't just wet; it was liquid silver, catching the streetlights in shimmering streaks. The red brake lights of stalled cars pulsed like angry rubies. The yellow stripes on the road glowed like molten gold. The deep, wet green of a distant awning. The terrified, pale faces of onlookers, flushed with shock and life. And Vince... Vince's bright blue jacket wasn't just blue; it was the vibrant, impossible blue of a summer sky, of deep ocean trenches, of pure, undiluted life. It blazed against the suddenly vivid backdrop.
Color. Rushing back in a dizzying, breathtaking flood. Not just seen, but felt. The cold sting of the rain, the rough grit of the concrete beneath him, the coppery tang of blood – all amplified, vibrant, real. The numbness shattered. For one glorious, agonizing moment, the world was alive again. Painfully, beautifully alive.
"He's safe", Mike thought, the realization a warm sunburst in his chest. "He's safe. And it's… beautiful."
A weak, genuine smile touched Mike's lips, his eyes locked on the blazing blue of Vince's jacket. Worth it.
"MIKE! NO! WHY?! YOU COULD'VE—!" Vince's voice cracked, raw with disbelief and terror. He cradled Mike's head, fingers trembling against his scalp. "You idiot! You always knew the angles! You could've dodged! You can't die now, the world still needs that brain of yours"
The vibrancy began to fade. The silver rain dulled. The ruby lights dimmed. The gold stripes lost their luster. The world was slowly draining, like watercolor bleeding away. But Vince's blue jacket... it held on, the last defiant ember of color. Mike focused on it, clinging to that final point of light as the gray tide crept back in.
"Mike! Stay awake! Help's coming!" Vince choked back a sob, clutching Mike's jacket. "Please... don't... You were... you were the only real thing..."
The blue was dimming, shrinking. Vince leaned close, his face filling Mike's tunneling vision, his voice a shattered whisper against Mike's ear, carrying the weight of a lifetime:
"I... I never told you... I never thanked you... for being you with me. Not the superhuman... just... Mike. My friend."
Just Mike...The words were warmth, a final, gentle pulse in the encroaching gray. Peaceful...
The last of the color – the deep, precious blue – winked out. Vince's face dissolved into soft shadows. The anchor slipped away. The world was gray again. Soft. Quiet.
"Perfection was exhausting..." Mike thought, the last spark drifting. "But that color... that was worth it... for Vince... Time for naps now... deep... quiet..."
The gray swallowed sound, sensation, thought. Only profound silence remained.
Then... PRESSURE.
Crushing, immense. A rhythmic boom-boom-boom. Muffled sounds – a deep hum, a woman's strained, melodic voice humming a wordless, soothing tune. Warmth, thick and encompassing.
Again? A flicker of weary resignation. Trapped? He tried to move. Useless. Exhaustion – the soul-deep weariness of a world finally seen in color before being lost again – crashed over him. No... more... effort... Sleep... please...
He surrendered. The pressure was an embrace. The warmth, a blanket. The rhythmic thumping, a lullaby. The humming, a promise. It offered oblivion. Deep, undisturbed rest. The perfect end to a life that finally, briefly, flared with color.
Later… Mike thought, the concept a gentle wave pulling him under. Much, much later. Wake me….
He drifted, the echo of Vince's voice – "Just Mike..." – and the ghost of that impossible blue, the last whispers of vibrancy in the infinite, welcoming dark. The humming wrapped around him, leading him deeper into the only thing left: Rest.