AKIRA S

FLYING WHEELCHAIR
by marco balsamo

2015 AKIRAS FLYING WHEELCHAIR | ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | WGAE REGISTERED

Chapter One
A Change of Pace
San (), ni (), ichi ().
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 take
off. A large number eight (hachi, ), 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 ().
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 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.

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 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 potential offerings of the night, flock
from their schools and migrate to their favorite hangout to meet their friends at the nearest
karaoke bar, arcade, or caf. 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 eases.
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 songs choruses. 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 near emptiness. Inside cafs, 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

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 events 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
behind 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 leafs 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
sprinters flashy outfit. An older 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 eyes cannot be cloaked by the
flickering reflection emitting from his rectangular framed eyeglasses. A light scar over his right
eyebrow is the only blemish of what is a very handsome face. The young boy forces a slight
smile, looks back down to continue tying his sneakers. Without looking up, he subtly nods his
head.
Im good.

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.
We love you very much, good luck.
The man leans down to kiss Akira on the top of his head and departs.
Ni ().
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 sounds 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, theres 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 Ill be the death of you!
Akira and the other runners oblige obediently, if not fearfully.
The supervisor hastily reads/screams off a list:
Tsubasa, youre 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, lets go! We do not have any more time left!
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 pain. 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, an ecstatic voice of a commentator erupts
over the stadiums 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 tonights 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.
The fervent announcer continues to shamelessly plug his promo: Over a thousand
runners have competed fiercely to earn the privilege to run in tonights competition for the
Under-14 Age Group Boys One Hundred Meter Dash. However, only eight 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 crme de la crme! 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 years 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! Shinjukus fourteen year old wonder child Nakashima
Junichiro! Anzai Kazuma from Toshima, thirteen!
Akira closes his eyes, controls his breathing. Inhale with the nose, exhale with the mouth.
Otas thirteen year old champion, Hazuki Ryo who is celebrating a birthday today!
Superstar Kago Makoto from Nerima, fourteen! Meguros golden protege Saruwatari Masaki,
age fourteen!
We see Akiras eyes as they gaze forward intently. the cerulean hue of the boys 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, at the tender age of eleven. Yes, you heard that right,

eleven. Dont be fooled, this kids 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 weve 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 starting block 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 always secretly 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 its time to celebrate.
Chiaki counts down. Forty-five seconds!
It all goes quiet.
All Akira can hear is the sound of his breath as he inhales and exhales deeply.
He assures himself, Relax, just relax.
He continues to breathe heavily, the sound of Lightnings heart beat crashes into his eardrums.
Fifteen seconds! can be barely heard.
Akira exhales again when water vapor slowly escapes from his mouth. Bewildered, Akira
watches his breath grow into a thin mist that quickly spreads and rises across everything around
him. He looks to his left only to hazily make out the runners closest to him while the others on
the farther tracks have become only silhouettes.
The announcer, now sounding as if he were a world away, On your marks!
Within seconds, the entire arena is engulfed by a silver fog. Lightnings dauntless disposition
exhibited earlier completely fades away. His forehead is damp with sweat and he begins panting
anxiously.

Get set!
A small snowflake unexpectedly falls in front of Akiras face, settling on his right hand. It
quickly melts upon contact and water droplets drip down the side of his dorsum. Almost in
fearful horror, Akira seems totally discombobulated. This subdued cheering reverberates and the
commotion of the event and everything surrounding Akira grows in crescendo.
Ichi ().

NOW ON KICKSTARTER

2015 AKIRAS FLYING WHEELCHAIR | ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | WGAE REGISTERED