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Alex

Hugo laughs an ugly, wheezy little laugh, shakes Dylan once by her collar, and throws her off.

Alex is two seconds ahead of him. He’s at the tower, then running up the wall, counting on horizontal inertia to pin him against it just long enough–

At one second, Dylan is thirty-three meters up. At two, it’s thirteen, and she’s only getting faster.

Alex knows that the right upward vector might reduce her momentum enough to keep them alive. He’s six strides up. Seven. Eight: he exhales and launches himself backward, headlong into gravity, first and most visceral human experience of acceleration.

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