In the middle of a track stadium, a cyan person stretched his legs by the running lanes' starting line.
"S'up, knuckleheads?" he said. "The name's Quickfeet, and you better remember it because I'm gonna be the one winning. Like, if I was born earlier, you could'a put me in any of those other tournaments they hosted years ago and I'd sweep house just like that. Just demolish all your favorite gladiators. Go on, name 'em."
"Alfa? Overrated. I could beat him with my eyes closed. Andre? Slow. All I gotta do is get up behind him, get him in the back of the head-" He kicked the air. "Boom. He's done."
"Then you got those other guys thinking 'oh, I'm just gonna hide back and just use magic' or something. But like, how are they gonna hit me?"
Two people off on the other end of the track ran by.
"I'll be like, over here." He sprinted to a different part of the stadium. "Then I'm over here." He zipped all the way to the bleachers and shouted something the mic couldn't pick up before returning with his face in the camera.
"And then I'm here. Bam. Nothing you can do. So yeah, I'm kind of a big deal."
Quickfeet glanced towards the faint jogging and panting noises coming from the left.
"'Scuse me." He returned to the lanes and whizzed around the track like a cyan blur. Right when two runners came into view, the blur zoomed past them and across the starting line.
"Hey fellas, what took you so long?"
"Seriously, Quickfeet?!" one of them said, "you do this every time!"
"Uh huh. What are you gonna do about it?" Quickfeet sneered. The runners made obscene gestures. "Oh, you wanna go? You wanna go? Because I'm right here!"
All three of them yelled and charged at each other.
Tape end.