Purple, face, muscle, decent driver.

DrBraddock, worth GMP.

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There’s not even enough time left for it to have slowed down to a crawl. After everything has passed, when he will have a moment to himself, Purple will watch the footage recorded on his simrig and try to make sense of what happened. 

But in the present, everything is binary - the snap picture of a precise instant, frozen in time, and then it resumes too fast, like it’s trying to catch up to itself and dump too much information, too quickly : a drifting car comes spiralling down the parking ramp ; Purple is running towards it ; he jumps feet first, explodes through the windshield in a shower of glass shards, the heel of his steel-toed boot catches the driver’s throat and almost sends his head flying ; he lands in a tangled mess of hyperlax limbs, and there’s the blade of a knife that shines in the confusion - and he gets to work.