When the hullabaloo dies down, the photographer asserts control. “Ready when you are, darling,” she says. “Just do your thing.”
Crash hits the turf running at top speed, spins, then vaults off the wall until he’s hanging from the rafters, some 50 feet off the ground. She snaps away as he effortlessly parkours to the far side of the room. He drops to the ground, then runs straight back at us, somersaulting over the other athletes in his way, his tongue carelessly flapping in the breeze.
“Marvelous!” she shouts. “Absolutely marvelous!”
This goes on for another 20 minutes, and it’s breathtaking how easy he makes it all look.
“I’m not showing off,” Crash says. “Well, I’m not just showing off. The more moves you’ve got in my new game, the more resources you’ll collect, then you can build an absolutely sick home base.”
This catches the attention of several folks who’ve stopped to admire the scene. Their eyes go wide in surprise.
“Oh yeah,” Crash continues. “The base is where you’ll mount each run from—and store your weapon arsenal. I can’t say much more than that for now.”
The photographer reviews her monitor. “Perfect. Just perfect. We’re done here.”
Crash says thanks to the crew by way of a wink and a knowing smile, then runs for the door. Outside, he shows off for the crowd one more time before flying down the street.
“I’m sorry,” Coco says. “You didn’t even get a chance to ask a question, did you?”
She’s right, but it doesn’t matter. He told quite a story without saying much, just as he’s done in every game for the past 25 years.