The bamboo swords clashed with a satisfying wooden crack. Celestia Clarke braced behind her shinai, matching her opponent''s resistance. Both competitors had struck with incredible speed, neither finding an opening. The score was 2-0, and Celestia fought for the final point. After a short struggle, the women separated, faceless behind their masks. They faced each other again, sword tips touching. Posture, technique, calling the correct target as one struck - all necessary to score. The students watched the best of their peers fight.


    The System watched, too, in the eager hours before it enacted its plan. It scanned the surface world for worthy Prodigies, as its architecture churned below. The strong, the fast, the genius. All had their place. A portion of its thought settled upon the dojo, where two warriors fought, uniform in their black clothes and masks. The System didn’t know the game’s rules, its fouls. It didn''t care. It loved all games.


    Celestia''s attack was fierce, an onslaught. What the System considered perfect anger become strength. But a man stepped between the combatants to separate them. He spoke to the aggressor.


    The cycle repeated. Swords outstretched, a terrible pause and chaos. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The swords tested each other, feeling for a weakness, an opening. Celestia looped under her opponent’s sword and struck upward, gaining precious distance. Each time a strike came, the resulting parry was perfect. Yet neither would allow a strike.


    Celestia knocked aside her opponent''s sword, and in the same motion struck the woman’s mask. There was no need to keep fighting. Celestia knew she had won. Her fist tightened, a small expression of gratification, but not one unnoticed by Sensei. His eyes met Celestia''s as she removed her mask, realization dawning on her. She''d committed her favorite foul, showboating.


    Sensei asked Celestia to stay when the others left that morning. She sat, legs folded under her. Neither spoke for a time.


    “Sensei,” said Celestia. “May I speak freely?”


    “Of course,” said Sensei, “And I will, too.”


    “I''ve worked SO hard for this. For so long.”


    She balled her fists in her lap, eyes shut tight against tears.


    “Your skill’s amazing,” said Sensei. “But you’re aggressive and arrogant. Have been since you were seven. And still are, twelve years later.”


    "I humiliated myself in front of everyone. I’m done, Sensei. I don’t want to do this anymore.”


    Celestia threatened this a few times a year, usually after similar missteps.


    “Celestia, there are masters who still make mistakes. But if you need time to find some inner peace before continuing, then do it.”


    "But what will I do if I''m not practicing Kendo?"


    "I don''t know Celestia. Maybe you should stay."


    She left him with a bow, vowing to never set foot in the dojo again, though Sensei knew she''d return the next morning.


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Celestia spent the afternoon lying on the couch, stoned. She couldn''t bring herself to pull a shift in the auto shop with Pops. She smoked and texted her boyfriend and waited for Pops to get home, so they could smoke some more. The three Brussels Griffons kept her company, fighting for space on her chest and pets.


    <hr>


    It was midnight.


    Celestia had failed to locate her Terminal for the past three hours. It had spawned in the trailer’s bathroom atop a pile of damp clothes. The machine, hardly larger than a tablet, toppled the clothing and was buried. It chirped muffled warnings, each unheard. Though it tried moving towards its master, the wet sweatpants and t-shirts anchored it.


    This was a shame, because finding the Terminal earlier may have saved the Clarke family much turmoil. But, as you’ve seen, the System’s inviolate plans hadn’t gone well so far. While newborn Rangers and Paladins and Spell Masters prepared for the fight of their lives, Celestia Clarke sat cross legged in a soft television glow, losing to her brother at Xbox.


    Celestia cut a poor image for a Prodigy - scrawny, unkempt, in a day-old wife-beater and torn, baggy jeans. Long, wavy hair fell unwashed and uncombed. Its frazzled ends were still blue from last year''s dye, long since grown out. She was strong, in a stringy, waifish way. A star athlete and formidable student, but dulled by beer and weed. She passed a blunt back and forth between herself and Pops, who reclined on the couch behind the siblings.


    The Terminal cried, its warnings rising to a scream.


    A drawbridge crashed down behind Washington Street, echoing in the frigid air.


    And a soft television glow bathed Celestia and Conrad Clarke, moments before the world’s end. Celestia turned her controller with the go-kart on screen and leaned against her brother.


    “Ho, no, you are not passing me,” she said.


    Conrad pushed her away.


    “Dude, why do you lean when you turn? It’s not doing anything.”


    She leaned against him harder, eyes glued to the screen, her fingers tapping buttons madly.


    “Yeah I do. Helps me drift.”


    “Stooop!”


    Conrad shoved his sister again, knocking the controller from her hands. Her kart slammed into a picket fence on screen.


    "Uh oh!" said Celestia, eyes wide. "I just saw Conrad cheating?"


    "Fuck off," said Conrad.


    "And what''s this? That''s how he''s gotten a lead on his sister? By knocking the controller from her hand? Pops, you hearing this?”


    "No, you don''t know how to play," said Conrad. “You suck.”


    "Guys! Guys," said Celestia. "This is serious. I''m gonna have to, like, punish him."


    She nodded with menace, gripping Conrad in a headlock. He fought like a madman.


    "Pops! She''s torturing me!"


    The dogs snoozed atop Pops as he read the news on his phone.


    "Like she tortures the dogs? Uh huh."


    As if summoned, the dogs leaped from Pops’ stomach. They pawed and grunted at the siblings, desperate to join the action. Conrad roused his strength to throw off Celestia and the smallest of the dogs. His face was red.


    “Whoa, you’re on edge tonight, dude,” said Celestia.


    “Yeah cause my cunt sister is being stupid. As usual.”


    “Eh, been called worse. I’ll kick your ass if you say it again, though.”


    “Get her,” Conrad commanded the dogs. “Bite her, mess her up.”


    The television died, its image constricting to a single white dot in the void, then darkness. The ground rippled like a whipped reign, and the trailer shook. Nothing upright remained so. The dogs howled with newfound voices. Pops toppled from the coach with several oaths uttered before impact. A boom resounded and the windows blew out. Celestia leaped to shield Conrad and as many dogs as she could.