Something else happened to die today.
Two; if I'm to be accurate. My will to live and Lissa's robot fox. She literally woke me up at 3am to rant on my room speakers on how sad she is for losing a goddamn pet.
My mirror-AI tells me to be sympathetic and offer my condolences. I faked it so she'd leave me alone. A holo-pet is literally 15 credits. She could have ordered one just then and there.
Apparently someone was trying to spy into her room with a drone and the fox died trying to chase after the drone. Unfortunately, it fell to its death.
" We had plans! It was going to learn Portuguese! " She kept sobbing in my ear.
I would have much rather preferred to hear Jiro sobbing about losing a Nexus Wars 9 game to Dax. Right. Jiro chose to never speak to me again after I made a fuss about the fact that Jacinthe actually wore yellow at first yesterday. And no, this isn't some fictional piece where the main character clearly sees something and chooses to ignore it. I know what I saw. I definitely do. It's just–all of a sudden, it was like she never walked in. Like time reset itself. Sounds ridiculous, but I'm sure. Probably some kid with an illusion Blessing was messing with me. That has to be it.
I have no idea how I'm supposed to speak to him today. I sigh and slump against the car seat. Mom chose to personally drive me to school today. She sensed it this morning that I was sad and demanded that I let her drive me to school this morning while she gives me a pep talk. Well, she's not really doing the driving. Mom's filthy rich so she has so many self driving cars. This one in particular is a Grav-Cruiser. It hovers precisely 18 inches above this rain-slicked street, hissing as its anti-grav pods calibrated. It's extremely cool, every time she takes me to school in it, my friends all stare at her in awe. My mom is cool. A total flex.
" Your brows are furrowed, as if you are thinking about something too hard. You and Jiro had a fight? "
Shit. Of course she'd figure that out. The universe just had to give her this annoying Blessing. Veritas Pulse is the bane of my existence.
" I'm taking your silence as a yes. " I roll my eyes. " As if you don't already know I'm telling the truth, with your Blessing."
" Mom, can you get me this? " My little brother, Neven interrupts our discussion. He's eight, but looks like he's fourteen or something. I'm afraid he'll soon tower over me. He attempts puppy eyes but fails and mom and I laugh. He also happens to still be missing a few teeth.
Neven hasn't been home for a while, he literally just got back from Otaku Camp for weebs in Japan. He's been there for months. He goes there every year, at least for as long as I've known him. I still remember the day Mom brought him home, shivering and in a lot of pain. He was so tiny, he didn't even look human.
Neven was a victim of abusive parents, and lucky for him, after they died, the court granted Mom and Dad custody of him. A year later, they both adopted him and he's been a huge blessing to our lives. I wouldn't tell him that though, he's annoying as hell.
He asks again, his teeth still gapped from childhood. "Mom, can you get me this?" He flashes a holo-ad for night-vision goggles—the expensive kind that amplify shadows.
"Oh great, so now he can teleport and spy on us."
Neven sticks out his tongue—then vanishes into the car's shadow. A second later, he pops out behind me, having me gasp for air. "Boo!"
Mom sighs. "Neven, we talked about not shadow-jumping in moving vehicles…"
He giggles, and mouths: 'sorry'
Neven's got this stupid-cool Blessing where he can basically nope out of reality and reappear somewhere else—as long as there's enough shadow and he remembers to hold his damn breath.
The first time he did it, I nearly punted him into next week. One second he's standing there, grinning with his missing tooth smile, the next—poof—he's gone. Then I feel this tiny, ice-cold hand grab my ankle from under the couch, and I scream like a little kid who just found a spider in their nutrient brick. Mom laughed so hard she snorted. It's not even proper teleportation. More like… shadow-hopping. He needs darkness, which means our house is conveniently full of "accidentally" unplugged night-lights and "mysteriously" jammed smart-blinds. And the little demon times it, too. Like when I'm mid-rant about Jiro being a traitor, and suddenly Neven's voice whispers "boo" directly into my left ear. I swear, one day I'm gonna punch him so hard he phases into next Tuesday.
The best part? His eyes go full void mode when he does it—pupils swallowing all the light, like some creepy anime villain. It'd be cooler if he didn't also look like he's about to pass out half the time. Kid holds his breath like he's trying to win a bet, then pops back into existence gasping like he just ran from the cops. Which, honestly, he probably will someday.
Funny thing is, he wasn't born with a Blessing but he had a golden streak of hair just like everyone else. I mean, his entire head is golden, considering the fact that he's blonde but the middle of his head, it literally glistens. Like crazy.
Apparently his late parents used to lock him in darkness after beating him to pulp and filling him with hard drugs. The doctors said he got so familiar with the darkness that he learned to control it.
Mom thinks it's adorable. She buys him all this dumb shadow-enhancing gear—special gloves, a hoodie that absorbs light, even blackout socks (because apparently socks were the problem?). Meanwhile, I'm over here with tears that turn stuff blue for three seconds, and Neven gets to be Nightcrawler's annoying little cousin.
Life's not fair.
" I'll buy you whatever you want, okay baby? You just need to stop sneaking up on your brother like that, you hear me? "
He munches on a snack, nodding his head vigorously.
I quickly make sure to put on my AeroPhones, they're tiny hover-discs that orbit my ears, adjusting sound based on your mood. I do it so Mom doesn't start a conversation with me again. She sees I'm not in the mood to speak anymore and decides not to say anything else.
Thanks Neven.
****
Dax's bionic arm whirs as he chucks my sports uniform at my face like a missile.
The impact knocks me flat on my ass—which, okay, maybe I deserved that, but damn. The reinforced nano-fabric pants slap against my forehead with the precision of a targeted strike.
"Oops," Dax says, not sounding sorry at all. His orange-lit joints pulse with amusement as he looms over me, grinning like a guy who just won the lottery.
"Didn't mean to launch it. My arm's got a mind of its own."
Bullshit. His arm's calibrated to the atomic level. That throw was personal. I groan, sprawled on the locker room floor. The ceiling's holographic ads flicker above me, some perky AI cheerfully reminding us that "hydration is key to peak performance!" while I contemplate the pros and cons of faking my own death.
A shadow falls over me. For a wild second, I think it's Jiro—finally taking pity on me—but no. It's Zeke, the human equivalent of a spam pop-up, smirking down like he's just witnessed the funniest glitch in history. "Damn, Sulien," he says, shaking his head. "First you hallucinate Jacinthe's outfit, now you're losing fights to clothing. Rough week."
"I didn't hallucinate—"
"Bro, you yelled at her for 'changing colors' mid-convo," interrupts Marco, materializing from the steam of the shower stalls like a judgmental ghost. His hair's a mess of neon-green spikes today—some new mod he's testing.
"She was wearing red the whole time."
"It was yellow," I mutter, but it's useless. The story's already spread faster than a corrupted holo-file.
Zeke snaps his fingers. "Speaking of colors—y'all see the highlights from the Pan-African prelims? That Lagos kid who turns sunlight into stun-lashes? Whips you with beams that feel like getting snapped with a live wire!"
Dax's arm whirs louder as he punches his palm. "I'm more scared of the Siberian team. Heard they've got a girl who exhales flash-freeze mist—instant ice-burns if it touches skin."
"Amateurs," Marco scoffs, adjusting his vibrating hair. "Tokyo's sending their umbrella kid—dude makes raindrops hit like paintballs at mach speed. Saw him ping a drone so hard its casing cracked."
Across the room, Jiro finally looks up from lacing his hover-boots. Our eyes meet. For a heartbeat, I think he might actually say something—maybe even laugh with me instead of at me—but nope. He just shakes his head and goes back to ignoring my existence.
Cool.
Dax offers me a hand up—finally—but I know it's only because Coach's surveillance drone is hovering near the door. "C'mon, Blue-Boy," he says, using the nickname the group's decided I've earned. "You gonna cry about Jacinthe all season? Or actually train for the Brawl? Bet your three-second blue tears'll terrify the competition." I flip him off, but I take the hand. Some friends I've got. The locker AI chimes: "Reminder: Transcontinental Blessings Brawl stars in 3 hours. Suggested training regimen: Stop getting knocked over by laundry."
I mutter under my breath, " you're all dumbasses."
****
The Neo-London Arena smells like synthetic sweat, overpriced protein sticks, and the faint ozone burn of too many Blessings firing off at once.
Holographic banners flicker overhead, flashing obnoxious slogans like "UNITY THROUGH COMPETITION!" and "SPONSORED BY NANOTECH SOLUTIONS – TRY OUR NEW FLAVORED OXYGEN!" Someone really needs to tell corporate that "flavored oxygen" just makes people think of lung disease.
I'm slouched on the competitors' bench, picking at the fraying edge of my wrist guard while the smart-foam seat keeps trying to "adjust to my bio-rhythms." Translation: it's vibrating at a frequency that makes my back teeth itch.
"Stop squirming," Lissa says, kicking my shin with her boot – the left one with the illegal traction mod that lets her walk up walls. "You're making me twitchy."
"I'm not squirming, I'm—"
"Having a full-body panic attack," Dax finishes, rotating his bionic arm at the elbow joint. The orange glow from his servos casts weird shadows across his face.
"Just forfeit now. Watching you lose to someone's grandma would be less embarrassing than whatever this is." I flip him off just as the crowd erupts.
Neven's voice cuts through the noise like a malfunctioning alarm – "SUUUULIEEEN!" – and I don't even need to look to know he's standing on Dad's shoulders, probably wearing that ridiculous neon headband that makes him look like a radioactive squid.
First up is Amina from Morocco, her hands wrapped in glowing silk ribbons that aren't just for show. When the bell rings, she whips them out so fast they crack like gunshots, wrapping around her opponent's ankles in milliseconds. The Peruvian kid barely has time to yelp before she yanks – sending him face-first into the mat. The ribbons tighten just enough to leave angry red marks, but not enough to break skin.
"Damn," Lissa mutters. "Those things move like they're alive."
Next is Rigel from New Zealand, who looks like he wandered in from a surfing competition. His Blessing? He can turn his own shadow into solid matter. Not in a creepy horror movie way – more like he molds it into floating platforms that he kicks off mid-air. His Brazilian opponent keeps swinging at empty space while Rigel backflips over his own shadow like some kind of acrobatic mime. "Show-off," Dax grumbles, but even he's leaning forward to watch.
The crowd goes wild for Yasmin from Egypt, whose Blessing makes sound waves visible as shimmering gold patterns in the air. She doesn't even fight – just hums until the vibrations form a cage around her opponent, the notes so perfectly tuned they make his muscles lock up. It's like watching someone get arrested by a symphony.
Through it all, I keep catching Joshua staring at me from the Nigerian team's section. And not the normal "I'm sizing up my competition" stare. This is a "you personally offended my entire bloodline" glare.
Lissa follows my gaze. "That's Joshua Offor. Gravity manipulator. Can make himself float, reverse object weights within a five-meter radius – basic stuff." She pauses. "Also, he's your next opponent." My stomach does a backflip.
"Fantastic. I'll just cry sparkly blue tears at him and hope he's allergic to disappointment."
When my name gets called, my legs feel like they're made of the same unstable gel as the arena floor. Joshua steps forward, towering over me even though we're both standing. Up close, I can see the faint shimmer around his hands – the telltale distortion of his gravity field at work.
The announcer booms: "BEGIN!"
Joshua doesn't move. Doesn't float. Doesn't attack.
"I surrender," he says.
For a second, I thought I'd misheard. Maybe the arena speakers glitched. Maybe my own stupid brain was misfiring again. But then the crowd erupted—not cheers, not boos, just pure, unfiltered what-the-fuck noise.
The Nigerian team lost it. One guy actually threw his water pouch at the ground, the liquid splattering in slow motion as it hit the mat. Another was yelling at the refs in rapid-fire Yoruba, hands slicing through the air like he was personally offended by the concept of forfeiting.
And Joshua? He didn't even flinch. Just turned and walked away like this was normal. Like he hadn't just thrown the match before it even started.
Why?
That was the only thought in my head as the ref raised my hand by default. Not hell yeah, free win—just... why? I knew I wasn't some unbeatable champion. My Blessing was literally turning things blue for three seconds. There was no reason for him to forfeit.
No reason at all.
I look back, everyone is just as confused at me. Jiro isn't even staring at me. My expression changes. I wish he'd stop being mad at me. Neven on the other hand has his hands crossed, pouting because he didn't get to watch me fight.
The referee signaled for me to get off the field. It's Dax's turn, apparently. I do so and go sit next to Jiro since someone else has occupied my space. He rolls his head and looks forward. I tap his knee continuously until he looks at me. I tell him I'm sorry but he ignores me.
" C'mon man, we're best friends. " I throw my hands in the air.
" Admit you were wrong, " Jiro says.
" But i know what I saw– "
" What you saw was wrong, Sulien! You made Jacinthe look at me like some weirdo! Just admit you saw something else. You didn't see right. And that's okay but admit it! You. Were. Wrong. " His eyes are almost blood red.
I let out the heaviest sigh, " alright, I'm sorry. I saw something else. I admit it, I was wrong. Forgive me now? "
He doesn't say anything but fist bump me. I smile. Cool. We're so back.
The arena lights dimmed to a blood-red glow as Dax stepped into the ring, his bionic arm humming like a live wire. Across from him stood Mateo "El Incendio" Reyes, the Chilean fire-wielder whose skin shimmered with heat haze even from here.
The crowd's roar faded into a static buzz in my ears. Jiro says, "Dax's servos overheat at 400 degrees. That guy burns at 900. This'll be short."
Then the bell rang. Mateo struck like a struck match—fingers snapping, a whip-thin line of fire lashing toward Dax's face. Dax didn't dodge. He caught it. His bionic fingers clamped around the flame, hydraulic joints screaming as the fire bent in his grip like a trapped serpent. The smell of scorched metal stung my nose.
"Idiot," Jiro said, voice flat. "Titanium alloy conducts heat. His palm sensors are frying." But Dax just grinned, his human hand flexing.
He yanked hard. The fire stretched, taut as a cable—and Mateo stumbled forward, eyes wide. For a split second, the flame connecting them looked less like a weapon and more like a leash. Then Dax's arm rotated—a full 360 degrees at the elbow—and he spun Mateo like a discus, hurling him across the ring. The Chilean hit the ground rolling, flames sputtering out in a hiss of vaporized arena mist. The crowd lost their damn minds.
"Notice how he's not using his human hand?" Jiro's fingers tapped rapid-fire on his holopad. "The bionic arm's heat-resistant, but the real arm? Vulnerable. He's protecting the weak side. Classic overcompensation." I wanted to tell him to shut up. But—
Mateo lunged again, this time with both hands blazing. The fire wasn't a whip now; it was a tidal wave, cresting toward Dax in a roaring arc. Dax's response? He punched the fire. Not metaphorically. His bionic fist plowed straight into the heart of the inferno, dispersing it in a shockwave of embers. The force of the blow sent Mateo skidding back, his sneakers leaving molten streaks on the mat.
The Finish: Dax charged, his arm glowing cherry-red from heat. At the last second, he switched—leading with his human fist instead. It connected with Mateo's jaw with a crack that echoed louder than any fire. The Chilean dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Silence.
Then— "Huh," Jiro said, staring at his holopad. "His human hand's been gloved the whole time. Carbon-fiber weave. Heat-resistant. He wanted the fire kid to target the bionic arm." I blinked.
"So the weak side was—"
"The strong side. Yeah." Jiro looked at me, just for a second.
"Dumbass." Dax stood panting in the center of the ring, his human knuckles split and smoking, his bionic arm darkening from red to black.
The ref raised his hand, but he wasn't looking at the crowd. He was looking at us. At me. Like he'd just proved something.
****
Neven in presently on my back, telling me some story about his school. However, immediately I see that kid–Joshua Offor I zone out and tap on Neven's fingers, asking him to give me a minute.
I walk over to Joshua, he's at the entrance of the school, with his friends, chatting about some girl with a fat ass and how she ignored them when they tried talking to her.
He is floating a few inches above some bench, his long legs dangling like he's sitting on an invisible chair. Up close, I can see the faint glow of his H.I.V.E chip pulsing at his neck, casting shifting shadows across his face.
"Hey," I say.
He signals to his friends to leave so we can talk alone. Okay. Is it that serious? Does he have some kind of disease of something?
He doesn't look at me. "Go away."
"What was that today? Why'd you—"
"What are you?" His voice is sharp, angry. When he turns, his eyes burn with something that isn't just frustration – it's fear. "You fought me yesterday. And you won. And then you erased it. You erased yesterday. Like it never happened." His fingers dig into the bench below him, though he's not even sitting on it. "Why the fuck are you pretending your Blessing isn't so much more powerful than it is?"
The air leaves my lungs. "I—what?"
"You're a big phony," he spits, pushing off into the air. "Stay the fuck away from me."
Then he's gone, floating up and over the pavement, leaving me standing there with my useless blue tears and the sinking feeling that something is very, very wrong.
Somewhere in the distance, an ad drone chirps: "Remember to hydrate for tomorrow's matches!"
I don't think water's gonna fix this.