Common onlookers at parks and ponds often view ducks as benign by both definitions. Though small, puffy, and goofily waddle with their young to a cluster of kazoo noises, they are in reality some of the most vicious of common creatures. Not just in the way of vigilance and mastery of the land, sea and air, but for their coarse and unfeeling habits and biology. Their feet lack blood flow to withstand cold temperatures, they consume rocks as makeshift teeth to grind fish, and worst of all, their waste carries various diseases that mainly affect humans. For those who consume meat, there is no other animal more fitting as spoils for champions than ducks.

Riley gazes at his takeout box with starry eyes and white knuckles, gripping the towel draped over his shoulders. His prior shower only lasting under five minutes, Riley sits at the dining room table that bridges between his kitchen and living room. His mother and Kevin chat television static while setting the table with napkins and glasses of ginger ale.

“It was hilarious Courtney,” Kevin laughs, tapping his feet. “Mitch came in so big and by the end, he was gonna pop!”

Courtney sits at her table, indulging her husband with a titter.

“It always sounds like you two are gonna actually fight whenever you do this.”

“Oh, we’ve been playing each other for twenty years,” Kevin breaks his chopsticks unevenly. “And he’s been on anger management for twelve of those years. It’s all in good fun!”

“Riley,” Courtney chimes, turning attention to her son. He perks his face forward with cheeks full of crispy game and noodles. “Swallow first, but did you have fun?”

“Yeah,” Riley works out between his first and second gulp. “I played three friendly games, and one a stakes match before we left.”

“And chivalrously he gave a quarter to a girl,” Kevin adds, shrinking the boy in his chair.

“Oh,” his mother plays along. “A girl?

“Stop!” Riley protests their razzing with his head downturn and a forkful of spicy noodles. “She lost to the guy I beat, and we had to go!”

Courtney relents, smiling at her son. Riley had never been the most social of children, often staying close to home when playing outside, and sticking by his mother at birthday parties where his whole classroom was invited. Often Courtney would encourage her son to loosen his grip to make proper age-appropriate connections, but her son would always find himself more comfortable speaking with adults. More talking at them about different books and television programs he made his obsession that week. It was cute when he was seven, but as Riley got older, those classroom invitations dissipated, and he was left to his own thoughts while other children built concrete relationships. Before moving to Hayner after his parents’ divorce, the closest Riley had to friends were the members of his middle school’s anime club, held at the local teen center in Exeter. Even then, they weren’t friends he’d call on the weekends.

“Regardless,” Courtney says while piercing her roasted Brussels sprouts. “Maybe you could ask her to play with you next time you see her? You both like air hockey, that’s a shared interest. Maybe you won’t need to play against grown men all the time.”

“Well, he’s going to be facing all kinds of people at the tournament soon!” Kevin proclaims with a gentle punch to Riley’s shoulder. "Once he makes the qualifiers."

The insistent focus on the boy made his dinner disappear faster than his parents’. Riley’s box was empty with no way to avoid their eye contact now.

“Maybe and maybe,” he says, awkwardly turning his head to the living room to see his new manga, Reborn as a Vacuum Cleaner, Now I Traverse the Wasteland. left sitting on the arm of the couch. In this moment, he craves escapism from their well-intentioned pressure.

“Maybe?” Kevin asks. “You were saying how cool it would be to enter! Don’t get cold feet now, you’re on a roll!”

“Kev,” Courtney gets firm. “If Riley doesn’t want to play in the tournament, he can spend his summer doing something else. There’s always next year.”

“All I’m saying is I’ve seen people younger than him compete and he’s just as good, if not better! Do you really not wanna do it kid?”

So badly does Riley wish he remembered anything his mother had told him in the past about Human Resources to navigate the conversation to her work today, but sadly his pubescent mind left no space. The Wind Field air hockey is held annually the weekend after the fourth of July. Only the best resident strikers are qualified to compete for the glory of bragging rights, as well as the grand prize of fifty dollars' worth of coins for the arcade. Though you can just ask for the actual bill. Never in his short years had Riley ever believed he would have to chance to enter any kind of tournament, so the chance to participate was a dream in the beginning of June. However, as his first full summer in Hayner progressed, the time limit and collective intensity from his peers became more and more daunting.

“I want to,” he utters. “And I don’t want to do anything else, but these other people have been playing for years, and I haven’t lived here long, and I still get so nervous when I play stakes matches, and I might get even sweatier in a tournament, but I want to, but-”

“Riley,” Kevin cuts him off to let his brain reboot. “Time means nothing when you put enough effort into it. We’ll talk about it later. Bring over that book you keep looking at and give me an oral report.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A smile spreads across Courtney’s face as she watches her son’s mood shift into excitement as he dashes for his eastern comic, happily rambling about reincarnation and fantasy worlds while her husband listens sincerely, flipping through the reserved pages. The day she had finally introduced Riley to Kevin when still dating, she knew he had a way of making her son feel more himself. Even when he had no idea what any of it was, Kevin understood that her child had a lot to say, but no one to listen.

“Good gracious Ignatius!” Kevin hollers at a page. “Riley, how old is this girl here?”

“Five hundred.”

“So that’s how they get away with these clothes. Anyway, so this guy loved vacuums so much, he became one?”

. . .

Riley stands silently in the cover of the darkness within a room consisting of himself, and a wooden dummy with several protruding oak bars. The dummy stands ten and half inches tall, twice Riley’s height. It begins spinning its arms, seemingly without human contact needed, rotating faster and faster at a velocity that blurs any gaps to the base pole. Slowly the boy approaches with an alien level of calm and open hands. His middle fingers rapidly twitch to count half seconds before his right arm effortlessly blocks a rod, with his left hand crossing over to catch the end of it before hitting his shoulder. A perfect block using Pak Sau, following up with a quick chop to the base from his left hand by using Fak Sau.

The dummy recovers by reserving its speed in the other direction, and in response, Riley reverses his Pak Sau to the other direction, immediately grabbing the rod using Lap Sau. With the dummy’s arm restrained, he’s free to deliver a closed fist strike to the center.

“One,” Riley whispers with calculation. Grinning to himself at the sight of the large structure cracking at his knuckles.

In reality, Riley sits alone on the single step of his porch at eight in the morning, practicing with his miniature air hockey table. He flicks the puck with the little striker against the walls to catch the ricochets in limited space.

“Two,” he murmurs, scoring again. Riley’s mind is that of running water, like a constant stream of fantasy, strategy, anxiety, and fantastical disassociation. Always envisioning extraordinary scenarios inspired by the many stories and worlds he’s consumed ever since he could watch the learning channel. So deep he is now in literal and imaginary training, he doesn’t even notice the mail truck breaking in front of him.

“Ah yes,” a voice approaches, his shadow slowly shielding Riley from sunlight. “A miniature rink.”

Ever alert Riley turns, Riley turns to the darkness surrounding himself and the training dummy. As he regains reality, the scratching caws of mysterious birds reach him in rumbles under his feet. He faces two sets of giant yellow pupils in the cover of darkness. Below them, a black boot, decorated with white tree branches, steps into the light.

Before Riley stands a mailman, roughly in his late thirties and dressed in a regulation navy blue button up with matching slacks you wouldn't expect in the summer. He removes his hat to reveal dirty blonde shoulder length hair, tied into a ponytail. His short beard houses a grin as the Postal worker stares down at Riley's toy.

“An adequate tool for building wrist flexibility and tracking.”

“I…” Riley struggles out, taken aback. He moves a step upward, next to his rink. He gazes down at the package in the man's hand. “Yeah, just practicing. I can take that. Does it need to be signed?”

“No, no,” The mailman halfheartedly waves one hand while handing the boy the package. “Just a porch drop off.”

“Thank you very much,” says Riley. “Do you play air hockey?”

“Indeed,” The man answers with a nod, looking back at the mini rink. “In fact, I saw you play the other night. I was impressed.”

“Thanks,” Riley responds with a hand firmly on the porch. A sense of danger running over his being. “I've been having a good luck streak.”

“HA!” The mailman hollers. “Your humbleness is admirable, but not many Wind Field challengers read their opponent’s strategies so quickly. Usually, it's easier when the scores are uneven, so you know where to keep your attention. That game however had a clear winner up until the eleventh hour.”

The man Takes a knee, grasping the toy blue striker Riley left to the side. Gently the puck dances around the paddle as he stirs the rink.

“Tell me young striker,” He asks Riley, maintaining control of the puck without looking. “If that young woman won the match, would you have been able to counter her?”

Riley slowly stands up, watching the puck swirl until it follows the paddle.

“I think I had an idea if it happened that way.”

The mailman raises his hand from the rink, leaving the disc to circulate with the air as it drifts to the center.

“As I thought,” he slowly exhales. “You show promise, young striker. And your instincts for training equipment is sufficient. However…”

The little blue paddle returns to the board, making contact with the puck. It launches into a blinding flurry of ricochets, bouncing all around the paddle, but never at it. Before Riley could blink, the red striker ascends from the toy box, sending a knock to the front door.

“It only gets you so far,” The man says, standing up to leave the perpetual puck to slow itself down. “I would advise you to practice on real tables more often if you're going to compete in the tournament.”

He turns his back on the petrified fledgling to retreat to his truck. His right arm raises to wave goodbye with his back hand. Patched into his right short sleeve is a name tag, upside down and in faux cursive. Yet Riley reads it clearly the sheer unlikeliness. Odin.

Riley's left in the darkness Surrounded by the demolished remnants of the training dummy. The air is thick with sawdust as the mysterious being wanders off. His white cloak wafts in the dust as titanic ravens fly over him. Riley's pupils tighten with terror as his world uncontrollably shakes.

“Riley?” A voice coming through from the outside. “Is that your mom's keyboard cushion?”

Riley snaps back at the feel of Kevin's hand on his shoulder. Still shaking with the visage of a deflated white balloon, he stares at his stepfather with desperation for the ability of speech.

“What happened?” asks Kevin. “Wait, did the mailman say something weird to you? Are you okay?”

“He,” Riley musters. “He was an air hockey player. His name was Odin.”

Suddenly, Kevin's grip tightens on Riley's shoulder. The color from his face draining at the name.

“I think he was threatening me?”

“No.” Kevin asserts with a nerve stuck in his throat. “Odin doesn't threaten people. He acknowledges them. You just met the champion of Imagine Arcade air hockey…”