The only television we’ve ever owned is a beat-up box of junk.

It sits smack-bang in the middle of the living room, counting the days until whatever powers its pixels finally throws in the towel. It used to be clean, and silver, but years of dust, grime and grubby hands have left it almost russet, like a brushed potato.

On the morning that my future fell apart, I sat inches from that TV. My legs were splayed and my nails dug into the carpet fibers as I squinted at the live broadcast of the Blade & Battle Olympics.

I didn’t know it, but even at this point, my future dangled over the precipice like a diver with their toes on the edge. A double somersault into a resounding belly flop.

“Is she winnin’?” drawled Dale.

“Put down the grog and look,” I replied. “Can’t you see over that gut of yours?”

“Mmph.”

Dale was Mom’s newest boyfriend, and as far as I could tell, his only notable talent was his ability to warm a seat — of which he had thousands of hours of practice. It wasn’t clear why else he was chosen from the pack — perhaps he was a wizard in the bedroom, but it was hard to believe. The gut, the beer on his breath, and the wheezing didn’t combine to paint a pretty picture.

Anyway, that kind of talk is off limits. I didn’t want to see my breakfast a second time, especially not after I’d digested it.

I returned my attention to the Olympics. Mom was crushing the competition in the Highrock Rabble, the agility course that was virtually out of the question for anyone other than high-level [Rogues] or [Swashbucklers]. There was one [Archer] in the event — a bloke from ‘The Wispmen’ — but after a valiant effort, he plummeted into the hundred-foot chasm after conquering just two hurdles.

As expected.

The leaders of the race were six obstacles deep. Four to go. Four leaps, tumbles or rolls standing between each of them and whatever they’d do with forty thousand krad.

Some folks could find peculiar ways to squirrel it away or blow it in a night, but not us.

For Mom and me, and Dale if you were being nice, forty thousand krad would change everything. For a while we’d eat meat, buy comics, and — if I hadn’t just graduated — I’d have been able to catch the train to school when it rained.

But most importantly, I’d purchase access to The Elthen Fields.

‘The Elthen Fields’ is the kind of phrase that elicits ooo’s and aah’s when uttered. Your older relatives ask about it at family events, and everyone in the upper-crust has their war stories prepared about their time there. It’s like the Pre-Revolution Harvard or Yale, but instead of a witty entrance application and stellar grades, admission just requires you to enclose a thick wad of cash in an envelope with your name plastered on the back.

If you wanted to be anyone or anything in the world of Blade & Battle, you had to start your journey there. To be spawned anywhere else like The Pickle Caverns or Bill’s Yard was a life sentence to mediocrity. The Fields meant easier enemies and more EXP for the whole year that the starting zones were accessible. An entire subject at school was dedicated to the importance of reaching this land of endless sunshine.

If it came to it, I’d sell my soul to get there. And I’d chuck in the TV to sweeten the deal.

“Grab me a beer?” asked the lump on the couch.

“Piss off.”

I came back to the race, eyeing off Mom’s competitors and praying for them to fall. It pissed me off that Dale cared so little for the Olympics, but I could address that irk another time. For now, I wanted to watch her win.

She almost brushed elbows with third place, zipping past like a bat out of hell. Contact between contestants wasn’t allowed in this event, but the shock still sent him off balance and the camera lingered long enough to show the poor guy missing the next platform.

He fell, but we didn’t see his grisly fate. There was no question about what happened next.

The perspective changed, and the display fizzed. A block of black pixels blotted out the contestant’s face and half the remaining screen space. Regardless, I knew it was Jori Hayacker. The little number in the corner read ‘First Place’, and Jori couldn’t be found anywhere else.

He steadily came into view as the TV corrected itself with a supportive tap from myself. I should’ve waited a moment, because now I had to watch his shaven arms and manicured nails whiz over the third-last obstacle. An advertisement played in the corner of the screen for his newest line of shampoo, which I thought was absurd. The guy spent so much on vanity products that his avatar was unrecognizable when compared with his real-life self.

The ad ended, and the scene switched. Whilst we’d admired the Wonder-Kid, Mom had slipped into second. Somehow, she was chasing down Jori. I could already see the headline, ‘Wonder-Mom takes down Wonder-Kid', but I didn't want to upset the applecart, so I kept quiet, unmoving.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“That’s her, right? Second pla—”

“SH!”

I silenced Dale with a raised palm and a hiss. He’d stopped drinking so he could watch — a miracle if there ever was one.

The second last obstacle came into view. A ninety-foot rope wall curled above the contestants, adorned with spikes and spouts that jetted lava whenever they pleased. Whoever designed this course had to be a real piece of work, because this year’s was gruesome.

Mom hurled herself at the rope, flicking away the hair stuck to her forehead. Her character was agile, and light, like every [Swashbuckler] out there, but she had something else. Whether it was desperation or thrill or just a shit ton of training, she was catching up to Jori.

He recoiled as a stray molten globule singed his arm, and Mom passed by without glancing at him. The camera zoomed in on his face as it turned red with rage. Had the camera been human, the death stare it received may have turned it to stone right then and there.

Dale, with his sudden interest, was jittering like a kid on candy-crack. On the other hand, my nails dug so far into the carpet that I was probably taking chips out of the floorboards. Jori snarled as he yanked himself up the rope with renewed effort, disregarding safety as he climbed over lava spouts and ripped himself to shreds on the spikes.

Mom was at the top and busying herself with getting down. She lost some ground while trying to get into position and Jori caught up, simply sending himself off the ledge and enduring an excruciating rope burn on the way.

When they untangled themselves from the rope-wall and came to the final obstacle, they were neck and neck. But I knew something that Jori and the rest of the world didn’t.

Mom still had her [Dash].

We’d talked strategy in the previous week, devising plans and analyzing the other contestants until the cows came home. The Highrock Rabble is an individual event, but psychology still plays a big part.

Do you try to lead the pack right out the gates? How can you provoke someone to overextend, or take risks?

We thought we’d cracked the code.

Mom had held her singular [Dash] for the whole race, hoping that the others would push ahead whilst trying to compensate for the additional boost she could receive at any time. So far, it worked, but Jori had spent the whole race at the front, not keeping track of who was doing what.

The final obstacle was a gigantic leap. A miniscule misstep was all it would take for either of them to fail — if only Jori would be so kind. He’d used his [Dash] earlier in the event, but there was almost no question that he’d make the jump without it. Doing so was what made him famous in the first place.

Mom had to use her trump card, and despite the lie I was telling myself; Jori probably knew it.

“She’s got it, right? She can make that?” Dale asked, feet tapping.

“She can.”

I didn’t want to risk another word in case my breath went through the TV and blew her off course.

Jori left the ground first, a half-step ahead of Mom. He sailed in an arc that, despite his arrogance and assholery, was grand. My lungs hurt from pent-up breath, but I held it still.

The sound of my mother saying the word that would win her the race resounded through the room as though the TV was as engrossed as I was. There was a clatter upstairs, and a thump, but I barely registered it.

“[DASH],” she shouted.

Her avatar flickered.

“[DASH!]” She screamed now, a note of fear in her voice.

Her character didn’t respond, and Jori landed neatly on the final ledge whilst my mother careened into the pit, flailing all the way down.

The camera showed us that one.

“What, the fuck.”

Dale and I sat in shock. I felt like I’d won the lottery and then had the ticket spontaneously combust in my hand. After all his pretend indifference, Dale didn’t even have the strength to lift a beer to his lips.

I turned off the TV, not with the remote but by shoving it off its perch onto the floor. The dresser fell over too, and the drawers scattered. A copy of an ancient movie called ‘Finding Nemo’ poked out, the striped fish on the front staring at me with eyes that said, ‘Better luck next time, pal.’

There was a muffled yelp upstairs.

Oh shit, Mom!

It was hard to get used to seeing her on the TV in some fantastical setting when her real body was just upstairs, only ten or so meters away. She’d be unclipping, preparing to console her son when she was the one who needed the TLC.

But mothers are like that.

“Help! Help me! Ollie? Dale?” She sounded panicked, but aside from the obvious, I had no idea why. Losing the race wasn’t exactly a ‘Help me’ situation. More like ‘God help whoever got in my way.’

Something was very wrong.

“Shit! Dale, call the Peacers!”

I pushed past him and navigated the shattered glass from a beer bottle I knocked over. I might’ve stepped on some, but I wouldn't have felt anything at that moment. If there was blood later, I'd know.

The stairs protested as I sprinted up, slamming my shoulder into the wall and nearly blasting through. The door to Mom’s room was shut so that nothing disturbed her. I wrenched the doorknob and barged in.

Inside was a mess. Her Pod was on its side with the metal door hanging on one hinge, revealing her precarious position. Her arm was at a strange angle, but I couldn’t tell if it was an injury or just an attempt to escape.

I straddled one end of the Pod and heaved. It wasn’t the most efficient way of doing things, but I was stressing the fuck out. My brain went into instinct mode.

Pods stand vertical. Put Pod vertical. Extract crying lady.

“What happened? Your [Dash] — sorry, what happened in here? Are you hurt? You should’ve been fully under in there, right?” I couldn’t help the barrage.

“I don’t know, Ollie. Just please, help me out of this stupid shell.”

I shimmied around the Pod, holding it steady in case it decided to go rogue on us again. Her clips were doing strange things and she’d twisted them around so much she was basically entombed in there. I went to work on her left wrist clamp while she pulled her foot from the boot and tried some of the buttons lining the inside of the Pod.

“Disengage is broken. Probably half the damn relays and circuitry will be fried or snapped. Lucky I’m not deep-fried right now — this one’s well past its warranty, you know.”

She was trying to make light of the situation, but she was clearly shaken. Dale huffed and puffed up the stairs and, when he saw Mom was okay, spoke a few conciliatory words into the phone and hung up.

“Em! What happened?”

“Don’t ask. Not yet. Just grab me a beer, thanks.”

Normally he’d jump at the opportunity and sample another one himself. Instead he stood in the doorway with a furrowed brow, staring off into space.

I finally loosened the last clip enough for Mom to escape. She limped over to Dale and poked his rotund belly.

“Beer? For me? Yeah?”

Dale looked back at her, and the neurons eventually fired, prompting him to speak.

“Has that window always been like that?” he asked.

We spun around, following where he pointed. The ‘window’ was no more, reduced to fragments of glass that covered the carpet.

“No,” Mom said. “It certainly has not.”