The butterfly effect... could that explain what I was witnessing?

  Victory hadn't just won once and stopped. She'd transformed that initial win into an unstoppable streak, throwing herself into match after match, each one more brutal than the last. Now, in her seventeenth battle, the toll was evident. Her breathing had grown heavy, movements visibly slower—yet somehow, defying all logic, she remained undefeated. But her endurance wasn't what had captivated the audience. It was her meta nature, an astonishing arsenal that seemed to defy possibility. Throughout her streak, she'd displayed more than a dozen distinct powers, each one emerging at exactly the right moment to counter her opponents. The audience sat transfixed, caught in the spell of her performance.

  They had never seen anything like her—a prodigy of this magnitude appearing in a place like this? It defied belief.

  The reason for their shock was simple. The people who typically fought in these rings were mercenaries, drifters, and fighters seeking fortune and glory. They were driven by their own ambitions and desires. But a truly powerful person? They never needed to seek such things. Power, wealth, and fame naturally gravitated towards them without any conscious effort on their part.

  But Victory? She was an anomaly.

  The spectators whispered among themselves, speculating in hushed tones: could someone like her even exist in the first place? After all, any individual capable of displaying such immense power would surely be claimed by the governments, secret organizations, or powerful families. They would be fiercely protected and kept hidden from the public eye, their abilities too valuable to risk in the chaos.

  Unless, of course, she was something even rarer. A magical meta: those metahumans could learn and cast multiple spells.

  But none of that mattered compared to what was happening to my bet. When I'd placed it, Victory's odds had been laughably small—one in a thousand, if that. Her first win had seemed like a miracle, the kind of long shot no one would stake their future on. But as she carved through opponent after opponent like a blade through mist, that impossible start had become a streak. My tiny wager, placed more out of curiosity than any real conviction, had grown into something staggering.

  The payout I stood to claim was astronomical—well into the millions.

  The thought of that kind of money should have filled me with euphoria. A life-changing windfall waiting to happen.

  The prospect of millions should have been my primary concern. Instead, I found myself grappling with the logistics. Collecting such a massive sum wouldn't be simple—no quick transaction or easy cash-out. A win this size would draw attention, and attention in these circles meant danger. If I could somehow manage to slip away with it quietly, I'd never need to chase lottery numbers or scheme for money again.

  But the money felt almost secondary now. My thoughts kept circling back to Victory's identity.

  HyperSpace's privacy protocols were absolute. No names passed through its filters, no genders revealed, no identifying marks survived its masking systems. Victory was just another avatar, wrapped in layers of digital anonymity. Yet something about her nagged at me.

  I searched through my memories, trying to place her in the timelines I'd lived. Nothing fit. No one with her particular combination of abilities should have existed at this point in history. It was as if she'd appeared from nowhere, defying the careful order of events I'd witnessed before.

  Then again, my own memory wasn't exactly reliable anymore. The weight of multiple lifetimes made precision difficult—events blurred together, details faded or mixed with other moments. The further back I reached, the more uncertain everything became.

  For a moment, I considered a startling possibility: could she be another time traveler? But I dismissed the thought almost immediately. If she was on her third cycle like me, her performance would have been dramatically different. An experienced meta-human who'd mastered their abilities through multiple lives wouldn't need seventeen grueling matches to prove themselves. They would have dominated the arena effortlessly, perhaps taking on multiple opponents simultaneously without breaking stride.

  The crowd’s roar snapped me back to reality as she claimed yet another win. She looked exhausted but unyielding, standing tall despite the strain.

  Whoever she was, wherever she’d come from—she wasn’t done yet. And neither was I.

  A nagging thought kept circling in my mind: could I somehow be responsible for this butterfly effect? The morning's events—my impromptu debut as "Wild Striker," demolishing those two meta-users and becoming the city's newest viral sensation—might have already caused ripples I couldn't predict. Perhaps Victory was just another unexpected consequence, though even that felt like a stretch.

  After all, Stepping on an ants doesn’t create a meta-human powerhouse who shatters rules and expectations.

  The more I tried to untangle this puzzle, the more complex it became. Here I was, watching someone else's meteoric rise to fame while my own masked identity was probably still trending. Both of us hiding behind anonymity, both causing unexpected chaos in our own ways. Obsessing over any connection now was pointless; answers weren't going to materialize just because I wanted them to.

  But I did know one thing for certain: she was local. The arena's registration system required fighters to be from the same city. She wasn't some distant mystery from across the world—she was here, somewhere in my backyard. Our paths could cross again, in or out of HyperSpace, and when they did, I'd have my chance to solve this mystery. For now, though, maybe it was time to stop overthinking everything. I settled back in my seat, finally allowing myself to smile. I'd made a fortune today. The pot of gold my meta nature had revealed had turned out to be quite literal, in more ways than one. Between this windfall and my morning's activities, this timeline was already shaping up to be far more interesting than I'd anticipated.

  I might as well enjoy the show. Who knew how far she could push this streak, how many more opponents would fall before she finally stopped.

  Whatever was happening here, I had a front-row seat to something unprecedented.

  Logging out of HyperSpace always left me a little dazed, and this time was no different. The transition from the immersive virtual world to the stillness of reality was jarring. Midnight had slipped by unnoticed while I was inside, and now, back in the real world, exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. My body felt heavy, my eyelids drooped, and hunger gnawed at my stomach. But the stairs to the kitchen felt like an insurmountable trek, so I collapsed onto my bed and let sleep claim me.

  Morning came too soon, the shrill blare of my alarm shattering the peace.

  I groaned, burying myself deeper in the cocoon of blankets, and hit snooze—then again, and again. By the time I finally rolled out of bed, it was already ten.

  The world outside was alive and buzzing, while I was still shaking off the remnants of my grogginess. After a quick shower, I trudged back to my room to get dressed.

  Opening my closet, I was immediately hit with a grim reminder of my poor living situation.

  My wardrobe was pitiful—faded t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and one jacket that was practically falling apart. I couldn’t help but mutter, How did I manage to live like this? With a sigh, I grabbed the clothes I’d stashed away for “special occasions”: a decent black jacket, a half-sleeve sweater, and a pair of pants that didn’t scream I’ve given up.

  I layered them together.

  "Dress like you own the place," I said to myself as I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my hair that fell in windswept layers around my face. The outfit wasn't flashy—far from it—but it felt polished, deliberate. A step up from my usual thrown-together look. It wasn't just the clothes; it was the energy they brought. I could feel my spirit shift ever so slightly, an undercurrent of confidence creeping in.

  For a moment, I lingered in front of the mirror longer than I usually would. My reflection stared back with contemplatively, and I allowed myself the rare luxury of really looking. I had to admit, I was good-looking—not in a way that demanded attention, but enough to hold it. My face was thin, high cheekbones and defined jawline gave me a quiet elegant air, but only if I was groomed properly. While my full lips held a thoughtful expression. My skin seemed to glow under the bathroom lights, and my height didn't hurt, either. At just shy of six feet -- due to modified genetics, I had a presence that couldn’t be ignored, not in an overbearing way, but enough to draw attention and hold it for a moment longer than most.

  The thought made me smile a little, though I quickly pushed it aside. This wasn’t about vanity; it was about carrying myself differently.

  Downstairs, my aunt was sprawled on the couch, flipping through TV channels with the kind of aimless ease I envied. I made a beeline for the kitchen, where her voice followed me. “There’s some avocado toast in the bowl,” she called out. A small wave of gratitude washed over me—no scavenging for breakfast today. I poured myself a cup of milk and sat down, ready to dig in.

  That’s when her question blindsided me. “What, are you going on a date or something?”

  I froze mid-bite, my spoon hovering in the air. Slowly, I turned to look at her. She was leaning over the back of the couch, eyebrows raised, an amused smirk playing on her lips. That look—the one that said she’d sniffed out something interesting and wasn’t about to let it go.

  I swallowed hard, trying to play it cool. “What? No. Just felt like dressing up.”

  Her smirk widened. “Sure, sure,” she said, her tone dripping with disbelief.

  To be fair, my aunt’s question wasn’t all that strange. Aunt Grace—Grace Rudge—had always been someone I could relax around. We got along effortlessly, and our banter came naturally. She was the kind of person who could make even the most awkward moments comfortable, which was probably why my parents decided I’d be better off living with her than on campus. She knew me too well, and I guess they figured that’d keep me grounded.

  At eighteen, having just been accepted into one of the country’s most exclusive academies, I figured I should start making an effort to look more put-together every once in a while.

  Still, she didn’t seem like she was planning to let the matter go. I could feel her watching me as if she were trying to detect the tiniest shift in my behavior.

  “I’m sure something happened,” she muttered, almost to herself, her brow furrowed as if piecing together a mystery.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Her reaction made me smirk, though I tried to keep it subtle. In her eyes, it was as if the scruffy, perpetually underdressed nephew she knew had been replaced by this polished version sitting at her kitchen table.

  Before I could think of a witty response, she waved me off with a casual flick of her hand. “Anyway,” she said, switching topics, “don’t come home early today, alright?”

  I blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

  She raised an eyebrow at me, clearly unimpressed by my cluelessness. “Why? Just because you can’t pull bitches doesn’t mean I can’t,” she said with a sly grin, leaning back into the couch with a self-satisfied air.

  I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I returned to my toast.

  Aunt Grace was in her late twenties, and she had the kind of confidence people twice her age only dreamed of. She had a solid job, plenty of ambition, and no problem keeping her social life interesting.

  Her meta nature wasn’t anything flashy—she could repair paper, and only paper—but she carried it with a quiet pride that I’d always admired. It wasn’t about how grand or powerful her abilities were; it was about how she owned them, how she found value in something so seemingly small. That was Aunt Grace in a nutshell—unapologetically herself, no matter what.

  After finishing breakfast, I grabbed my bag and was just about to step out the door when her voice stopped me. “Before you leave, tell me how’s my day,” she called.

  I froze for a moment, glancing back at her. She was lounging on the couch, her expression casual and unreadable.

  Over time, I’d learned to respond to these moments without looking too deeply.

  There were rules I’d set for myself, values I clung to, especially when it came to knowing too much. Sometimes, the future wasn’t something people really wanted to see, and I was more than happy to keep it that way.

  “It’s looking good,” I said with a small smile, careful to keep my voice light.

  She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and I stepped out into the cool morning air, letting it sweep away the weight of the moment.

  The academy halls were quiet by the time I arrived. First lecture: missed entirely. Fundamentals of Meta Nature was already in full swing when I slipped through the door, trying to be inconspicuous after my eventful morning of vigilante fighting and virtual betting.

  Most students were too engrossed in their notes or the instructor's enthusiastic lecture to notice my late arrival. The few who glanced my way quickly returned their attention to the front. I found an empty table and let my bag drop softly beside me.

  That's when I noticed her.

  She sat to my right, her short hair styled with precise attention to detail, every strand exactly where it should be. Her clothes spoke of careful curation—the kind of effortless elegance that took considerable effort to achieve. Her features held that distinct quality that only came from third-generation enhancement: the subtle symmetry of her eyes, the perfectly calculated angle of her cheekbones, the exact arch of her brows that designers had spent decades determining was most aesthetically pleasing to the human brain.

  Designer baby, without question. But not just any standard genetic package.

  In the past two centuries, genetic engineering had evolved from crude DNA splicing to an art form. The wealthy didn't just edit out diseases anymore—they curated their children like premium software, selecting from vast libraries of enhanced traits. Everything from basic height adjustments like mine to complex neural optimization that boosted pattern recognition and learning speed. The most expensive packages could cost as much as a small country's GDP. They offered what designers called "comprehensive enhancement"—improved muscle fiber density, optimized organ efficiency, enhanced sensory processing. Some clinics even claimed they could engineer specific personality traits, though that remained controversial.

  I remembered the elite genetic clinics of the future, their promises of guaranteeing powerful meta natures through DNA manipulation. They'd failed spectacularly, of course. Meta nature remained stubbornly unpredictable, emerging according to its own mysterious logic.

  The harder scientists tried to force it, the more it seemed to resist their efforts.

  Some of the wealthiest families had spent fortunes trying to engineer supreme meta abilities into their bloodlines. They'd achieved physical perfection, enhanced intelligence, even improved emotional control—but meta nature continued to follow its own rules, even the most advanced predictive models. No amount of money or science could force it.

  Still, there was something about this girl that felt… off.

  It wasn’t her style or the inevitable modifications behind her flawless appearance. There was a subtle dissonance, a tension I felt, I couldn’t quite name.

  It wasn’t obvious—not to anyone else, at least. But to me, it was like the faintest vibration in the air, something just outside of reach.

  My eyes flicked away, pretending to adjust my notes, but my curiosity lingered.

  Too many odd things were happening around me. Or Coincidences!

  The feeling crept in, subtle but insistent, like catching the edges of a pattern you couldn’t quite piece together. Something was amiss, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  I wasn’t trying to be judgmental, but the sense was oddly familiar, like when you notice a pattern but can’t fully grasp it. Maybe it’s just her meta nature, I told myself, deciding to let it go for now. Whatever it was, it would surface eventually.

  I turned my focus back to the lecture. Even with the experiences and knowledge I'd accumulated in my last cycle, a refresher on the basics wasn’t a bad idea.

  Our instructor’s voice cut through the room, sharp and engaging. “As we’ve discussed before, we classify meta nature into three main types, each with their unique characteristics: Unique, Hive, and Bizarre.”

  Her eyes swept across the class, bright with expectation. “Can anyone give me an example of a Hive-type meta nature?”

  Silence stretched out as her gaze moved across the classroom, waiting for someone to volunteer. I considered responding, feeling a slight itch to contribute—but I decided to hold back, curious to see if anyone else would answer.

  The tension in the room was palpable.

  Hive meta natures weren’t rare—if anything, they were the most common, making up about eighty percent of the population. Stable and predictable, Hive meta natures had relatively uniform traits across users and rarely came with significant personal drawbacks.

  Unlike the volatile Unique meta natures, Hive powers were widespread and safe, often passed down generationally without much variation. You’d think someone would be eager to answer such a straightforward question.

  But the hesitation made sense, too. Many students had grown up with warnings from parents or mentors: Don’t talk about your meta nature openly. Someone might use it against you.

  That fear was ingrained. It wasn’t paranoia; it was survival.

  You never knew who might try to exploit what made you unique. Still, some meta natures were so infamous that everyone knew about them, their names whispered on the news, plastered across the internet, or associated with the kind of notorious figures who made headlines.

  Fifteen percent of the population, however, wasn’t so lucky. Those with Unique meta natures had abilities that were as individualistic as fingerprints but came at a cost. Some had side effects—like energy-draining consequences, odd physical transformations, or unpredictable behaviors. Others had powers so obscure or specific that they struggled to find practical uses for them like Aunt Grace.

  By contrast, Hive meta natures were generally reliable, as their traits were more uniform across users and rarely caused major personal drawbacks.

  “The Ghost Writer,” a boy in the front row finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  Mrs. Marlee’s face lit up, clearly pleased. “Exactly. The Ghost Writer is a classic example of a Hive-type meta nature.”

  She wasn’t wrong. The Ghost Writer was practically the blueprint for Hive meta natures—and one of the most mysterious and common examples. Those who awakened as Ghost Writers didn’t just gain an ability; they inherited a role. It was as if the universe itself handed them a place in a sprawling, ever-shifting narrative. Their powers weren’t just tools—they were threads in a cosmic story, interwoven with secrets, influence, and peculiar rules.

  It was said that their actions, and even their existence, aligned with a grand, unknowable plot.

  In some ways, they weren’t just living their lives—they were fulfilling a story. Their abilities often manifested in strange, narrative-driven ways, unpredictable and yet oddly purposeful. The Ghost Writer didn’t just write—they created outcomes, forced events into motion, and uncovered truths as if compelled by a greater force.

  There was even a rumor that one of the strongest humans alive possessed a Hive-type meta nature with the title Protagonist.

  And, naturally, the world didn’t limit itself to a single protagonist—Just as stories often featured multiple leading figures, the world, too, could support more than one. And titles like Protagonist, Antagonist, or even Hero and Villain could appear.

  A ripple of interest moved through the classroom as Mrs. Marlee continued. “For those of you unfamiliar, Hive meta natures are often shared across groups, though they vary in how they manifest for each individual. Some are straightforward, like enhanced physical abilities. Others, like The Ghost Writer, are more complex and tied to broader concepts, Titles, for instance, are a fascinating example. They don’t just grant abilities—they assign inherent roles or tendencies that influence the person’s life and actions. It’s as if the universe gives them a function within its story.”

  As I glanced around, I noticed the shift in the room. A few students were leaning forward now, listening more intently. It wasn’t surprising—Hive meta natures had an inherent balance of power and risk. Their shared traits could make them strong, but they also came with predictable vulnerabilities. Those interconnected qualities could be exploited, but the flip side was undeniable: being part of a larger group meant they had strength in numbers, a built-in network of support.

  “For your first assignment,” Mrs. Marlee announced, “I’d like each of you to meet one of our teachers who possesses the Ghost Writer meta nature. His title is The Wise Mentor, which is quite a unique one. When you have time, go and introduce yourselves to him. Be polite—he’s someone who can help you with many of your challenges.”

  A teacher with the title Wise Mentor? That practically screamed importance.

  “And your second task,” she continued, “is to gather and write about as many Hive meta natures as you can find among family, friends, or even online. We’ll discuss them in our next class.”

  I had to admit, Mrs. Marlee’s teaching approach was refreshingly unique and effective. She was giving students hands-on experience.

  Then Mrs. Marlee shifted gears. “As I’ve mentioned the Hive meta nature,” she said, her voice taking on a more deliberate tone, “I’m pleased to add that we have quite a few Unique meta natures among us as well. Feel free to introduce yourselves to each other after class.”

  However, then, her tone darkened slightly, her expression more guarded as she added, “But one word of caution for everyone—be aware of Bizarre meta natures.”

  She didn’t elaborate, leaving the warning to hang in the air. That in itself said a lot. The government had invested considerable effort into educating people about the dangers of Bizarre meta-natures, and with good reason. They were rare enough that most people would never encounter one in their lifetime, but their unpredictability and chaotic nature made them a constant concern.

  It was widely believed that Bizarre meta natures were “broken,” fragmented meta natures that didn’t conform to any logical system.

  They were unlike any other category. I’d had my own fair share of unsettling experiences with Bizarre meta nature, and they weren't something I’d ever forget. Those powers didn’t feel like they belonged to the person—or thing—that wielded them. It was as if the abilities had a mind of their own, existing outside the individual’s control or understanding.

  Bizarre meta nature were also the only ones known to manifest in anything: a person, an animal, or even an inanimate object. That unpredictability was what made them so dangerous.

  You could prepare for a Hive or Unique nature, but Bizarre natures? They defied preparation.

  They didn’t just bend the rules; they ignored them entirely.

  In the 2nd episode of SuperWorld, we’re back with the city’s most beloved podcast!

  "Meta Matters: Social Superpower Shenanigans"

  [Upbeat intro music plays]

  Jamie: Welcome back to Meta Matters! The podcast where we dive into the hilarious, awkward, and slightly terrifying world of living with meta abilities. I’m Jamie, the voice of reason in a world where your neighbor might accidentally turn your mailbox into jello.

  Riley: And I’m Riley, the chaotic energy that fuels this podcast and keeps us laughing at life’s weird meta moments. So Jamie, the other day, my neighbor—you know the one who can control the weather?—decided to "help" by making it sunny during my barbecue.

  Jamie: Oh no, I can already tell where this is going.

  Riley: Yeah, instead of just sunshine, she cranked it up to 110 degrees. It was like grilling inside a volcano. My burgers were cooked before they hit the grill.

  Jamie: Classic weather manipulator move. They always mean well, but there’s no "off switch." Like that one guy who dyed my hair purple at a party because he thought it would be "fun." Spoiler: It was not fun.

  Riley: Did you at least rock the look?

  Jamie: For about two days, until I looked like a bad grape cosplay. But that’s the thing with metas—they’re always eager to show off, even when no one asked. You know who’s the worst? People with powers that sound helpful but are actually horrifying.

  Riley: Oh, like "mood enhancers." Those people terrify me. I don’t need someone messing with my emotions in the middle of a stressful workday. "Oh, you’re feeling anxious? Let me zap you into happiness!" Uh, no thanks. I need my anxiety—it’s my motivation.

  Jamie: Right? And don’t even get me started on the "super efficient helpers" at events. The ones who rearrange all the tables at super speed but forget that chairs still exist.

  Riley: Oh, or those people who insist on using their fire powers to light birthday candles. Sure, Todd, let’s "celebrate" with third-degree burns. So helpful.

  Jamie: Speaking of "helpful," I once got a "gift" from a meta who thought it would be cute to knit me a sweater with their super speed. It unraveled before I even got it out of the box. Just… stop.

  Riley: Oh! That reminds me—ever get a gift that’s too personal? My cousin gave me a jar of "personalized stardust." Sounds cool until it burst open and took out my microwave.

  Jamie: "Meta Gifts Gone Wrong" should be an entire book. Rule number one: If it has the potential to combust, just don’t.

  Riley: Unless it’s popcorn. Then, combust away.

  Jamie: Fair. Anyway, speaking of combusting… I’m pretty sure your co-worker who teleports everywhere is about to blow up the copier. Again.

  Riley: Oh my god, Gary. Gary "The Copier Ninja." Every time he "ports" to the copier, he ends up inside the breakroom fridge. How does he even manage that?

  Jamie: I’m telling you, teleporters are the worst when it comes to workplace etiquette. Like, I get it, you can port. That doesn’t mean you need to "pop in" to someone’s cubicle for a chat. Ever heard of knocking?

  Riley: Or just… not being creepy. Honestly, teleporters need their own HR seminar. "Porting Appropriately in Shared Spaces."

  Jamie: And can we talk about speedsters who treat the office like a racetrack? Linda keeps running past my desk so fast she turns my papers into confetti.

  Riley: Confetti is festive… unless it’s your tax forms. Then it’s a lawsuit.

  Jamie: Exactly! You know what, though? The worst offenders are probably the truth compel—

  Riley: Truth compulsion people! Yes! Like, I don’t need you forcing me to admit I ate the last donut. We all know I did. That’s not first-date material or office gossip.

  Jamie: Seriously, keep that power for therapy. Or at least use it for good, like finding out who keeps stealing my lunch from the fridge.

  Riley: Oh, definitely. But only if it’s Gary. Gary’s suspicious.

  Jamie: Always Gary. Anyway, back to dating. Have you ever dated a teleporter?

  Riley: Once. Never again. He thought it was "romantic" to take me to five countries for dinner. But let me tell you, jet lag is real even if you skip the flights.

  Jamie: Yeah, teleporters are the ultimate "too much, too fast." And speedsters? They finish their meals before you’ve even looked at the menu.

  Riley: Or shapeshifters who think it’s cute to "become your favorite celebrity." Like, no, Chad. I don’t want to eat pizza with Ryan Gosling. I want to eat pizza with you or whatever… unless you’re bad company, in which case, go full Gosling.

  Jamie: Sounds like Chad didn’t make the cut. Anyway, I think we’ve officially established that metas need to learn some serious boundaries… whether it’s at work, on a date, or just living their overly-helpful lives.

  Riley: Agreed. And on that note, if you’re a mood enhancer listening to this… just stop. Please. Let us be awkward in peace.

  Jamie: That’s it for today, folks. Thanks for tuning in to Meta Matters! Don’t forget to share your meta mishaps and subscribe for more awkward laughs.

  Riley: Stay super, stay polite, and please… don’t "port" unannounced. Bye!

  [Outro music plays]