Panic Twice, Spin

(MOTHERSHIP ZETA December 19, 2015)

You first noticed the miniature black hole in the corner of the playroom halfway into book one of the Cyber Sakura Seven series.

Your little sister, Mahina, was playing Panic Twice, Spin. Nintendo’s warning about cosmic repercussions was in big, bold red letters on the back of the game case, but you had thought nothing of it when you bought it with your allowance for Mahina’s re-up day. It was a game about fighting zombie-ninjas, for goodness’ sake. Besides, you used to play it all the time before Mahina died.

You had just gotten to the part of your book where Sakura’s cyber-suit is fused to her skin when you heard an odd sound in the corner of the playroom, left of the holo-vision. “That sounds like God flushing His toilet,” you thought. “But far, far away.”

Mahina, of course, heard nothing. And for good reason.

Three zombie-ninjas had just spewed green-black ichor and liquefied internal organs at her face, so she had to drop down into a James Brown split, which only got her one hundred points (even though it was a defensive Level Three move) because she wasn’t wearing the short, black, pointy holo-boots. You had told Mahina she would have to buy that upgrade pack with her own allowance when you bought Panic Twice, Spin for her earlier that day at the game store.

But you weren’t being mean when you told her that. In fact, you were being nice, just like your parents had asked you to do before they left. You were being a mature twelve-year-old. You were playing the part of the older sibling well. You only wished your parents were here to see it.

The nanny had told you your father was in Japan for his business and your mother was in China for hers, and they would meet up in Hawai’i and fly back home on their private jet sometime next week. Which was fine with you. For once, you were enjoying your little sister’s company.

You just couldn’t get enough of watching her play Panic Twice, Spin. There was something so adorable about it. Not like before, when she would play your game all the time and never ask your permission.

The old Mahina had almost been obsessive about that game. Like you, she just couldn’t get enough of it. She would sneak and play it all the time before she died. She had completed every storyline and almost every side quest, except the zombie-ninjas under the moon one. And she was doing so well with it now.

Mahina didn’t stay in her split for long. She chained it to a windmill: a leg sweep started the move, while her forearms and back took the brunt of the roll on the hardwood floor. Her momentum was continuous and fluid as her skinny little brown legs spun in a lethal V.

Those zombie-ninjas didn’t stand a chance.

Mahina took their legs off at the knees. Their rotted stumps went flying, end over end, landing off-screen. She laughed as she rolled and spun.

You couldn’t help but smile. This Mahina had the exact same laugh as the old Mahina. Your mother and father had made sure she was programmed that way. It was wonderful to hear again.

When your parents had told you they were going to buy a Naomi Nakamura Industries re-up to replace the old Mahina (sparing no expense, including a full memory upgrade to the hour before she was run down in the crosswalk by that drunk driver), you had thought the new Mahina would sound like a robot. It made sense, considering Naomi Nakamura Industries called her a paedroid. But this re-up was just like your little sister in every single way—especially when it came to difficult and intricate dance moves.

Mahina knew the last move of a combo chain was crucial for max points, so she ended her attack with a stab: head down; one skinny little arm fully extended and supporting her entire body weight; torso twisted toward the holo-vision; skinny little legs angled overhead—stiff, straight, and bent at the waist.

For five seconds, she held the move. One thousand points. And then, the zombie-ninjas broke her concentration with a barrage of shiny shuriken, thrown with adept accuracy, despite being legless and prone.

It was only instinct that saved Mahina.

Without thinking, she executed a leg sweep again, shifting from her stab into continuous flares, grateful for the gymnastics training your mother had made your nanny drag Mahina to from the day she turned two-and-a-half years old until the day of the hit-and-run accident last year. This time, not one, but two of her skinny little arms alternated in bearing her weight as her skinny little legs flared up and down—stock-straight, with a wide, saddle split—deflecting the six ninja stars right back at the zombie-ninjas.

Mahina smiled at the satisfying chunk! sound the shuriken made as they pierced the zombie-ninjas’ soft skulls and stuck fast within their rotted brains. Five hundred points each.

But she had no time to celebrate. A new horde of zombie-ninjas materialized from the shadows on all sides of her, moonlight glinting off their katanas.

You looked over at the black hole. God had flushed again, and the cosmic swirl was now larger.

Mahina flowed from her flares into a standing position, placed her feet shoulder-width apart, and snapped a Michael Jackson front kick. The zombie-ninjas hesitated. Three hundred points.

She tilted the brim of her black, cyber-coded fedora down over her eyes. The zombie-ninjas leaned back as one. Five hundred points.  She grabbed her crotch. Negative five hundred points. The zombie-ninjas shuffled closer. Mahina frowned.

But it was all good. She’d just remembered one of the defensive combo chains in preparation for melee combat. Mahina crossed her feet at the ankles, twirled—once, twice, three times—and came to a perfect stop, facing the holo-vision and the holo-game console, balanced on her tip-toes. Eight hundred points.

You glanced at the black hole. It was shrinking.