This is how the world ends. Not with a bang. Not with a whimper.

With a stupid kid who forgot his cousin's birthday.

I anxiously messaged my best friend, hoping he'd have any semblance of an idea what to get her.

[ (FFN) messaged Pottermore (PM)!]

FFN: Oh my God.

FFN: WHAT DO FOURTEEN YEAR OLDS EVEN LIKE.

FFN: CAN I STILL GET BARBIE STUFF?

PM: Like I know, mate.

PM: Get her a...

PM: Horse?

FFN: A horse.

FFN: A. Horse.

FFN: Where am I going to get a horse?

PM: Sorry, mate.

PM: Just tryin to help you out.

Oh, Pottermore. I met him about three years ago, on a chat room. We've been best friends ever since. We both love Harry Potter, but PoMo's a total freak about it. He knows everything there is to know. Unfortunately, he just doesn't ship anybody. I don't get it. Isn't the point of new things to ship them? Am I missing something here? I ship everything, all the time, twenty-four-seven. I'm like the FedEx of relationships.

Oh, Pottermore messaged me again.

PM: Why don't'cha ask YT?

PM: She's a girl, too.

FFN: NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE.

FFN: You know what she's like!

PM: Just coz she's a little insane in the mainframe doesn't mean that she won't help you!

PM: Wait a tick. Brilliant plan!

PM: Get her a copy of SBURB!

I have no idea what he's talking about.

FFN: What even. What's an SBURB?

PM: It's a video game. It's free and everyfing! Just find it online!

FFN: Link?

PM: No how. Find it yourself, tosser.

I laughed at that. Pottermore is sort of an idiot, but he respects my language issues and he's honest.

One quick interest scour and email later, I was set. A list of Rules and Terms of Agreement came up, but I just got rid of those. They're probably just like guidelines or something, right? Pssh. LAME!

"I do what I want! I'm an independent person!" I shout to my empty room, and push backwards away from my computer desk, rolling away in my desk chair.

My chair goes back for a bit, then catches on something. I'm thrown to the floor and hit my head on a bookshelf. Agony! Horrible, horrible agony! I have done nothing!

Rolling into a crouch, I carefully examine the crime scene. A wire runs across my room, set up purposely to trip me. My sister would think this is hilarious. She probably did it too. I will fight her! I will fight her and restore honor to my name!

I flick my brown hair out of my eyes. God, Thor never had this problem. I don't want to get my hair cut yet, but it keeps falling in my face. I run my hand over my snakebite piercings. I'm proud of them. They make me an individual. And that I'm different from the rest of society.

Wait, didn't I have to go do something? Fight somebody?

Wait, the stuff I sent to my cousin, I'm not entirely sure what it is.

What if...

What if I sent her porn?

OH. MY. GOD. I AM HORRIBLE.

I race back to my laptop and try to message Pottermore, but something's already there. A note.

Get off the computer. Go outside. From Sis.

Aha! That was what I wanted to do! Fight sister! I open my door, edging forwards. I'll get the drop on her this time around. I'll win, this time. I'll-

My sister gets a swift roundhouse to the back of my knees, dropping me to the floor.

"You haven't been practicing."

I try to get up, but she plants a foot in between my shoulder blades.

"I have things to do. Not now, sister."

The foot goes away, and I roll onto my back, then get to my feet. My sister advances, ranting. "No slam poetry. No editing. No slashing. No plot bunny slaying. Nothing at all! I'm not raising you to be a failure, !"

Whoa, full name. I'm in trouble. My sister's black hair is caught back in a ponytail, offset by a white shirt and red pants.

"Look, Fictionpress, I'm sorry. I'll train later. I've got to deal with something right now, okay?" I tell her, backing up.

"I have to visit your cousin. Fight before I go?" she asks me, relaxing her posture. But I know better. This is not an ask. This is a challenge! She demands that I fight her! The nerve of her!

I open my sylladex and touch my finger to the screen. I've got it set to Tricky Upload fetch modus. It's such a pain to use. My Strife Deck holds literally nothing, so I keep everything in the Captchalogue deck. I can then drag it to the Strife Deck, and then I can equip it.

So needless to say, it takes a while to get myself properly armed. My sister's been pretty much training me since I could walk. The Pen-sword requires the most dextrous of linguistics and the most disciplined grammar for proper use. My Pen-Sword's called Reviewer's Revenge, and my sister's is called Mightier than the Written Word.

I've barely got my hand in the grip when Fictionpress swings for my head. I throw up the weakest parry since I was nine. She swings for my stomach, and in the narrow hallway, it's tough to move. I block the hit, and she jumps over me. I roll backwards, expecting a sucker-stab, but my sister slashes out the light, plunging the hallway into darkness.

"Sugar Honey Ice Tea!" I spit, pressing my back into the wall.

"Got that right!"

My sister plants her foot into my sternum, and with a street-fighter worthy kick, sending me sprawling through the drywall.

"Pathetic, little bro. I expect better when I come back."

"Urrg. 'Kay. Whatever you say, Fictionpress."

My sister spends six months of the year at my cousin's, looking after her, and the other six months of the year looking after me.

She's cool, and she taught me the ancient fighting style of slam poetry. Plus she buys food so I don't die.

Shaking drywall dust out of my hair, I notice that my computer down the hall is beeping. I roll out of the dust and check it out. Ew. YT's trying to message me. No thank you. Last thing I need is Schizophrenic Crazypants screaming at me.

Whatever. Could probably do some research on that game I sent my cousin.

The internet search pulls up a bunch of weird stuff, like that it could potentially end the world. And it's not just one thing, but a lot of things. I hear "Alternate Timelines" "Heroes" and "EXTREMELY HIGH MORTALITY RATE."

What have I done?