Prophecy #12
Concerning Fuuta Della Stella

He pointed to Tokyo on the blaring, green-screen, a digital map of Japan with color-coded, shape-shifting clouds. 'On Air' glowed under the heavy camera. A high of eighty-eight degrees. Sixty percent chance of thunderstorms tonight. Sixty percent, just to be safe.

That night, no thunder boomed outside his apartment, no rain fell. The humid air hung smothering and his nightshirt was wet with sweat. No way could he sleep.

Searching desperately for the electric fan, he found the old book. Some yellowed pages were torn out, others scribbled over with black marker to hide the identities. To hide the mistakes.

Who was the strongest?

Who was the smartest?

Who is the most capable?

The cosmic replies were jumble, garbled, babbling, and as uncertain as Heisenberg. Everything, lost in translation. His books were wrong, all wrong. His map changed every instant. Useless.

The universe had no laws.

How can he know?

Because the atmosphere refused to cry, the moist air defying gravity, once more, just to spite him.