The next day began like any other: with Jenkins handing me a titanium-fortified cereal spoon and a briefing on local gravitational anomalies. You know—Tuesday things.
But the real drama was already in motion.
"Today," Ms. Benson announced, "is Midtown Elementary's Annual Talent Show!"
The class erupted in squeals, gasps, and one suspicious lightning crackle (not me this time).
I raised an eyebrow. "Talent show? Isn't that just competitive public embarrassment with glitter?"
"It's mandatory," Ms. Benson replied flatly, "and you're already signed up."
"…I object on the grounds of metaphysical integrity."
"Denied."
Moments later, a SYSTEM alert popped up like an overexcited party planner.
POP-UP EVENT: ELEMENTARY TALENT SHOW OF DOOM
Objective: Don't obliterate anyone with awesomeness.
Bonus: Win the show using the weirdest method possible.
Reward: ???
[PARTICIPATE] [PARTICIPATE WITH FLARE]
Obviously, I chose the second one.
Rehearsals began.
Brandon, my dragon-obsessed seatmate, was doing interpretive dance to the Pokémon theme. Pudding Pete planned to stack pudding cups into a replica of the Eiffel Tower. Travis, of course, was performing an original rap titled "I'm The Best (You're Not)."
It was… devastatingly offbeat.
Meanwhile, I sat in a corner calculating quantum harmonics and how best to use a wormhole to produce bass drops.
Mindy leaned over.
"What's your talent going to be? Glowing dramatically?"
"I'm thinking… multi-dimensional yo-yo tricks with a side of orchestral chaos."
She stared.
"What?" I asked. "I rehearsed."
"Of course you did."
By the time the actual event started, the auditorium was packed. Parents, teachers, and one suspicious squirrel with binoculars sat ready for the madness.
The principal, a tired man named Mr. Grumbly, welcomed everyone onstage. "May your talents be adequate, and your egos recover quickly."
Then the show began.
One by one, students took the stage. There were magic tricks, kazoo solos, a dramatic reading of Goodnight Moon set to techno.
Then Travis appeared, backed by backup dancers (two terrified fifth-graders) and dropped his beat:
"Yo, I'm Travis T,
The one you'll see,
With style so loud
I broke the P.T.A!"
The audience clapped politely. One janitor wept for humanity.
Then it was my turn.
I floated up the steps, summoning my "instrument"—a yo-yo made from folded spacetime and vibranium string.
The curtains parted.
I activated the Great Sage.
Stage resonance calibrated.
Rhythmic distortion aligned.
Begin spectacle mode: YES.
I spun the yo-yo.
Light twisted.
Sound warbled.
The yo-yo shimmered through colors, then sliced a rift in the air—a mini wormhole opened midair, emitting the sound of a celestial choir fused with a dubstep beat.
Then I moonwalked across the stage, manipulating gravity fields to make the floor pulse with each step. Laser pigeons (illusionary, of course) burst into choreographed flight behind me.
At some point, I started juggling cosmic string and quoting Shakespeare while beatboxing.
"Is this a talent, or a warning?" whispered Ms. Benson.
The crowd sat in stunned silence.
Then the squirrel in the front row fainted.
The curtains closed.
I bowed. Twice. Then sideways.
The SYSTEM chimed with approval.
MISSION COMPLETE
Bonus Achieved: Maximum Weirdness
Reward Unlocked:
New Title Acquired: Harbinger of Hype
Side Reward: "Interdimensional Bass Drop" (Passive Skill)
You now automatically remix background music in any dramatic scene.
The winner?
Technically… everyone.
(But my yo-yo created an artful cosmic spiral, and Travis accidentally rapped himself into a stage trapdoor, so… I think we know.)
Back in the limo, Jenkins handed me a gold trophy.
"I hacked the judges' scores," he said.
"Unnecessary. But appreciated."
"I also adopted the squirrel."
"I knew I liked you."
As we drove home, I reflected on the real lesson of the day:
Talent is subjective. But space-bending yo-yos? Those are eternal.