Unfit by K Hippolite Page A

people.
      As we draw closer, the rioters stop falling back. They form a line. And at the front of that line, I see Kimberly.
      Kimberly wears her blue track pants and top, as if she just showed up from a ball game. She has her hair loose, like she prefers it, and holds a metal pole in her hand.
      I hear Kristanson ask Elias about the pole.
      “Is that a lightning rod she has? Does she think she can tap someone of my power?”
      “I think it is. Pertran spoke of this one before he died. Be careful, for she may be the Blue’s Elika.”
      The mob has formed a bit of a clearing for Kimberly. She plants her lightning rod on the street before her and holds it with both hands. About her head, the mark of Kajo glows a muted and translucent blue.
      She stares at Kristanson across that half-block clearing of ash-rain.
      Kristanson, I notice, is in his bolt-making pose. Except, no lightning arcs from his fingertips. By the deepening scowl on his face, I’d say he is trying to shoot her. And failing. Kimberly is preventing him from even making a bolt.
      “Grah!” says Kristanson, sweeping out his arms in disgust. “You dare to mock me?”
      Kimberly runs for him, and their electrostatic fields meet, freezing them for that unusual tableau. It catches Kristanson in a low stance, legs spread for balance and hem of his robe rippling in a melodic dance. He holds his arms before his chest, about a metre apart. Free now to generate a bolt, the first shards of dangerous energy trickle from one hand to the other. Kimberly is frozen in the air, doing a side flip, about to kick Kristanson in the head. She has the pole raised defiantly above her in this slow-motion universe that Lightnings inhabit during their duels.
      The temporal negotiation ends with a bang, and Kristanson is down. Kimberly lands past him and drops into a low braking stance. Her long hair snakes past her as the crackling wind registers her passage. Her lightning rod, which looks like a thick steel pole, is bent slightly, from the force with which she struck Kristanson’s shoulder.
      But her opponent has not suffered a broken bone. Kristanson places his palms on the street and gets into kneeling position. As he struggles to regain his footing, Kimberly cracks him over the back with her lightning rod.
      She lands perhaps eight strikes in a blur. The lightning rod twirls into a living grey disk, whose ends scream a deadly aria, punctuated only by the deafening thuds of her strikes.
      Still Kristanson manages to get to a knee. I can see that he’s using power to absorb most of Kimberly’s blows. Her strikes only bring up red welts instead of crushing bones like they should.
      Elias has crept forward now. I see him glancing at the crowd and back at me. Perhaps he wonders what will happen to us all if Kimberly loses this fight. By the set of his jaw, I know he’s making a very delicate choice right now.
      Kristanson regains his feet and backhands Kimberly, sending her lightning rod clattering away as she falls. He turns his right hand into a cluster of spider-like bolts and tries to set it over Kimberly’s heart before she can roll off her back. She grabs his hand, blocking him from delivering his attack.
      Some people from the crowd try to intervene, but the bolts ripple off the duellers and arc to anyone who gets near.
      “Elias, help,” barks Kristanson as he strains to push his hand through Kimberly’s grasp.
      Elias takes one more look at me, before turning to throw a bolt into the duel. The bolt strikes Kristanson, stunning him for a moment, and allowing Kimberly to land a kick to his face, sending him sprawling.
      “Traitor!” says Kristanson as he sits up.
      It is all the encouragement that the crowd needs. They close the clearing and begin to beat Kristanson with their boards and bricks. It’s too much for him to block all at once. I lose sight of him in the press of bodies.
      Kimberly emerges from the mob, as more