The Universe is a gigantic, natural entity. One that has developed into a vague, complex shape with planes and corners and lines in every dimension between zero and infinity. And because it was made imperfectly, as all things are, its planes have countless grooves and imperfections, through which the driving force of existence- call it energy, karma or God- trickles and runs and permeates, collecting in deep pools of potential where mighty powers will struggle against one another to dip in their hands and gain the awesome power to be had. These “mighty powers” engage in never-ending warfare for these pools and ultimately for control of the universe itself in grand battles across the fabric of the cosmos.

In whatever segment of eternity these battles take place near they are the stuff of legend or mourning. In far-off places where the denizens have neither form nor name, where space and time as we know it are alien concepts and entirely different dimensions and perspectives are king, and where these pools of energy are as real and palpable as pools of water are to you, souls lament the local pools’ pollution. Its sanctity was lost thousands of eons ago in a grand battle, though to them it feels paradoxically as if the battle is both a distant memory and a looming threat.

And the battles have etched their scars in more local places. Just a planet away a civilization left its red world and ascended to a state of good so pure as to be completely imperceptible to our tainted senses. On our own world, longer ago than any can remember, a pool was won tragically to evil and Eden was lost to mankind forever.

But today Eden has returned. The universe has shifted slightly, and a new well of energy- deeper than any ever known- has been carved, and it has been carved on our world. In a medium-large city in a nondescript state, the pool teems and its raw power radiates outward. And at the very center of this whirling, shifting mass of the stuff that dreams are made of, sits a seedy, run-down bowling alley. And at the very nucleus where the ultimate battle between good and evil will be waged sits an air hockey table that hasn’t worked in years.

The two warriors approach, staring one another in the eye. Both are androgynous, unremarkable looking and forgettable. One wears a black turtleneck with similarly coloured hair, the other a white cardigan with a shaved head. There will be no friendly pre-battle banter. There will be no handshakes or well wishes for the “best man”. This is air-hockey. This is war.

They approach the table, and its pores hum to life for the first time in years, though they didn’t place in a quarter. Extracting disks of crystal and obsidian, they manifest a puck of pure light. There is complete stillness between them as their forms briefly line up perfectly, and the world is in complete peace, before the disk shifts to either side and the first blow is struck.

With a powerful smack, the player in white sends the puck flying across the table at an angle, bouncing it against the side and straight for the player in black’s goal. Black acts immediately and ricochets the blow, and the puck goes flying again.

The game goes on this way for what seems like hours. The power of the smacks and the sound of the skidding puck draw a crowd of people, who stand by and gaze in astonishment. The players’ arms and the puck are all a blur, though the players are expressionless. Instead their mental energy is spent entirely in the game, watching the puck, watching the other player. The game is sudden death, they can’t afford a single slip-up. Good and Evil don’t dick around.

As the game goes on, the players change slowly, though the witnesses don’t seem to notice; they’re too drawn in by the game. The player in the black cardigan becomes pale and death-like, and their skin is drawn taut across their skeleton. The player in white’s features become splendid and radiant, and their muscles toned.

Another smack, another slide, another close save. If the players could sweat, they’d be drowning. If they could sleep, they’d be dead with exhaustion. Instead they play on, and slowly the people in the crowd begin to root for one or the other. The crowd seems divided evenly, and those rooting for the player in Black cry insults at the player in white, and even try and attack his supporters. They seem altered by their air-hockey patron’s mystical nature, their nails growing into claws to help them rip apart the supporters of the white.

In retaliation, the supporters of the player in white seal one another’s wounds, and hold back the supporters of black with ivory swords that seem to reflect light better than they should. Their visages are steadfast and honorable, and they will do whatever they can for their cause.

The players continue to mutate, more visibly now. The player in black reeks of carrion and his skin falls off in putrid, rotting chunks. His teeth and fingernails are blackened and decayed, and his eyes have long turned to dust. The player in white, meanwhile, has grown a plume of lovely feathers from his head. They’re made of gold and inlaid with rubies, and they look all the world like a crown.

As the supporters of the two players fight, they find themselves doing battle on the air-hockey table itself. Instead of them having shrunk, the table itself is now fantastically huge, encompassing space beyond reason and possibility, transporting all life on earth to its battlefield. Animals and plants and buildings, in addition to people, fight for one side or the other. Sinister black lions with teeth of flames wrestle against convertibles made of marble. The puck, now at least a mile wide, burrows through the battlefield as every combatant tries to push it in one direction or the other.

Rivers of blood stream from the mouth and hands of the player in black, flooding the table. This same blood flows around their body in intricate, demonic patterns, flecks of scab and long strings of veins mixed in with the hemoglobin. This sanguine globe is opposed by an aura of brilliant, warm light that surrounds the player in white. His feathers now cover his entire body, and lock into one another to form impenetrable, holy armour.

The two forces once more lock eyes as their opposing auras collide and press against one another. Straining against one another, they create a force that only gods can match. The friction between the two struggling powers is so great that it creates a wreath of magic fire through space around the two, before with a final, mighty heave one manages to overtake the other.

On the hockey-table, there is a deafening smack followed by a slow, agonizing slide as the puck slips into one of the goals. Emptiness fills the air, as the combatants look up to see the world alter, and the battle end. A side has won. The game is over.