xp_logs | Sharon & Arthur

Sharon and Arthur debate the existence of luck, and those who have it as a mutant power, as they work on a puzzle together.

The puzzle piece slotted into place with a firm tick.

"Is no such thing as luck," continued Sharon as she returned her attention to the carefully arranged piles before her. The pure-white pieces had been sorted by size, shape, and number of sides. Methodical. Intentional.

The man who sat opposite her had his sleeves rolled up as he studied the half finished monochromatic abstraction set between the two. Arthur hadn't sorted anything, barely even looking as he pulled his selection, seemingly more interested in flipping a random piece between his fingers with a practiced, lazy flourish.

"Huh," and there was an honest intrigue in his tone as the dancing piece suddenly paused. "You sound so sure."

Selecting another piece, Sharon scoffed. "'Good' luck, 'bad' luck. These things presuppose existence of objective morality." Not a fit. Sharon returned it to the pile and spent a moment fiercely studying her other options. She tried another; this time the fit was sure.

"Always humans wish to see indications of a just and moral world," she continued matter-of-factly. "This thought is comforting. Where is evidence?"

Arthur didn't answer right away, instead turning the piece held in his fingers end over end. He set it down, without looking, if only so he could tap on it thoughtfully. Tick.

"Does there have to be evidence? Not everything fits cleanly into a box. Maybe luck isn't right or wrong. Good or bad. Maybe it's just a feeling."

"Feeling," repeated Sharon as she tried out two similar pieces against another space. "You claim the universe has feeling?"

“I think the universe feels all the time,” Arthur said, voice bright with certainty, like someone speaking from experience. “Maybe not like we do. But it listens. It nudges. Sometimes it shouts. But mostly?” He picked up another piece, turned it twice, and dropped it gently into place. "It hums. And if you’re lucky — and I usually am — that's what you're following."

He beamed at her.

"Luck’s about rhythm. You follow it. And when it sings?" A shrug. "You dance. Of course, that's just my luck. I bet Felicia's got her own way of it."

Sharon's answering scoff was like the cough of a panther. "Is not luck. This is assertion by those intimidated by her skill." Smugly, she pressed another piece into the puzzle. "Felicia is simply better than all others. This is fact."

Arthur blinked, slow and thoughtful, like Sharon had just proposed Felicia Hardy ran purely on what social media might call girl boss energy and espresso shots.

“So just to check,” he said, voice all warm curiosity, “you’re tellin’ me her power’s not luck? It’s . . . I dunno, weaponized swagger? Hypnotic hair physics?"

He smiled and leaned in conspiratorially.

"Because from what I've seen, Fi’s got the kind of luck that makes the universe show off. The timing, the drama, the explosions? That’s not just cool. That’s choreographed. Then again, maybe she’s just so good the universe gets out of her way out of professional respect."

Brimming with twinned pride in her personal hero and shameless denial of any forces beyond her personal control, Sharon raised her chin.

"Yes. Is this exactly."

Arthur twirled a puzzle piece like he was about to make it disappear. "Ah, well then! Luck isn't real. The world is math in a trenchcoat. Problem solved." He grinned, too bright to be serious. "But, quick question: you ever see someone follow every rule, step perfect, dot all the i’s — and still end up face-first in the dirt?”

He flicked the piece in. It shouldn't have fit.

"Or trip over nothin’? Just wham, world says ‘nope'. What about that?"

Sharon narrowed her eyes at the puzzle.

"The perception of meaningful connection between unrelated events or patterns in random happenings, this is apophenia. A type I error." She hunched over the puzzle pieces like a lioness over her kill, her yellow gaze now fixed on the blond. "You are devoted to this worldview, Arthur Centino?"

Arthur blinked, and the look that crossed his face was a big golden retriever sort of confused. A full on head tilt matched with a slow nod, all while trying to keep up being enthusiastic.

“Right," he agreed. Agreeing was easier. "Apo-what-now? Type A? Like the blood thing? Look, I don’t know about patterns or errors or your sci-fi channel lingo, but if luck isn’t real, then I must have the same power as Felicia Hardy.”

All during this exchange, he'd been randomly placing pieces into the puzzle. It was now coming together. He didn't even see that, since Arthur was beaming at Sharon like his conclusion was the most obvious, delightful truth in the world. "

Don’t get me wrong — her hair’s better, I’ll grant you — but if I’m pulling off what I do without luck, then I’m cooler than I thought."

The girl's tail snapped with the indignation of the righteous. "Is no comparison to Felicia. Her abilities, these are skill and excellence both. You are only a blond man. Some tricks are yours, these leaps and the throwing of objects, but these things may be trained. All further accomplishments are only lu . . ."

Sharon froze, a single syllable too late.

Arthur didn't say a word, but his smile grew as he pointed at her and then tapped his temple. His grin might have sparkled just a little.

Sharon met the sparkle with a glower. Then, without another word, she deployed her final rebuttal: transforming into a housecat and vanishing into the night.

The blond man watched the spot where she'd been, then glanced down at the puzzle. It was now nearly complete.

"Guess that’s a yes," he said to no one in particular. He pulled a piece from her pile and fit it into place. Tick.