Shifting my wings as though to pick me up into the air as a sharp rise, I turned the beginnings of flight into an immediate turn. I faced her, now, and stood on solid earth. My other hand, my left hand, swung diagonally and launched stripes of black matter towards June.

She didn’t dodge them. Why would she? I was aiming not at the June of the present, but the June of the future as my projectiles struck the gut of her beast where I predicted it would go. I aimed for her future self before her present, and there was no method to out-predict a mathematically accurate mapping of one’s motions.