Erina woke up that day with a start. As usual. Her PTSD was there to accompany her, ever since she left the pains of her life back in 1955. It was 2017 now, she was a new person with a different name.
Yet, there are some things you can't escape from.
Jumping down from her bunk, she hastily put on a jacket. The air on an early Monday morning was cold, a bit cold for her skin to handle. She grabbed her trusty sword, Backwards Excalibur (as she now called it), and headed for the Arena.
Erina took a breath of fresh air at the field. It was rare, much rarer than back in 1955. Sixty years of innovation poisoned the whole world, yet the gods did nothing about it. As usual.
She began her practice by continuously slashing at a dummy, tearing out its innards. She moved swiftly, at a pace she thought few could match.
As she closed in for the killing blow, the decapitation, an arrow came out of nowhere and hit the head flying backwards onto the ground.
"Oi!" she turned toward the culprit. "I was using that." Erina said in her traditional British accent.