One blink.

Two blinks.

Three blinks.

Celestine tries to keep her eyes shut, but the Whisper from the Black Star refuses to give her that luxury. Each lid opens, swallowed by the video montage of her body being used to do horrible things to Sir Lionel Pennyfarthing and The Inquisition. Neither man deserved to be tortured for sport. Neither of those gentlemen needed to be mauled and maimed, and nearly killed.

“I hear what you’re thinking, Celestine.” The whisper mocks, sending a ripple of heat through her, rising bumps along her arms. “You will be acclimated to this soon enough.”

“Please, I bid you pardon of this. Surely my talents may be made fruitful elsewhere, in another arena void of bedlam and brutality. I’m an artiste, not a savage.” She remains kneeling before the huge monitor displaying the endless loop of atrocities committed by her in the ring, or rather, the Whisper’s atrocities using her body as its violent vessel. It keeps her in place, her body rigid and without her will controlling it.

“Your talents are being made elsewhere. Have I not instructed you to fulfill the painting for the Ritual? Do not play coy with me, little girl. You know the consequences.”

Celestine gasps. “Verily, I have started it, and it shall be completed by the time appointed.” She hesitates for a moment, then shifts her plea to another subject. “Please, please, I beg of you, allow this Reggie Estrada a measure of mercy at Anarchy. His heart is bent wayward, drifted away from his love for the ring. His passion has rotted like a gentleman’s coat left in the rain, fine in cut but rank in smell. Did you not see his affairs against Ser Keeton? His tongue fell so heavy, yet so silent, before he declared himself for battle. His arms and his legs did not exert with his usual impetus. What good is it for your esteem, for your grandeur, to best such a man unkept with himself?

The Whisper silences her with a sharp pain through her brain. “And yet he still won. People such as Reggie Estrada self-depreciate themselves to lower adversaries into a false sense of security. JC Keeton fell for the oldest trick in the book, like Napoleon did at Waterloo. I am not Napoleon. I do not entertain his words, only his essence, and you, Celestine, my prize, will reap it with me. Just as you did with Ser Pennyfarthing. Just as you did with the Inquisition. I will use you to do far worse than what Thais Watts did to him. I will make that giant Thais Watts look like a speck on the shores in comparison to what I will use you to do to Estrada.”

“Verily…. I… I… I yield to your rebuttal. But, please, at least show mercy to the orators at ringside. Ser Bama was caught in our gaze last Anarchy, and he fell short in his duties. He could not speak or think. The spectators, too. Surely they can be spared from frozen gazes!”

Another sharp pain fastens her lips shut. “I will do as I please to anyone whose eyes fall upon us. Now, rest well. You have more bidding to do in the morrow.”

The Shadow with the Yellow Eyes releases her from its control, and she immediately crawls toward the giant monitor in her room that is still playing the loop of near murder she committed on her prior opponents. She presses buttons frantically before finding the right ones to shut off the horrible footage. Alas, she slinks into a seat, resting.

As she does so, her eyes fall upon her artist station amid this labyrinth of luxury provided by modern times. Half of the stuff she still hasn’t figured out how to use. The more she looks at her artist station, though, the more an idea ruminates. An audacious idea. Could it work?

“Verily..” She says.

….. NIGHT OF THE UPCOMING ANARCHY…. YES WE’RE GOING INTO THE FUTURE REGARDLESS OF WHO WINS BETWEEN REGGIE AND CELESTINE…..

Approximately ten minutes after Celestine’s battle with Reggie Estrada at the Gateway Center Arena, Dr. Holly Cambric enters Celestine’s dressing room guarded on the outside by two beefy Black Rainbow stiff-shirts. Maraeth doesn’t trust the XWF medical staff as much as she does the good doctor Holly, so she always makes sure Cambric does her own medical evaluations of Black Rainbow members after matches.

After going through the motions and getting a thumbs up medically, Celestine sighs relief. She can feel the Shadow with the Yellow Eyes has left her to go and whisper to the other members yet to compete tonight, per usual. And this is her moment to strike.

“Good doctor Holly? I was bidden to paint portraits of you all. Care to see if yours is right?”

Holly says nothing, but nods, and then follows Celestine over to a series of paintings. Celestine sifts through until she produces Holly’s.

“Hmm interesting.” Holly says as she inspects closer. “Exempl-” She doesn’t get to finish. Celestine’s hand, laden with her magical powers, touches the drawing and, in a flash of supernatural speed, the painting of Holly comes to life and steps out while Celestine simultaneously shoves the real Holly into the black void left behind, trapping her there like Celestine once was for 200 years.

“HA! BAZINGA AS YOU MODERN PEOPLE SAY!” It worked! By the gods it worked!

No time wasted, Celestine leaves the room with the fake Holly escorting her. The guards are none the wiser, as Holly is known to escort BR members to and from medical stations to cross-reference things with XWF medical personnel.

When the coast is clear, they dart through an exit and speed into the parking lot where a taxi is offloading someone. The fake Holly suddenly bursts into a puddle of paint, Celestine’s magic worn out. Celestine dives into the taxi and yells at him to drive.

She escapes BR

The end.