“War Games approaches rapidly. Now that the Houses have been established, the daunting task of defeating them awaits. I must say, however, that watching the way certain captains went through the recruitment process was very informative. Entertaining, even.”

Betsy flashes a cheeky grin towards the message transmission board as she bustles around Excellence. The ship remains an unmoving monument of her former life; the only sign of life (other than Betsy herself) was a slight glow from the engine.

“Kieran wanted to collect champions like trophies; it’s smart in theory, but it’s going to blow up in his pretty face. Being a king doesn’t grant you safety against all the people you pissed off on the path to claiming your crown. And from what I can tell, there are quite a few, including some on my own team, that can’t wait to get a piece of you and the members of the King crew. I’m personally looking forward to getting another stab (and I’ll let you decide if I’m being literal or metaphorical about that) at LaLaLarry, Krissy Poo, and King-Pie; something, something, eye for an eye. Throw in Big D, and that pound of flesh I’m due will be sliced up in no time.”

She continues to search through the ship as the transmission continues. Items go flying as she throws them around in her search.

“Oh, and then throwing Roxy in as a captain after the Jennie Nickels debacle. Hers is indeed a House of Pussy; I’d want a change of pace from Vinnie Lane, too. I get it, girl. Nice move, securing Atty right away; you’ve always had a bit of a wet spot for her. But who hasn’t, am I right? Speaking of Atty, we still need to grab James and have a talk; I can’t read your mind, but I can promise you it’s not going to be about what you may believe it to be. Moving on, I remember Reggie; I look forward to seeing how much he’s evolved since the last time we met. He and Tatiana will need to bring all they have if they hope to get past their first round… Fuck me, talk about drawing the short straw. I’d feel bad, but I just don’t have it in me.”

Betsy turns on her heel and walks briskly to the other side of the ship to another set of lockers against the wall.

“Don’t you hate it when you place something somewhere for safekeeping, then forget where you put it when you need it? I sure do.”

Cursing under her breath, she throws open the first set of lockers, sending random items flying again.

“Sir Spooks and his House of Psycho are going to be a thorn in our sides, however. Spooks don’t go down easy, even with a chain around his neck and a decent-sized woman on his back. Not to mention how experience tells me that it takes a lot to phase ol’ TK. Ask him about our history, it’s quite colorful… It also lights a special fire under my ass to have my shit together by this match. I haven’t had the pleasure of squaring up with Sarah or Oz before, but I anticipate that they will introduce themselves quickly. Spooks made his choices carefully; I look forward to the bag of chaos this team presents… Of course, they aren’t the only disruptive energy coming into this match.”

She pops her head out and swings open the doors to the next locker.

“Maybe disruptive isn’t the correct word for our first-round opponents. Mixed bag would be a better way to describe these four; either way, they are going to be a wild ride. Jennie is a handful, much like her brother, and neither is at the top of my Christmas Card list anytime soon. But she’s lucky to be led by Isaiah King and teamed with a wily old-timer like Centurion; I hope they find a way to reign HER in, for their team’s sake. Speaking of Isaiah… were we speaking of Isaiah? I am now, because damn, mans is fine as. Maybe I am a bit thirsty for him, but I’ve got a job to do and a team of my own to lead. I could still get him to his knees before me, though… Aaaaaaanyway, two decades show us Cent is another vampire that doesn’t die, while Savannah is the youthful energy that keeps the pep in their step. And Jennie… is just a mess. AH HAAAAAA!!!”

Betsy clambers out of the locker victoriously, holding something in her hand. She rushes back to the console, where her repair kit of tools is spread out.

“Oh, Scoopsy… I almost hate having to go up against this guy again, though at least we’re able to do so under more civilized circumstances. But he secured a pick that I was admittedly hoping to nab for myself in Dickie Watson… Though we weren’t the only captains with an eye on that squirrelly fella, were we? Looking at you, Collector Kieran. I feel like I should remember Amber Mansley, and even possibly Gamer Girl, but I don’t… Which speaks volumes. Sorry, ladies, but even now, you’re being massively overshadowed by your heroic captain and decorated teammate. I had to go look at the card to even remember who the other two members of this team were; here’s hoping they take guidance from the superb talent they get to team with and bring out their best.”

As she speaks, Betsy starts repairing the item she’d retrieved. Short leather straps poke out from each side of the device in the center. From a distance, one would think it was a fancy watch.

“Listen, I may make light of some of my opponents while thirsting over others, it’s true. To be honest, I don’t have a real problem with anyone; no, really, I don’t at all. If anything, the phrase ‘when in Rome’ has been circling my brain continuously this past month. There’s nothing more Roman than admitting when someone has outdone them… Then, they adapt it to their own repertoire to improve it. Some people think it’s a big deal that I keep losing, but for me? When I’m not experiencing firsthand, I’m watching, always taking notes… Everyone is a marvel, even the ‘boring’ ones. Something special exists in everyone, yet it so fades into obscurity amidst the clamor of everyone else trying to be seen. I feel like that’s where I’m heading… I’m not exactly giving my best showing here lately. Things have felt off since I’ve been back, and I can’t seem to put my finger on why.”

The square dial begins to buzz mildly with electric static. Betsy opens a leather flap to reveal a blinking screen; she prods at it more as the strange object struggles to come to life.

“Everyone in this business always had grander illusions of themselves than they ever displayed in practice. I’m guilty of it too, but holy fuck, lately? It’s all: King of the Ring. King of the Universe. House of King. Being proud of a surname is one thing; waving it about like it’s your actual title is laughably fucking sad. Even the tragedy of wearing a Thorned Crown still reeks of aggrandizing your worth. It's time to kick out the pedestals you’ve placed yourselves on, for as history has always shown us, no regime lasts forever. I’d be happy to aid in dethroning Kieran at War Games; I don’t even give a fuck if I walk away with the Universal Title for myself, just as long as he does not.”

The blinking steadies to a solid blue as foreign text begins to scroll across the screen.

“I wouldn’t hate walking away with gold if I can manage it; it’s not like there’s going to be a shortage up for grabs. Could be just what I need to crawl out of this slump I’m still in. Just because I learn from my losses doesn’t mean I’m not sick of losing. I’m charging into that ring with the intent of clearing out everyone in my way… By any means necessary. It’s time to show off some of what I’ve learned to those who had a hand in teaching me, albeit the hard way. I don’t just want to give them a taste of their own medicine; I want to poison them with the cure.”

The object begins to beep, marking its functionality.

To my team: Sebastian, Corey, and Barney: I don’t take my position as Captain lightly. All of you were chosen carefully, intentionally, to stand beside me. Perhaps I wasn’t your first choice for a Captain, but I am ecstatic to have you among my number. Collectively, we have what it takes to pull this thing off in our favor. But for right now, if you want to have a good time… I would suggest checking your homes for your invites.”

Betsy wraps the leather straps securely around her wrist and begins punching in coordinates. The date of August 22nd, 1485, appears in English from the numbers she’d punched in.

“All the other Houses must be reduced to blood and ash for us to claim absolute victory. No prisoners, men; we’re playing for keeps.”

The transmission feeding her statement cuts off as Betsy is swept off her feet and seems swallowed by thin air. The vortex manipulator on her wrist is pulsing as Betsy is dragged roughly through the time vortex. She hated this form of time travel, but her options were frustratingly limited lately. Gritting her teeth, she braces herself for the hard landing, but it doesn’t help when she thuds roughly in the middle of a field.

“Mother FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK, that hurt.” She moans loudly, rolling onto her back in the hard-packed mud.

She blinks furiously, trying to take in the scene. Though cloudy, the sun was still bright in her face; that’s when the stench hit her. Her stomach rolls as the smell snaps her back to her senses, and she sits up. Blood soaked the field, crimson rivers flowing from the bodies that littered the area. Field knights in various states of armor, nobles in fine silks and chainmail, swords and arrows abandoned by their slaughtered owners.

She turns her head and realizes that a crowd of soldiers is gathering around one strapping fellow who has his head bent. The one before him held out a crown and was just about to place it upon-

“Hoooooolyyyyyy shit, did I make it in time for this?” Betsy asks herself in a loud, excited whisper. “That's freaking Henry the Seventh; they actually crowned that stingy fucker on the field. I’ll be damned.”

The noise behind her gets her attention too late.

Before she can rise to her feet, the cold point of a sword presses against her back. “Halt, witch.” A heavily accented voice growls in her ear. His rancid breath makes her turn her head away.

This gets the attention of the group of men; the one who had just been crowned rises to his feet and stares at her suspiciously. His eyebrows narrow as he draws nearer; Betsy wrinkles her nose as the smell of sweat and blood, among other lovely bodily fluids, emanates from him.

“What dark magic draws you to this place, woman?” The crowned man asks in a deep, threatening voice.

Despite her situation, Betsy’s green eyes light up with excitement. “Henry Tudor, please tell me I’m correct.”

Henry’s face flushes with anger now. He spits at her feet as he draws back. “I suppose a daughter of Satan would be as wanton as you. Dressed for a brothel, take that look off your face, child.”

“Your Grace, she appeared on the field from… nowhere.” Her captor says nervously. “I’ve never seen such magic before.”

“To the Tower with her.” A man in the crowd yells. A rousing cheer of agreement follows this.

“Fuck the Tower, her guilt is in her arrival. Burn the witch here on the field, in honor of our new king!” cries the one who crowned Henry.

Henry himself is watching Betsy’s reaction as his men call out suggestions. He catches Betsy’s eye and they gaze at one another inquisitively. After a time, Henry signals to his men, and they begin to bind her hands as well as tying a gag over her mouth. Against the insistence of his men, Henry throws Betsy up into the saddle of his own horse, and they begin the journey back to London.

Her mind racing, Betsy’s heart hammers in her chest, a mix of fear and thrill. This wasn’t exactly how she wanted to witness history; on the contrary, Betsy considered the idea that she could be in real trouble this time. Henry had chosen to sit behind her in the saddle, and now she could feel his hand wrap around her waist as he tightened his grip on the reins. Shamelessly, he rested his other hand on her thigh, spreading out his fingers on the material of her leggings.

Though the trip was relatively short by modern transport, Betsy knew that with a full army at his helm, Henry would eventually have to call for his soldiers to set up camp. Soon enough, the sky began to darken, and Henry’s voice boomed his commands. As men scurried around them to set up tents and fires, Henry veered his horse into the dense woods near the clearing. He looked back to make sure none of his men were following them before heading in, his hands still on Betsy. Her heart began to pound as she feared the worst; she searched her brain, trying to remember if Henry was the type of man who enjoyed his spoils of war.

Henry finally stops the horse after about a minute of riding into the woods. He climbs down, and to Betsy’s surprise, he uses a strong, but gentle grip to lift her out of the saddle. Undoing the wrist bonds and gag, he helps her remain steady on her feet for a moment.

“I don’t know why you came here, but you have to go,” Henry says to her abruptly.

Betsy can’t hide the shock in her face or voice. “Whaa?”

“I know you aren’t of this time, you’ve traveled here from a distant future,” Henry says impatiently, standing next to his horse. “I have a friend who can do the same, but I can say no more. Please, leave or I can’t save you from being burned alive by my men.”

Betsy is shooketh. "I can't leave right away, I have friends meeting me here."

He hops back into his saddle and rears the horse around to face her. "Find them with haste and go. Keep your face hidden."

Betsy steps up to him and grabs the reins. “Thanks for the help... And hey." Betsy looks up at him with a serious expression.

"Feel free to stop at one, son."

*to be continued*