“My dear irksome girl,” she purred. “What did you call me? No, don’t cringe away. I am not insulted. It’s as apt a description of me as any. Such is the inevitable fate of one so unjustly scorned.” She stroked my hair gently with her vile hands, and an expression of… concern played across her face. Almost sincere, but it did not reach her eyes. “It would seem, judging from the situation my minions rescued you from earlier this evening, that you too have experienced scorn?” Her vindictive smile returned. “Such a pity you won’t live to suffer from it as I have, you little meddler.”

She slapped me hard across the face. Had I not been secured to the hand-truck, I would have toppled to the ground, such was the force of the scorn behind her blow. Tears of shock welled up in my eyes, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of crying out. I wanted to meet her gaze, to stare back levelly in bold defiance. But as I trembled within from the pain, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, and so I looked away, trying to focus on my surroundings instead.

I recognized the large dark space of the theatre I’d seen on Crystal’s screen. An odd smell of ancient dust mixed with stale popcorn filled the air. Thick, black tapers atop tall, ornate candelabra stood at deliberate intervals around me and provided dim, flickering illumination. At the boundaries of my peripheral vision I could make out the heavy red curtains, fluttering softly. As my eyes finished growing accustomed to the candlelight, I counted twelve tall hooded figures in long, dark robes. They arranged themselves around Epistola in a semicircle, their faces hidden beneath heavy hoods.

“It’s fortunate you awoke when you did, Miss Slate.” She stepped back a few paces, presenting me with a full view of her comic book fantasy outfit. She struck a little runway model pose. “I’ve only just donned my ceremonial garb. How do you like it?”

“You…” I struggled again to use my arid tongue, “…look like a streetwalker.” Despite my vulnerable position, saying it to her face felt good. The pleasure was fleeting.

She stuck out one hip and crossed her arms, sassily. “Oh, you hopeless little nobody. Glass houses much?” She looked me up and down with derision.

“What…?” With great discomfort, I tilted my head on my stiff neck to look down my front. “Oh, come on…”

I couldn’t see much of what I was ‘wearing,’ but what I could make out was even less substantial than the jumble of straps wrapped around Epistola. It was matte black, accentuating the stark whiteness of my very bare legs and midsection. I quaked internally at the thought of what the back of the garment must look like. The mess of chains crisscrossing me certainly didn’t do my body any favors either.