A Flick of the Wrist

Silence. A quiet pause in the dark, until a sudden spark ticked within my joints. I shifted my right wrist. The curved whip in my grip twitched, dragging its slender red tip across the grey fabric with a soft, dry whisper. It moved because I willed it. I straightened my spine, testing the balance of my metal boots against the crumpled folds, and took in the soft cloth arena around me. The curtain has truly risen.