The Dragon’s Inn
It's the last stop and refuge on the western front. Beyond lay the steppes that stretch for ten thousand miles. Then the desert plains rolling on endless dunes without mercy or memory all the way to the time-swept shores of the Sea of Tranquility.
They have been stuck in a sand storm for three days and nights. Somewhere in this company of bandits, mercenaries and refugees, is an imperial lackey. A spy.
Our heroine sits by herself in the crowded dining hall, her sword by her side on the table. She is dressed as a man with her hair severely bunned though her eyes are betrayed by meticulous wings of liner.
The subtle cock of the head, the sidewise glance and the rising intensity of the Chinese woodblock ratchets the tension.
The eunuch responsible for the slaughter of her entire family has dispatched spies throughout the kingdom in a bid to capture her. He has over the years, like a slow poison, led the boy emperor astray and betrayed the people. She must rid the land of this poison. Cut off all the infection.
The audience expects a male swordsman of exceptional skill and unimpeachable moral character to burst through the door in aid of our heroine.
Anytime now.
But that was in her previous role.
Today, she is going to upend the script. For the greater good, she's going to kill everyone. Men, women and children. The guy about to walk through that door. All the people in this movie. The gaffer, the grip, the director. The audience. And that sonofabitch who wrote her into this story. All that poison. She's going to have to kill them all.
Including you. For reading this.
The woodblock falls silent. She picks up her sword.
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