05-09-2025, 11:20 PM
Scene 23 – The Second Cue
The applause was still rolling through the hall like waves against a shore when the lights flickered once again.
Rhea’s eyes lifted subtly, her practiced instinct kicking in. Another cue.
Her mind raced, but only in the disciplined rhythm she had trained into herself. Strange. They’ve already done the illusion. The statue has already been handed over. Why another blackout? A fleeting thought passed through her: Perhaps an encore? Perhaps the organizers want to heighten the drama, extend the magic of the night?
Her face betrayed nothing. She smiled as if she were still basking in the afterglow of applause, her heels pivoting gracefully as she slipped back toward the exact mark on the stage. Only she and the crew knew it. The tiny circle of tape was invisible to the audience, but her eyes found it instantly, her body aligning with it as naturally as breathing.
The blackout came. Perfectly on time.
Her heart remained steady. She stepped forward, onto the platform that had risen beneath her before, the mechanism groaning softly, just audible beneath the hush of the darkened hall. She placed her weight fully, confident, every motion smooth and deliberate.
And then, up.
The familiar lurch of the rig pulling her into the shadows above the stage. She bent slightly, keeping balance as she had rehearsed countless times in other illusions. The audience would be gasping now, murmuring in disbelief, their wonder filling the dark void like thunder.
But something was off.
The ascent slowed, jerkier, less precise than before. A faint tremor shivered through the platform, not the usual glide but a hesitant, uneven pull. Her brows furrowed, invisible in the darkness. Maintenance issue? No… this isn’t how Kabir’s team operates.
She smelled it then. Not the faint metallic tang of cables and grease she had grown used to, but something else, sweet, cloying, almost floral. It drifted around her in the enclosed space above the rig, subtle at first, then thickening, coating her throat.
Her breath hitched. She coughed softly. The sweetness invaded, filling her lungs with every inhale.
Her training told her to move, to resist, to call out, but her body betrayed her. Limbs heavy, head spinning, the edges of her vision blurring. The applause below had become a muffled drone, distant and warped, as if she were underwater.
Hands. Not the usual gloved, careful stagehands who had practiced this with her. These were rougher, firmer, unhesitant. They steadied her against the platform, but not with the caution of colleagues, they gripped her, purposeful, possessive.
Her lips parted, words struggling to escape.
“Wait, this isn’t, ”
The world tilted. Darkness thickened. The sweetness pressed harder against her senses. And then, with one last shallow breath, she felt herself slipping.
The cue had come. But this time, it wasn’t her team waiting in the shadows.
This time, the trick was no illusion.
And as the lights blazed back on the stage below,
Rhea Malhotra was already gone.
The applause was still rolling through the hall like waves against a shore when the lights flickered once again.
Rhea’s eyes lifted subtly, her practiced instinct kicking in. Another cue.
Her mind raced, but only in the disciplined rhythm she had trained into herself. Strange. They’ve already done the illusion. The statue has already been handed over. Why another blackout? A fleeting thought passed through her: Perhaps an encore? Perhaps the organizers want to heighten the drama, extend the magic of the night?
Her face betrayed nothing. She smiled as if she were still basking in the afterglow of applause, her heels pivoting gracefully as she slipped back toward the exact mark on the stage. Only she and the crew knew it. The tiny circle of tape was invisible to the audience, but her eyes found it instantly, her body aligning with it as naturally as breathing.
The blackout came. Perfectly on time.
Her heart remained steady. She stepped forward, onto the platform that had risen beneath her before, the mechanism groaning softly, just audible beneath the hush of the darkened hall. She placed her weight fully, confident, every motion smooth and deliberate.
And then, up.
The familiar lurch of the rig pulling her into the shadows above the stage. She bent slightly, keeping balance as she had rehearsed countless times in other illusions. The audience would be gasping now, murmuring in disbelief, their wonder filling the dark void like thunder.
But something was off.
The ascent slowed, jerkier, less precise than before. A faint tremor shivered through the platform, not the usual glide but a hesitant, uneven pull. Her brows furrowed, invisible in the darkness. Maintenance issue? No… this isn’t how Kabir’s team operates.
She smelled it then. Not the faint metallic tang of cables and grease she had grown used to, but something else, sweet, cloying, almost floral. It drifted around her in the enclosed space above the rig, subtle at first, then thickening, coating her throat.
Her breath hitched. She coughed softly. The sweetness invaded, filling her lungs with every inhale.
Her training told her to move, to resist, to call out, but her body betrayed her. Limbs heavy, head spinning, the edges of her vision blurring. The applause below had become a muffled drone, distant and warped, as if she were underwater.
Hands. Not the usual gloved, careful stagehands who had practiced this with her. These were rougher, firmer, unhesitant. They steadied her against the platform, but not with the caution of colleagues, they gripped her, purposeful, possessive.
Her lips parted, words struggling to escape.
“Wait, this isn’t, ”
The world tilted. Darkness thickened. The sweetness pressed harder against her senses. And then, with one last shallow breath, she felt herself slipping.
The cue had come. But this time, it wasn’t her team waiting in the shadows.
This time, the trick was no illusion.
And as the lights blazed back on the stage below,
Rhea Malhotra was already gone.
-- oOo --
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