I remember the day it truly all began. The crowd drenched the stadium in cheerful banter; the masters were all there and ready for the competition. I remember his heart beating; he was excited, nervous, and prepared for action. His composure was stunning nonetheless, and the match was underway.

That creepy horror with the mask fights well in another’s body. Too well.

Silent harpy dances across the arena, blades swinging elegantly with precision and lethal intent, patiently waiting for her chance. The Collector fires a volley of white ivory bullets from his ebony six-shooters. The gun cylinders cycle open, cases of brass slip from their chambers, violet portals rip open behind the now freed spaces. New ivory rounds slip into the cylinder, click-clack, reload.

The Collector isn’t half bad himself. He reloads while the other weapons fire away like talking guns. How long can he keep that up? When will Harpy find an opening?

Silent Harpy deflects the rounds from the air, few ricochets off her blades. Barriers shimmer as the bullets bounce off their ethereal surface. Harpy ducks into a low profile, bending forward, her wheeled feet stride aggressively towards the horror, accelerating to top speed. The Collector stumbles back, startled by Harpy’s change in tactics. He motions his six-shooters to space away from him; covering his angles, he scoffs at Harpy, Crystal blue air sparkles and trickles underneath the horror’s bandanna.

The correct answer was “close the distance.” Stay close, and keep a few of those guns out of the fight. I feel the human is impressed too; we think so much alike, him and I.

Silent Harpy slices at The Collector, pieces of the horror’s clothing wisp to the floor like strands of confetti as the arm blades narrowly swish past his chest. The Collector skips away from Harpy; however, she doesn’t let him get far. Circling to his side, she intercepts him, he’s open, and she’s aiming for the head. She swings violently, the killing blow? No, The Collector’s trap paid off, and Harpy fell for it; he wasn’t the only one aiming for the head.

Damn! So careless. Eh, why do I even let it concern me? They’re close. So close.

One of the ebony six-shooters had the perfect angle, firing a shot into Harpy’s dome. The round cracks the upper left part of the mask, fragmented shards of the horror’s face sprinkle the floor like paint scraped off an old wall. The Collector creates distance, waving his hands at his weapons; they float closer and line up like a firing squad. Harpy shakes her head; wobbling, she sights The Collector. Again Harpy darts towards her opponent, He huffs and releases a fuselage of ivory rounds. Recklessly, Harpy shoves her way through the storm of bullets.

Oh, how could I forget? Cheap tricks are no fun, but whatever it takes to win.

Harpy slides to a halt, her face dragging on the arena floor as she succumbs to her wounds. The Collector casually strolls over to her seemingly lifeless body; he grabs one of his six shooters and points it at Harpy’s skull. Before pulling the trigger, Harpy’s neck snaps to face him; a flash of light blinds the horror. As the Collector opens his eyes, he sees a white mask consume the features of his face, surprised by this out-of-body experience; Bang. Harpy fires the killing shot. Silver flesh and bone splatter on her new boots as the smooth round penetrates the skull. She waves her hand; the six shooters relinquish their hold on this reality and slip back into their warping portals. Freiser curses as his Howler blips with a strike.

And so the Collector has been collected—the irony.