{Susan Kay-verse} Erik, The Phantom (of the Opera) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
not_mephistopheles) wrote2017-11-01 09:57 pm
not_mephistopheles) wrote2017-11-01 09:57 pm
(no subject)
đź’€ WHO: Christine and Erik
đź’€ WHERE: New Fort Frolic; six hours west of Little Hades
đź’€ WHEN: After New Hancock, Chris, and Liz return to Little Hades post zombie adventure.They plan an expedition search of Booker, and then this shit happens. Also, after this
đź’€ WARNINGS: Violence, torture
đź’€ SUMMARY: Christine embarks on a sudden desperate adventure to save Erik from a fate worse than the stinking hot afterlife; things do not end well.
The first thing that raises from the dark waters of his unconsciousness is the hard biting scent of steel-like metal. The shadows under his eyelids are stripped with static-colored-black against black-as-pitch. His head feels as though full of cotton, his lean slender body crumpled with a plethora of superficial aches and pains. One by one, Erik's senses awaken, feeding him a steady stream of disconcerting details. He's crumpled on the floor with his back to something solid, and for whatever reason, the air smells like a fog of blood and flesh. When he realizes which way is up, Erik lifts his head and peels open his eyes, peering through the distorted blur of his vision. No, it can't be, his eyes must be playing tricks...
But as his sight clears, he knows it's really real.
He's inside a cage.
Erik wants to squeeze closed his eyes, to shut it out and smother the sick instinctive panic pulsing inside his gut. But that would be cowardly-- stupid. He has to deal with this; he is better than this outgrown fear; he can escape any dire situation so long as he uses his superior mind. Or at least, this is what he hazily tells himself as he pushes to stand before he is even fully conscious. The floor seems to sway and he stumbles, catching himself with a clash against the bars. His boney fingers weave around the solid metal shafts and pull; he doesn't make a show of useless flustering, he only wonders if his strength has increased enough in Hell to allow an easier jailbreak. And while the bars creak and groan, they do not buckle.
"The old songbird is awake," Cohen's voice flutters with eerie delight as he descends into another fit of wheezing giggles. "Boys, boys! It's time to welcome our guest! Get up," and then, with sudden seething rage "I SAID GET UP!" Much of the room is obscured by the congealed dimness, but from what Erik can see, he's on the stage of sorts in some decrepit abandoned theater. Everything is splintering, crumbling, molding... and there are at least 15 white rabbits hopping placidly around the isles. Perfectly normal, simple white rabbits. At least part of the smell has context now.
Five men slither from the isles, including Cohen himself. They climb upon the stage which creaks in complaint, and circle the iron-like cage like frenzied wolves, grinning as though they are proud of thier fangs. In the further isles and upon the balconies there are yet more smirking observers (15, at the very least), nursing smudged glasses of red wine as they peer from behind thier white rabbit masks.
And suddenly it hits him; they're all wearing those masks. Erik needn't place the implications to know that they do not bode well. At the very least, this appears to be some kind of cult.
Cohen approaches with wide strides, wringing his hands as he comes close enough to be just out of Erik's reach. A good judgement call, considering Erik would take great pleasure in splitting the man's skull on the unyielding bars.
"Well well well, the ruffled old raven joins us at last!" Cohen doesn't take his eyes of Erik; the hunger in those bloodshot orbs is something Erik knows he mustn't flinch from. He cannot show weakness, he cannot yield, and he cannot allow this White Rabbit Man to continue to abuse him. But before he can say anything at all, Cohen points his palm flat towards the cage, and releases a torrent of bright brilliant flames. The dark specter of a man doesn't even flinch, glaring daggers at the other masked man as he floods the cage with tendrils of hungry red flame. Demons are fireproof, is this not an exercise in futility?
Yet as the moments creep and kindle, Erik comes to understand. He is fireproof. His clothes-- his mask, are not. The fabrics of his elaborate outfit glow orange at the edges before flaking and crumbling away; tiny tongues of fire lick away the silk of his mask; it's as though he can feel each thread unwind and burn, and he tries so hard to keep Cohen's deranged gaze. He will not show weakness, he cannot-- but it's been so long since anyone other than Christine has actually seen his face. At a time, he had been forced to parade his ugliness on display... but that felt like lifetimes ago, and even before he had died Erik knew he never wanted to subject himself to the judging gaze of the masses ever again. His hands ball into clenching fists as his gloves burn away, and it's as though every inch of naked flesh upon his face stings in revulsion at the open air. Erik barely manages to hold the man's eyes, barely manages to conceal the tremble of his shoulders. His sheer rage is a fuel he can burn on; for the moment, it scorches away his programmed shame, and his frightened apprehension.
He's about to speak, to say-- he doesn't even know what, but something about the childish excitement that Cohen shows at the intake of his breath bids Erik to stop. His eyes narrow suspiciously, and Cohen smiles, sheepish like he's been caught in a trick. Slow deliberate actions draw what appears to be a golden pocket-watch into plain view; for a few moments, Cohen dangles it on the chain while he finally allows the river of flames to die by the curling of his fingers.
Erik isn't quite naked, but his decency is barely covered. It's a tactic, he understands, to make him feel vulnerable. To make him comply with whatever these cultists desire. Nevermind that removing his mask makes it an incredibly effective tactic; Erik is still soul-bound to fight tooth and nail against another will dominating his own. Nothing will make him lie down an submit. He'll stare a hole through that bastard's mask before he yields.
"Don't look so sour, my friend! I am more than happy to release you promptly. All I ask in exchange... is a song. My boys and I are fans, of course! One little diddy, that is all I require..."
Erik clamps his jaw, stabbing Cohen with a defiant glare. Anyone who knows Erik understand this is probably the least effective way to make him comply, but maybe it's not supposed to be easy.
Oh, of course it isn't.
Cohen looks like a cat with a rat under his paw, licking his chops and preparing for a meal. "I was hoping you'd be stubborn; I want to see the beautiful crescendo of your pain." A deep unsettling chuckle gets caught in Cohen's throat, and he waves a hand to signal one of his 'boys'.
"Mr. Cobb, if you please?"
"You got it," the man all but purrs. Stepping forward, Jacob Cobb summons a weave of lightening between his hands, sparking between the blue extrusions jutting from his palms. Knowing what will happen doesn't make it any easier when those volts start to pour through him. Some instinct in the deep primal part of his mind wants him to cry out, but that yearning in Cohen's eyes... he wants him to scream. That's somehow important. Erik grinds his teeth as the searing paralysis takes him, confusing his nerves and stabbing him with a million tiny needles of pain. Still, he doesn't make a sound.
"Cobb, the stick!" Cohen's voice is watery in the distance; in too few moments the jacked splicer steps forward, reaches into the too small cage, and clamps his hand directly onto Erik's skull. His mind falls to pieces, broken memories and buried regrets crashing into one another and falling into a mound of muddled shards. He sees Christine, and Lacie. He sees Sasha's bloody face. He sees Ayesha trembling on the muddy ground, and he sees Rezza sick in his bed. The gleam of massive diamonds upon that Persian throne pour like dew over a million other splintered recollection, and despite himself, Erik feels a cry start to well in his chest. It's so difficult to keep focused on damming his voice; he's suddenly thinking of the attic in his mother's house, the bells he struck as a babe, the gypsy girl who threatened to accuse him of rape, and the man who almost raped him. It's too much, all at once, running by in a blur and circling back to bite him.
But the second Erik opens his mouth, he feels an unnatural force pour like semi-liquid fingers down his throat. They grab, scratch, seek... tearing into his flesh until Erik closes his jaw once more. Cohen is waving that damn watch in front of the bars and it's swaying back and forth, back and forth... it's pulling him, calling him... like it wants him. Or, wants something from him. And the way that greedy magic pushed down his throat, the way Cohen praises his voice while peering at him with hunger... maybe it's the electricity to the brain, but suddenly, Erik thinks he understands. Cohen wants his voice. It seems like he needs Erik to sing, to take it; and apparently a scream is close enough for the spell to cruelly rip his voice out.
Well, that sure as hell isn't happening.
Things start to go fuzzy; memories bleed into his view, flickering and skipping and running on repeat like a busted scratched CD. He only realizes the charge must have stopped when he feels the ground come up hard beneath him. His skin sizzles, his starkly blue eyes spotted red with so many popped blood vessels. He breathes through his teeth, trying to focus on what is immediately real. Still his mind feels scrambled, and it's difficult to follow Cohen's voice as he speaks.
"... boys and I will keep encouraging you to sing! Come on now, don't disappoint your captive audience!"
This time, it's two of Cohen's boys that strike him with an unrelenting wave of jagged electricity. Erik isn't sure if minutes or hours pass in the agonizing scramble of his mind; he's not even sure he's managing to stay quiet... but he must be, because the pain keeps going.
Until finally, finally it stops. Erik is on the ground again, unable to stifle the confused twitching of his limbs as excess electricity crackles down his nerves.
Cohen seems vexed, now.
"It doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all! I'll still win you hear me, I'll still win! Go ahead and be stubborn, it won't make a difference!" the many rings on his fingers gleam as he snaps and calls "Finnegan!"
"Am I up, Sander-baby?" Another of Cohen's four immediate follows steps forward. Martin Finnegan's skin is an unhealthy shade of blue; in fact, it resembles ice more closely than skin. Erik's expression must have stumbled into something unimpressed, because the ice man grins like he knows something Erik does not.
"Yeah I know; you're the man who's always cold, right? So what if you get covered in a little ice? Gotta be a vacation, after that. Like free air conditioning, right?" The splicer's smile is ugly with cruelty as he leans closer to the bars.
"But it's not the ice itself that's gonna break you; that would be too easy. Could freeze you, shatter you into a million pieces... done in two seconds, tops, but that's not what Sander-baby wants." A small spiky blizzard darts around Martin's fingers before he flings it casually at the base of the cage, creating a cascade of ice-spikes that encourage Erik to keep his back to the other side of the cage; he's barely aware enough to comply, and a few of the spikes bite red into his thin pale skin. He barely even feels it, with his nerves so fried. Martin is speaking, but he has to focus determinedly to decode the sounds into words.
"...your memory. That's what I'll freeze right out of your head. Make you forget who you are, where you came from, why you wouldn't wanna just give Sander what he wants. It's gonna happen either way. Why don't you just sing us a little song, so I don't have to erase the memories or your precious childhood pet and your goddamn first kiss."
The fact that these things were said of blind mocking means nothing to Erik. He hardly has perception over his own limbs (though it is returning, little by little) and yet somehow, he feels the satisfying curl of fabric inside his fist as he grabs the ice man's vest. One quick brutal pull has Martin crashing against the cage with enough force to split his mask off his face, and completely shatter his nose. Enraged, Martin reels back with a shout.
"Son'ova bitch!" he snarls, and despite everything, Erik cannot hide the tiniest of smirks. Beneath it, he is trying so hard to ignore the petrifying fear of forgetting, and take pleasure in the small act of sadistic revenge while he can.
(He can't forget her, he can't!)
---
[ooc: For my personal reference: Martin Finnegan (Ice, Houdini), Kyle Fitzpatrick (Possession), Silas Cobb (nitro/shock jockey), Hector Rodriguez (nitro/shock jockey)]
đź’€ WHERE: New Fort Frolic; six hours west of Little Hades
đź’€ WHEN: After New Hancock, Chris, and Liz return to Little Hades post zombie adventure.They plan an expedition search of Booker, and then this shit happens. Also, after this
đź’€ WARNINGS: Violence, torture
đź’€ SUMMARY: Christine embarks on a sudden desperate adventure to save Erik from a fate worse than the stinking hot afterlife; things do not end well.
The first thing that raises from the dark waters of his unconsciousness is the hard biting scent of steel-like metal. The shadows under his eyelids are stripped with static-colored-black against black-as-pitch. His head feels as though full of cotton, his lean slender body crumpled with a plethora of superficial aches and pains. One by one, Erik's senses awaken, feeding him a steady stream of disconcerting details. He's crumpled on the floor with his back to something solid, and for whatever reason, the air smells like a fog of blood and flesh. When he realizes which way is up, Erik lifts his head and peels open his eyes, peering through the distorted blur of his vision. No, it can't be, his eyes must be playing tricks...
But as his sight clears, he knows it's really real.
He's inside a cage.
Erik wants to squeeze closed his eyes, to shut it out and smother the sick instinctive panic pulsing inside his gut. But that would be cowardly-- stupid. He has to deal with this; he is better than this outgrown fear; he can escape any dire situation so long as he uses his superior mind. Or at least, this is what he hazily tells himself as he pushes to stand before he is even fully conscious. The floor seems to sway and he stumbles, catching himself with a clash against the bars. His boney fingers weave around the solid metal shafts and pull; he doesn't make a show of useless flustering, he only wonders if his strength has increased enough in Hell to allow an easier jailbreak. And while the bars creak and groan, they do not buckle.
"The old songbird is awake," Cohen's voice flutters with eerie delight as he descends into another fit of wheezing giggles. "Boys, boys! It's time to welcome our guest! Get up," and then, with sudden seething rage "I SAID GET UP!" Much of the room is obscured by the congealed dimness, but from what Erik can see, he's on the stage of sorts in some decrepit abandoned theater. Everything is splintering, crumbling, molding... and there are at least 15 white rabbits hopping placidly around the isles. Perfectly normal, simple white rabbits. At least part of the smell has context now.
Five men slither from the isles, including Cohen himself. They climb upon the stage which creaks in complaint, and circle the iron-like cage like frenzied wolves, grinning as though they are proud of thier fangs. In the further isles and upon the balconies there are yet more smirking observers (15, at the very least), nursing smudged glasses of red wine as they peer from behind thier white rabbit masks.
And suddenly it hits him; they're all wearing those masks. Erik needn't place the implications to know that they do not bode well. At the very least, this appears to be some kind of cult.
Cohen approaches with wide strides, wringing his hands as he comes close enough to be just out of Erik's reach. A good judgement call, considering Erik would take great pleasure in splitting the man's skull on the unyielding bars.
"Well well well, the ruffled old raven joins us at last!" Cohen doesn't take his eyes of Erik; the hunger in those bloodshot orbs is something Erik knows he mustn't flinch from. He cannot show weakness, he cannot yield, and he cannot allow this White Rabbit Man to continue to abuse him. But before he can say anything at all, Cohen points his palm flat towards the cage, and releases a torrent of bright brilliant flames. The dark specter of a man doesn't even flinch, glaring daggers at the other masked man as he floods the cage with tendrils of hungry red flame. Demons are fireproof, is this not an exercise in futility?
Yet as the moments creep and kindle, Erik comes to understand. He is fireproof. His clothes-- his mask, are not. The fabrics of his elaborate outfit glow orange at the edges before flaking and crumbling away; tiny tongues of fire lick away the silk of his mask; it's as though he can feel each thread unwind and burn, and he tries so hard to keep Cohen's deranged gaze. He will not show weakness, he cannot-- but it's been so long since anyone other than Christine has actually seen his face. At a time, he had been forced to parade his ugliness on display... but that felt like lifetimes ago, and even before he had died Erik knew he never wanted to subject himself to the judging gaze of the masses ever again. His hands ball into clenching fists as his gloves burn away, and it's as though every inch of naked flesh upon his face stings in revulsion at the open air. Erik barely manages to hold the man's eyes, barely manages to conceal the tremble of his shoulders. His sheer rage is a fuel he can burn on; for the moment, it scorches away his programmed shame, and his frightened apprehension.
He's about to speak, to say-- he doesn't even know what, but something about the childish excitement that Cohen shows at the intake of his breath bids Erik to stop. His eyes narrow suspiciously, and Cohen smiles, sheepish like he's been caught in a trick. Slow deliberate actions draw what appears to be a golden pocket-watch into plain view; for a few moments, Cohen dangles it on the chain while he finally allows the river of flames to die by the curling of his fingers.
Erik isn't quite naked, but his decency is barely covered. It's a tactic, he understands, to make him feel vulnerable. To make him comply with whatever these cultists desire. Nevermind that removing his mask makes it an incredibly effective tactic; Erik is still soul-bound to fight tooth and nail against another will dominating his own. Nothing will make him lie down an submit. He'll stare a hole through that bastard's mask before he yields.
"Don't look so sour, my friend! I am more than happy to release you promptly. All I ask in exchange... is a song. My boys and I are fans, of course! One little diddy, that is all I require..."
Erik clamps his jaw, stabbing Cohen with a defiant glare. Anyone who knows Erik understand this is probably the least effective way to make him comply, but maybe it's not supposed to be easy.
Oh, of course it isn't.
Cohen looks like a cat with a rat under his paw, licking his chops and preparing for a meal. "I was hoping you'd be stubborn; I want to see the beautiful crescendo of your pain." A deep unsettling chuckle gets caught in Cohen's throat, and he waves a hand to signal one of his 'boys'.
"Mr. Cobb, if you please?"
"You got it," the man all but purrs. Stepping forward, Jacob Cobb summons a weave of lightening between his hands, sparking between the blue extrusions jutting from his palms. Knowing what will happen doesn't make it any easier when those volts start to pour through him. Some instinct in the deep primal part of his mind wants him to cry out, but that yearning in Cohen's eyes... he wants him to scream. That's somehow important. Erik grinds his teeth as the searing paralysis takes him, confusing his nerves and stabbing him with a million tiny needles of pain. Still, he doesn't make a sound.
"Cobb, the stick!" Cohen's voice is watery in the distance; in too few moments the jacked splicer steps forward, reaches into the too small cage, and clamps his hand directly onto Erik's skull. His mind falls to pieces, broken memories and buried regrets crashing into one another and falling into a mound of muddled shards. He sees Christine, and Lacie. He sees Sasha's bloody face. He sees Ayesha trembling on the muddy ground, and he sees Rezza sick in his bed. The gleam of massive diamonds upon that Persian throne pour like dew over a million other splintered recollection, and despite himself, Erik feels a cry start to well in his chest. It's so difficult to keep focused on damming his voice; he's suddenly thinking of the attic in his mother's house, the bells he struck as a babe, the gypsy girl who threatened to accuse him of rape, and the man who almost raped him. It's too much, all at once, running by in a blur and circling back to bite him.
But the second Erik opens his mouth, he feels an unnatural force pour like semi-liquid fingers down his throat. They grab, scratch, seek... tearing into his flesh until Erik closes his jaw once more. Cohen is waving that damn watch in front of the bars and it's swaying back and forth, back and forth... it's pulling him, calling him... like it wants him. Or, wants something from him. And the way that greedy magic pushed down his throat, the way Cohen praises his voice while peering at him with hunger... maybe it's the electricity to the brain, but suddenly, Erik thinks he understands. Cohen wants his voice. It seems like he needs Erik to sing, to take it; and apparently a scream is close enough for the spell to cruelly rip his voice out.
Well, that sure as hell isn't happening.
Things start to go fuzzy; memories bleed into his view, flickering and skipping and running on repeat like a busted scratched CD. He only realizes the charge must have stopped when he feels the ground come up hard beneath him. His skin sizzles, his starkly blue eyes spotted red with so many popped blood vessels. He breathes through his teeth, trying to focus on what is immediately real. Still his mind feels scrambled, and it's difficult to follow Cohen's voice as he speaks.
"... boys and I will keep encouraging you to sing! Come on now, don't disappoint your captive audience!"
This time, it's two of Cohen's boys that strike him with an unrelenting wave of jagged electricity. Erik isn't sure if minutes or hours pass in the agonizing scramble of his mind; he's not even sure he's managing to stay quiet... but he must be, because the pain keeps going.
Until finally, finally it stops. Erik is on the ground again, unable to stifle the confused twitching of his limbs as excess electricity crackles down his nerves.
Cohen seems vexed, now.
"It doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all! I'll still win you hear me, I'll still win! Go ahead and be stubborn, it won't make a difference!" the many rings on his fingers gleam as he snaps and calls "Finnegan!"
"Am I up, Sander-baby?" Another of Cohen's four immediate follows steps forward. Martin Finnegan's skin is an unhealthy shade of blue; in fact, it resembles ice more closely than skin. Erik's expression must have stumbled into something unimpressed, because the ice man grins like he knows something Erik does not.
"Yeah I know; you're the man who's always cold, right? So what if you get covered in a little ice? Gotta be a vacation, after that. Like free air conditioning, right?" The splicer's smile is ugly with cruelty as he leans closer to the bars.
"But it's not the ice itself that's gonna break you; that would be too easy. Could freeze you, shatter you into a million pieces... done in two seconds, tops, but that's not what Sander-baby wants." A small spiky blizzard darts around Martin's fingers before he flings it casually at the base of the cage, creating a cascade of ice-spikes that encourage Erik to keep his back to the other side of the cage; he's barely aware enough to comply, and a few of the spikes bite red into his thin pale skin. He barely even feels it, with his nerves so fried. Martin is speaking, but he has to focus determinedly to decode the sounds into words.
"...your memory. That's what I'll freeze right out of your head. Make you forget who you are, where you came from, why you wouldn't wanna just give Sander what he wants. It's gonna happen either way. Why don't you just sing us a little song, so I don't have to erase the memories or your precious childhood pet and your goddamn first kiss."
The fact that these things were said of blind mocking means nothing to Erik. He hardly has perception over his own limbs (though it is returning, little by little) and yet somehow, he feels the satisfying curl of fabric inside his fist as he grabs the ice man's vest. One quick brutal pull has Martin crashing against the cage with enough force to split his mask off his face, and completely shatter his nose. Enraged, Martin reels back with a shout.
"Son'ova bitch!" he snarls, and despite everything, Erik cannot hide the tiniest of smirks. Beneath it, he is trying so hard to ignore the petrifying fear of forgetting, and take pleasure in the small act of sadistic revenge while he can.
(He can't forget her, he can't!)
---
[ooc: For my personal reference: Martin Finnegan (Ice, Houdini), Kyle Fitzpatrick (Possession), Silas Cobb (nitro/shock jockey), Hector Rodriguez (nitro/shock jockey)]
no subject
She knows from experience though, no amount of preparation will ever be truly adequate for a situation like this. Still, she closes her eyes and focuses on one of her birds, trying to see the scene through its eyes. Erik still seems to be in the cage, unconscious but unharmed. The image flickers from her mind. No use in wasting her energy yet, then.
Getting into the theater is as easy as sneaking her tiny form in through a crumbling hole in a wall. Of course, the moment she is back to her feet and brushing the dust from her clothing, a rabbit-masked man is approaching her.
"Hey! You ain't supposed to be in here!" He growls at her and his volume is enough to alert anyone else nearby that something might be happening. As he grows closer, Christine says nothing. She simply stares him down, takes a step forward and slides one of her longer daggers right through his throat. There’s the sickening sound of gurgled blood as she drags it through his flesh and right out the other side. The red splatters on her face as he crumples to the floor. Within seconds, he is convulsing from the loss of blood.
If this wasn’t the afterlife, she would have just made her fifth murder.
Nearly decapitating him should keep him down for a while and keep him quiet with such mangled vocal chords but for good measure, Christine stomps on his knee, feeling the bones crunch beneath her heel.
So this is how it’s going to be then, isn’t it. She had a feeling in her gut that this is how she’d react but the confirmation of it sickens her. Who is she to cause such pain?
She checks on her crows again. Nothing she hasn’t seen before, nothing seems to have changed, no other guards or anyone seem to have been alerted to her presence-- But there’s a change. One of the men is shooting fire into Erik’s cage and she only catches a glimpse of his clothes burning away and leaving him nearly nude before the image fades.
Who are these men to callously strip away her beloved’s dignity? Instantly, her remorse fades away. She picks up the man’s bloodied rabbit mask and wipes it off on her sleeve before putting it on. It’ll help her blend in.
She struts down the hallway as if she belongs here and the two people she passes pay her no mind. Good. She’d rather not have to waste time taking them down, too. She does, however, take the time to light up a cigarette and quickly smoke it before she enters the auditorium proper. It’ll be her last chance to do so.
She doesn’t admit that it is also calming her nerves. There’s no room for error and that is a lot of pressure.
The backstage area has too many rabbit masks, it’d be far too risky to use that path towards the stage. She can, however, go up and around to make it there. She lets herself into one of the private boxes near the stage. There’s two people sitting there, watching this abhorrent show. With cat-quiet steps, Christine approaches them. She reaches into her coat and pulls out that sharp violin string. Before the first victim has any chance to protest, she has wrapped that string around his throat tight enough so that he cannot scream, cannot breathe and moments later, has lost consciousness before his date has even noticed. She repeats the process, digging that catgut into this poor woman’s throat deep enough to draw blood. Still, this is not enough to guarantee the quickly falling angel enough time to rescue Erik. She runs her blade through both of their throats.
Six and seven. (It’s curious how intimate the act of murder can be.)
She leans over the edge of the box to get her first view of the stage with her own two eyes. What she sees is troubling, to say the least. Nothing she has ever seen in Hell has ever angered her like this sight does. None of the blatant, unashamed nudity, none of the thoughtless murders. None of the atrocities that have been committed directly against Christine have ever elicited a reaction quite like this out of her. The sight of Erik being tortured, electrocuted and uncontrollably twitching enrages her. These men-- These men will pay. She can almost feel the electricity surging through her own veins as she watches, perhaps some twisted testament to the unnatural bond shared between her and Erik.
Christine is running out of time, she has to get to the stage before they manage to do even more damage. She climbs up onto the ledge of the box and jumps to the shadowed column to the side of the curtains. Hiding in plain sight, she pulls herself up to the level of the lights and grabs an errant rope. From there, it’s rather easy to swing herself up to one of the catwalks above the stage. Unfortunately, her landing is not as silent as she wishes it to be. Fortunately, her ability to blend into the shadows works to her advantage when the masked stagehand comes to investigate.
Her knife get buried to the hilt in the warmth of his side. The cry that escapes his lips is drowned out by Cohen’s mad, deranged ranting below. Before he has a chance to make another, Christine brings him to his knees and to the perfect angle for her to cut his neck open, too. She pushes him away, his skull clanks against the metal and his blood will very likely drip down to the stage, now.
Eight.
Like a hunting lioness, Christine carefully descends a small spiral staircase leading to the lower level of catwalks above the stage. It is here that she finds the perfect perch, crouching down to watch. To wait. She cannot just barge in, she has to wait for the precise, perfect moment to finally reveal her presence. Still, she pulls her pistol from its holster and cocks it. There will be little need left for stealth once she is being burned under the heat of the spotlights.
But as a consequence, she is forced to watch as Finnegan taunts Erik. That...that can’t be possible, can it? You can’t just freeze someone’s memories out of their head, they’d just grow back in the afterlife...right? In her abject horror, Christine nearly misses her cue. She sees Erik’s hand dart out towards the icy man and she instantly knows that it is now or never.
With everyone on the stage distracted by Finnegan reeling back from having half his face caved in, Christine swoops down from on high for her own attack. Before she even lands on the stage, she is pulling the trigger at a point blank range, the barrel of her pistol aimed for the back of one their heads. He hits the ground before Christine does.
Nine. (It’s not really murder when everyone is already dead.)
She lands on her feet with practiced grace and stands to her full height. In any normal circumstance it is barely worth noting at all except in how miniscule it is. Though somehow Christine manages to exude an ethereal amount of power and strength. Perhaps it’s the flowing, black brocade patterned coat draping her form. Or maybe the dark, leather boots with high heels shaped like sharp bones. Most likely though, is the glowing golden eyes sitting behind that blood stained white rabbit’s mask.
She takes two steps forward, doing away with that horrid mask and tossing it aside. There’s no purpose in it now. One of the remaining henchmen has stepped to meet her in the middle, his hands sparking with electricity. Christine kicks him back in the stomach and that brief stumble gives her enough time to aim and fire. She feels blood running down her face but it’s impossible for it to be hers.
Ten.
Without a word, she raises her gun towards Cohen. Her eyes are full of so much hatred, so much tenacious malice that it gives credence to the phrase ”If looks could kill.” Christine can’t help but imagine giving this man a particularly drawn out, painful end.
If they thought dealing with Erik’s stubbornness was going to be a particular treat....
Well, boys, let him introduce you to his wife.
Your icon looks like Liz I can't are they sisters or something? IT'S DELIGHTFUL
But what about the delicate electrical-chemical subtles of the brain? If such a seat of knowledge and personally is brutalized enough, will it be able to reform exactly the same way? Or will something, no matter how minutely small, be different? Erik recalls his arrival to Hell vividly, to this day; the agonizing procedure he'd had to endure to undo the damage his death had left upon his new physical form, which continued to reflect himself upon his demise. Of course nothing could be done about his face, but the rest of him was recovered, more or less. Not everyone is so lucky; some are left scarred, or otherwise disfigured by the blows that caused thier death. Some souls are never quite the same again.
And it is this thought that forms into an anchor to drag him towards urgent reality.
But what is he even seeing? They seem like kaleidoscope-twisted memories of himself, only too little about them is familiar. His vision is only mercifully blurry for so long; it's... she's...
Christine...
Only, it cannot be! Yes, he understands that she had changed much after his death (was changed so much by his death) and further down the rabbit hole she fell upon deciding to descend into Hell for what surely seemed a madwoman's errand. But this...
How can this be real? It's not legitimate murder, he frantically reminds himself, but does that truly matter, anymore?
There is a brief half moment when Cohen's red-smeared lips curl into a particularly rotten grin. In the space of a single blink, a unnatural ripple flows through the air, and suddenly Cohen is gone. In his place there is only tiny bits of eerily floating flesh and a mist of blood left thickening the air. The same ripple and swirl of red fog signals where Cohen will be the second before he appears--
-- standing with a flourish upon the top of Erik's cage.
"Who is this, now? Another bird of prey to join in our dance? Another winged creature drawn so helplessly to the fire?" Cohen's slender bony fingers drift up and remove his mask in a jerking unsteady motion. His skin is saggy and sunken around his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, and run through with a strange lumpy texture that makes him look deathly ill. His eerily narrow and far apart eyes are absolutely caked around the edges in ash-black mascara, and his black hair is oiled down against his skull.
Suddenly, the bunny-obsessed lunatic tips his head downwards and taps a foot on the top of the cage, trying to get Erik's attention.
"A secret protege, galloping in to save the day? Why don't you thank her Erik, don't be a rude little rube." The golden pocket-watch still sways on its chain, subtly exuding that hungering greedy magic.
And of course, Erik knows he cannot speak, but it doesn't stop him from trying.
"Chri--" he can't manage a single syllable, the needling pain in this throat increasing brutally; so much heartache, relief and horror have been vented by that single sound. Erik forces himself to stand by grasping the bars, sharp-edged shoulders tightening in tension as he stares at her with blinding guilt, terror, and absolute awe. He tries to tell her so much without words, finally unable to brace the shaking from his hands. Is he trembling, or quaking with rage? His gaze is a chaotic mix of too many things-- it's overwhelming and he knows he's drowning in the cold suffocating truth he can no longer ignore.
This is his Christine.
The tiny grain of golden pride he feels is more than enough to make him sick to his stomach, more than enough to miss the mindlessness of the electricity. Physical pain could not be nearly so unbearable as this.
Erik is momentarily dislodged from his whirlpool of dread by something light but solid landing with a 'thunk!' upon his head. Bewildered, he glances down and sees it on the floor, looking up with empty eyes and mocking him:
The Rabbit Mask.
"For you sanity," Cohen says graciously, his lunatic laughter bouncing off the decaying walls as he vanishes just in time to avoid being hit by the body that suddenly plummets from above. It lands with an obnoxious clash and a few rosey splashes of red create abstract art upon the pallid vien-ridden skin of Erik's face.
He doesn't even look up; he just keeps staring at Christine, pleading with her with his eyes.
Please, don't do this. Please stop!
HAAA CHRISTINA RICCI IS JUST AMAZING, THAT'S ALL <33
She almost laughs at the irony of Cohen’s comment about another predatory bird joining this dance. Oh, if only he knew...But she will not reveal that particular trick of hers quite yet. While incredibly useful, those powers are still new to her. For now, Christine wishes to stick to what she has learned best and save the crows for later. As Cohen too, removes his mask, she doesn’t even blink at the horrible visage beneath it. Does he mean to intimidate her with his ugliness? A tactic that might work on most people but on Christine, it’s rather pointless.
“What makes you think that I am the protege and not the master?” Christine speaks for the very first time. Her voice is low and melodic in tone but calm and calculated. She tilts her head, an eyebrow slightly raised. The way she asks this question, there may even be a hint of arrogance. Her eyes twitch towards that pocket watch swinging with its magic and while Christine is unaware of what exactly its purpose is, she can deduce that it has something to do with why Erik has been captured in the first place. The idea forms to shoot it out of Cohen’s hand. She blinks, adjusts her aim and takes the shot--
And she has no idea if she actually hit it or not. She thinks she heard the shot hit something but--
The first time Cohen had disappeared, it surprised her slightly. The second time, she spends those next brief moments studying that ability of his, knowing that the more she can figure out about it, the easier it will be to use it against him.
But then she is momentarily distracted by the falling body, her eyes inadvertently latching onto it and following it to the floor. As a consequence, when her eyes trail back up they lock with Erik’s for the first time and Christine would rather like to pull her heart out of her chest and beat that infernal organ to a pulp. It seizes in her chest when she sees him and she cannot breathe.
This is what she’s been avoiding for so long, this exact moment. This is why she was so grateful when he’d been wearing his mask the last time they had met upon a stage. The look in his eyes alone is enough to rend Christine to her knees but the full image of him destroys her.
He looks so helpless. Heartbroken. Shocked. The list goes on. The expression on his face is unbearable, not because of his horrible ugliness but because Christine can see clearly past that and only see how absolutely hurt he is. There’s no protecting him anymore. His naked skin is literally splattered in the red evidence of Christine’s continued psychosis. There are three lifeless bodies splayed out on the stage and no way to deny that she is capable of, responsible for, such acts of violence.
So stare away in abject horror, dearest Erik. But this is how an angel survives in Hell. This is how an angel proves how much she loves you, this is how an angel proves that she’s worthy of you, shows how deeply she regrets ever hurting you, ever leaving you, ever allowing you to ever think for a moment that she was not utterly devoted to you--
This is all because of you and there will be no stopping her
Christine shakes her head slowly to make that clear before tearing her eyes away from Erik’s. Then all she can do is wait for Cohen to rematerialize.
no subject
Cohen's high pitched raspy giggles bounce off the wasting walls; while he has no skill in throwing his voice, he can flicker around the yawning space within the space of a single blink.
"Because when I look into your eyes, I do not see possession. I see desperation." This could be Cohen just messing with her, trying to get inside her mind... but it quietly leads one to wonder just how much the mad artist actually sees. "Look at how you gaze upon one another, awww... it makes me sick. You are like a tattered photograph, becoming ash in the fire. I wonder how your pain will sound, little bird. How will it smell? Maybe... maybe like... burning..." his ominous off kilter laughter becomes louder and louder, almost ear splitting at the height of it.
And all of the sudden, there is a scorching flash of red and gold from a balcony to the back of the theater. The huge hungry ball of flame soars searing through the air, aimed to strike viciously between Christine's shoulder blades. Likely he's testing her; if she burns, she's not a demon.
Erik watches the flames as they create a stunning silhouette of Christine's form. This is all so unreal, and yet he cannot bring himself to believe that it's a dream. He had spent so little time as a man with Christine; so long had pe played The Angel of Music, the ghost, the terror. And yet... he may as well have raised her from a babe, by all the likeness she's taken to him now. Shame burns up his insides as his boney fingers bite the bars, bracing his weight while his head feels light and dizzy.
It becomes clear to him in that eternal moment that this must happen. The only thing worse than Christine succeeding, would be Christine failing. They will kill her, or rip her into so many pieces it won't matter-- or they'll do exactly what they plan on doing to him, so that even when they look upon each other they will be impossibly separated by the blank void of thier stolen memories.
There could be no torture worse than this!
His shame amplified tenfold when he feels the desire to look away. He cannot, will not. He needs to see she survives as much as he cannot blind himself to her destruction. He cannot cower; he must face the full reality of what his influence has done to this once pure and heartbreakingly fragile flower of a girl. He must bare the sight of how much of his ugliness he has forced upon her. This is so much worse than anything Cohen and his goons could have fathomed to do with him.
He doesn't deserve this sacrifice; he's poisoned her with unspoken secret betrayal. He's not worth this--
-- maybe he's not worth any of the pain Christine has dragged herself through for simply a chance to be with him.
His eyes sting suddenly, but he won't blink, he won't break his guardian stare. Even though it's completely useless, worthless. It's all he can give. The realization is like a spark upon a lake of oil, and suddenly Erik is thrashing at the bars. He throws his weight against the locked door, over and over and over again, biting down a roar of boundless rage because he doesn't know if Christine's shot destroyed the enchanted pocket watch. Her sacrifice would be insulted even further if he allowed his carelessness to cost him his voice. His temper battles viciously with despair, corroding his attachment to logical thought.
Despite the bruises, the ringing in his hears, the feeling of a lance through his chest, he keeps crashing himself against the cage door. For the moment, he seems absolutely drowned by the hatred induced by his helplessness.
no subject
She’s come a long way since then.
Seeing the light of the flames in the corner of her eye, Christine only has moments to react. She manages to dodge this blast but only by a hair. She jumps into a roll to duck and evade the attack, immediately coming back up to her feet. The fire has caught on her sleeve. She pats it out with practiced nonchalance. It doesn’t matter that the flames have grazed her skin and seared it. In order to keep her cover, she must not betray the shooting pain that’s now throbbing through her arm. She can do this, she’s dealt with far worse.
Christine pays little mind to Cohen’s taunt. Or at least, she tries not to let it dig into her stony resolve, despite the sliver of truth to it. She knows herself, she knows what she’s capable of, even if her abilities are currently being pushed to the limit.
She stops to further assess the situation. The one nursing his broken face will become a problem again soon but from her current position, Christine cannot get a decent shot without putting herself at a disadvantage. The best she can do is aim at his hip and hope that it shatters the bone or severs an artery that’ll keep him down for while. She can just hear Hancock’s voice at her ear, his breath on her neck and urging her to relax. Because there is no shame in hurting those that deserve it.
She takes the shot.
The recoil reverberates through her and causes that small burn on her arm to sting. Still, she does not flinch. There are things far worse than physical pain. She reloads the clip on her gun and saunters towards the cage. It would be unwise to stay in one place for too long with Cohen teleporting throughout the theater at the blink of an eye. Christine glances up to see Erik’s futile pounding against the cage. She has seen his rage many a time but she has never seen anything like this. He’s unhinged and feral; she can only imagine how dangerous he’d truly be if he were to escape his entrapment.
Is this rage because he cannot protect her, she wonders? Anger at that thought brews in her belly. He has not been able to protect her for the entirety of her time in Hell. Her body has been ravaged beyond the point of death so many times in this mad quest and every single time she has come back with more conviction-- Why should it matter now? She’ll never stop fighting.
Briefly, she touches one of the bars of the cage, her hand just below Erik’s so that they touch slightly. She only needs his attention for a second so that he may read two syllables from her blood-red lips.
”Je t’aime,” she mouths the words, unable to speak them out loud. But as long as Erik sees them, he’ll receive the message she intends. It means so much more than just “I love you.” It’s an apology. She’s so sorry he has to see her like this but she is not sorry that she is like this. It’s a promise; Christine will get them out of this madness. He only has to trust her. She has come too far to just give up now. Then she blinks and that look full of love and kindness is gone in an instant. There is nothing but cold detachment.
“I had thought that this altercation could be resolved amicably but you’ve harmed my most precious pet, monsieur. For that, there shall be consequences,” Christine snarls with animosity,, walking away from center stage. Any moment now, she suspects Cohen will be flinging another blast of fire at her. This time, she’ll be prepared.
Imperceptibly, she reaches into her coat to pull out her violin strings. Poor Fitzpatrick, trying to escape her notice. Unfortunately, he has not. She has to get rid of this little henchman too, innocuous as he seems. She lunges at him from behind and kicks the side of his knee so he briefly fumbles down to her level. The metal catgut gets wrapped around his throat tightly but not quite enough to really suffocate him. Not yet, anyway. She holds the string with one hand and yanks it, the other presses the tip of her pistol into the man’s back.
It takes a certain level of mad cruelty to decide to use someone as a human shield. Logically, it seems like the thing to do to protect herself as an angel surrounded by flames. But really, there’s nothing angelic about these actions at all, is there?
no subject
The moment Christine's fingers lay the barest kiss upon Erik's, the thrashing slender man brings himself to sudden stillness, like a spell of calm has been cast over his broiling temper. He hates being seen like this-- being like this. Useless. Helpless. Almost naked, relieved of his mask, injured and trapped. Just like he once had been. He had never wanted to come back to this place.
But he cannot believe that he is worth the price of this rescue; he cannot accept that this is the extent to which he has utterly ruined this once pure perfect soul. All because he couldn't control himself enough to leave her be. The same behavior has come back to bite him, it seems; why is Christine so bent on sacrificing her light to save a man so undeserving? Because she doesn't know, the sinister thought taunts him, even as he stares into those desert sun eyes. Would she consider such brutality on his behalf, if she knew he had failed to be loyal? He certainly can't tell her in the single moment she gifts him. He understands everything she's saying to him with the single soft utterance and his heart aches mercilessly in his chest.
How could she be sorry for becoming this creature, when he had started the process?
But he never asked for this. He never wanted this!
And then, it is suddenly as if Christine dons a mask of her own, so complete and flawless is her look of icy detachment. It's another mirror thrust upon his naked face and it is so difficult to bare the incredible resemblance. Everything is blurry; he wants to be proud and possessive, he's mortified and drowning in guilt, he despises himself for looking upon her both as a lover, and a proud parent. His falling angel, his inamorata, his precious child grown in the shape of his twisted shadow.
Think, you damn fool!
As Christine draws away, Erik begins to madly comb the surroundings with his eyes. The fever of his temper has broken. He can reach the lock of the cage with some twisting and forcing of his arm through those not-narrow-enough bars, but it's a useless action if he has no key. Throwing his flashing eyes to what is immediately within reach past the bars, Erik spots one of Cohen's henchmen that has been knocked down, as close to dead as he possibly can be. He doesn't appear to be breathing... Casting one more longingly broken hearted look at Christine, Erik then turns his attention to escape.
He's quick to fold onto his knees, hissing a little as he pushes his arm through the bars of the cage. His fingertips just barely touch the cusp of one bloody sleeve, but it's almost, almost enough.
Erik has eyes on the tacky garnish of flowers pinned to the temporary corpse's shirt. If only he could reach a little farther; he growls softly in sheer frusteration as he forces his hand further forward. The unyielding metal bites Erik with rust scented breath. He has to twist so he can't quite see, and it pain him to completely look away for even a moment. Gaining the last meager measurements between his reaching fingers and the man's sleeve takes an especially painful stretch, but he's so close. With a pin, he could pick the lock, he could get out and--
And what? Stop Cohen? Save Christine? Help her destroy what's left of this cult and its master, along with the remaining last shards of her innocence? He has so little clue of what he will actually do, so getting out of the cage becomes a very singular focus.
And... got it. Erik finally manages a solid grip on the fallen man's sleeve. Now he needs only to pull him close enough that he can reach that pin...
But suddenly, Erik finds himself shivering. It takes a few moments for things to make sense-- he's usually so at home with his cold, that feeling uncomfortable due to it is disorientating. Had he ever actually shivered down to his bones before? When he breaths out it creates a small cloud of mist, and he is alarmed to find he can't withdraw his outstretched hand.
Because it's now frozen to the stage. The ice keeps crawling deliberately forward, steadily consuming more and more of Erik's arm, until he's frozen between the bars. Still, the ice continues to creep up his neck, intensifying his shivers until his whole body shook. Of course he struggles and attempts to crack the cold coating, malice burning in the hollows of his eyes like blue fire inside a morbid skull lantern.
Finnegan is somewhere to his left, on the floor but pointing his palm to Erik, spewing out a controlled blizzard that seems to be slowly but steadily consuming the caged man in ice. The cold feels so unreal, almost completely alien to his senses in its sheer biting intensity. His muscles tighten and his skin burns beneath the cold; his teeth shatter violently as the ice juts in thicker coating along his narrow outstretched arm.
Those eerie hissing giggles float through the air like a half-stunned drunken moth. Cohen can't let Christine get too distracted with Finnegan, after all.
"Consequences, consequences. Yes, yes there shall be... you understand that, don't you Fitzpatrick...?"
Against the metal catgut Christine may be able to feel the man swallow anxiously; he had not trembled while she choked him, but he's trembling now. Like he knows something Christine does not.
It isn't a fireball or two that come roaring through the air from the balcony closest to the stage's right side. This time, it is a literal river rapid of flames that sears the air as it viciously flows towards Christine and Fitzpatrick, head on.
And then Cohen's man lets out an ear-splitting shriek. The first moment burns his clothing to ashes, and the next cruelly cooks his skin. Within a few vital seconds Fitzpatrick is being burned to a crisp, his skin blackening and cracking, his eyelids scorched away as he continues to yowl in incomprehensible pain.
As Christine well knows, fire and angels do not mix.
I AM ON FIRE TODAY
She tries to tell herself that she has faced far worse in the past but something in her gut is making it quite clear that this will be some sort of magnum opus.
Christine barely has enough time to react when the flames easily burn through Fitzpatrick and pull her into the blaze as well. She lets go of Fitzpatrick, pushing him straight into the flames and then stumbles backward a few steps as the fire eats through her coat and latches onto her delicate angel’s skin.
She is forced with a choice. Silence Fitzpatrick and put the poor angel out of his misery for the moment or put the fire out on her body and not completely blow her cover.
She chooses to burn. Christine pulls her gun back out and takes aim on the screaming, cooking man. With his frantic motions in the fire, it’s hard to get a clear shot. Her first one misses his head, the second one does not, effectively silencing him. It’s only a small mercy, given the pain Christine knows quite well that is involved in healing from extensive burns but...at least with the head wound he’ll be unconscious for the worst of it.
”Vous êtes un petit connard dégoûtant, putain de fou, ” Christine spits a string of not so nice words in Cohen’s general direction as she shrugs the charred remnants of her coat off her shoulders and using them to smother the remainder of the flames attacking her other arm and a little down her back.
She then glances towards Erik, half expecting him to reprimand her for using such colorful, unlady-like language in the tongue they share. Instead, she sees him frozen to the stage and shivering. Finnegan. Even with him laying on the floor, unable to move, he’s still being an annoying pain. Whether she wants to or not, Christine has to deal with him in a more long lasting sort of fashion. Still, running over towards him would put her at a disadvantage from nearly all the spots Christine guesses Cohen might teleport to…
Unless she employs her crows. She reaches out her most damaged arm, the one with skin now blackened, raw wounds showing through the cracks. Her fingers turn to a bird’s talons and shining black feathers spontaneously sprout from her skin. From seemingly nowhere, a cloud of crows appears. Some swoop down from the rafters where she had left them, some fly in from the audience, all swarm around her to provide effective cover. Her feet carry her towards the fallen Finnegan. As she reaches him, the murder seems to dissipate slightly.
“You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?” her voice oddly calm, she questions as her taloned hand darts out to grab Finnegan by his hair. She draws his head back with a snap to expose his neck and slides her blade through his skin. Christine looks up to meet Erik’s eyes and while she only sees horror through his shivering, she can almost hear his words from long ago cruelly mocking her. (”I’ve got one or two excellent knives that would be admirably suited to the purpose, not too heavy for a lady’s hand.”)
She pushes Finnegan’s now bleeding body to the floor and steps away. With a wave of her arm, the remaining crows finish the job in the cruelest way possible. Slowly, they peck and pull at Finnegan’s flesh. They stab at his eyes and tear chunks away, being sure to cause as much pain to this man as possible before he succumbs to blessed unconsciousness.
It should worry her that she feels no remorse for an act so blatantly monstrous.
Christine saunters center stage, standing before Erik’s cage again. Wishful thinking dictates that Cohen might be stupid enough to fling another fireball at her while standing here, also melting the ice encasing Erik’s thin body. Of course, Christine doesn’t think such a plan will actually work and so she immediately moves on to the next. She slides her still bloody knife into the strap on the side of her boot. Then she jumps up on the top of the cage and sits there, prettily crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. She hopes that Erik will take the hint and slip the knife off her person while she taunts Cohen.
“Pardon my French,” She says with a smirk, “But I rather think we should start discussing the terms of his release like civilized human beings. I’d really rather not be forced to take far more....drastic measures. Fire is only so intimidating in Hell, monsieur.”
Three tags in less than a month WHOO not sure if proud or crying xD;;
“And look at how you get your paws so bloody for your master. Your devotion is--” a few stifled sobs that balance upon the line between sincere and mocking, “--so beautiful. Would you feel honored if I painted it, after I’ve extracted what I need…?”
Meanwhile, Erik willfully hauls his concentration together; the cold gnaws him like it’s starving, but as the seconds tick by he becomes further and further adjusted. It’s only pain, after all, and his heart threatens greater agony than the frost. Is he not more than this pathetic, helpless creature? Can he do nothing but watch Christine destroy herself? His self disgust is muffled only barely, by the visceral understanding that he can’t let this come to pass; he can’t let her kill one more person for him.
Somehow, by some madman’s paranoid delusion or a genius’ sharp perception, Erik feels it in the marrow of his bones; this could very realistically cost Christine her wings. How can he entrap her into this terrible tomb without telling her the truth? She can leave, if she chooses; she could abandon him for his infidelity and return to the luxuries of Heaven, if it soothed her. But that freedom may be fast dwindling, about to be ripped out from under her, and Erik suddenly and starkly recalls the Tarot card that had idly fell from the deck upon his pale silken pillow:
The Tower. It had been instinctive to shrug it off, to turn away-- to make it unimportant. Could something have been changed if he’d only listened to the faint whispers of the forces that be? All of this uselessness fogs his mind as he gazes upwards towards his precious Christine, aching to drive her away but knowing she would not abandon him without knowing the truth. But he can’t say it now, entrapped, when a shock such as that could mean another wash of blistering burns for his smouldering angel.
This thin bare arm stretches through the empty space of the cage as Erik twists uncomfortably, attempting to reach the offered blade whilst remaining half frozen to the ground. It’s an impossible stretch, drawing a raw growl of frustration from the harassed caged man. His eyes home a calculated corrosive burn, like careful shards of dry eyes. The effect of this blizzard magic… it can’t linger too long beyond its master’s expiration, can it? Flexing his immobilized limb, Erik can feel the cold creep away in tiny fractions, and knows his instincts must be correct. He needs but to outwait the effect so he can reach the carefully offered blade, bust the lock, and…
And take Christine far away from here, to reveal the shameful truth concealed behind his carefully constructed lies of omission.
He loves another woman, and he is unworthy of this sacrifice.
“You want to bargain after calling me such unflattering things? My lady, that is absolutely no way to win a man’s heart…” a blur of blood scented fog hails Cohen’s appearance at the front of the stage, where he stands in a mockery of spotlight from the broken ceiling above. “He’s mine, you know. Mine until I get what I want. But, I tell you what? You’ve impressed me so much with your passionate bloodshed, that I’ll let you take him when I’m done with him. Now, can’t we all just get along…?” It’s unclear if the bunny obsessed lunatic is being sincere or mocking, and his red smile continues to stretch as he strides casually closer.
“A fair deal, I would say… seeing as you’re turning so crispy.”
Would that be better, Erik wonders in a feverish haze. If he gave Cohen what he wanted, and he allowed them to leave with the last unstained scrap of his angel’s innocence --her freedom!-- intact. The revelation stuns him for half a moment, and it disgusts him to know that some miniscule tell in his expression caused Cohen to break into a smug grin.
“Ah, even your Beau thinks it’s an offer worth consideration,” he gloats.
But in the next few moments, Christine and Cohen alike could clearly read the bold refultion in those eerily unmatched eyes. As if he would never, ever consider such a thing.
(When the raw truth is that he would, and he despises that Cohen has found such a crack in his unwavering will.)
His teeth scrape and the motion shows faintly through the pallid semi-translucent skin of his cheeks; the blue web of veins twitch with the erratic stomping of his pulse; he just needs a few more minutes… He can feel the subtle give as he continues his attempts to break free from the icy binding. If only he could say something-- anything! But Erik isn’t clear on if that voice-snatching trinket had been broken or not, and he’s suddenly assaulted by a ruthless dilemma.
If that devious enchanted device had not been broken… all Erik needs to do is sing.If… if he did, Christine would not longer have any reason to fight; Cohen’s disinterest would be his jailbreak. He can save her, he can...
But the ice is so near to cracking, so near to releasing him from its pinning prison. Maybe a minute more, just one, and they can both escape with themselves intact. Her freedom, his voice.
His gaze slices upwards to the space he could catch her gaze, if she sensed to look at him.
’Stall this aberrant cretin,’ seems to be the attached telepathic message, sent above the smothered pulse pounding force of his guilt. Dear god-- at any moment, one of them could destroy the other-- but he just needs to squeeze out a few more vital moments…
I can't even handle the drama in this thread okay.
Yes, she can stall Cohen. Though the approach she used the last time her lover was being threatened by a hideous madman might not apply. Honestly, even just the thought of such a thing is enough to make Christine feel nauseous.
Or maybe that sensation is simply her body trying to tell her she’s gone too far this time.
She steals one last glance at Erik. They’ll secure their escape soon enough and Christine longs for the moment where they can desperately hold each other again.
“There is not a soul in Heaven or Hell that I answer to; I am my own master,” Christine hisses with cold malice. No one has any say over what she does anymore. Not her father, not Raoul, not Erik, no one. Not even God, given the wretched path she has turned down. But Christine has the freedom to make her own choices, consequences be damned.
“And I could certainly argue that my words were flattering. As far as you’re concerned, they were bordering on lover-like treatment. French is la langue d’amour, after all,” Christine adds, a bit of humor leaking back into her tone. She leans forward, resting her elbow on her knee, resting her cheek in her (comparatively) unburned hand. She starts tapping the sharp heel of her boot against the metal of the cage. The look on her face has faded to something close to...boredom? It’s certainly not the expression a woman that’s been so extensively burned should be wearing.
“You’re so distracted by this ridiculous obsession with his voice that you don’t even realize that the far greater prize is sitting right in front of you. I mean, infinite supply of magical angel feathers, for starters.” There’s no point in trying to hide her status anymore, right? But Christine already has a feeling that this won’t appeal to Cohen’s mad whims.
“But him? Who is he even?” She gestures down towards Erik, “Just smoke and mirrors, mostly. Though he does somehow manage to be less ugly than you so he’s got that going for him, at least. His voice is just a clever trick of newfangled, modern technology. My voice, on the other hand,” She smirks, playing her little part and trying to downplay Erik’s talents. She won’t allow him to trade his voice for his freedom.
“I’ve been called the soprano of the century, the most angelic voice that’s ever graced the clouds of Heaven...I’d be more than willing to perform for you, if you’d like. I even take requests!”
Was there really any other option but to set the stage for an exchange? Her entrapment for Erik’s freedom? Trying to stall and buy Erik the time he needs to escape on his own is a gamble, from her perspective.
Well, that’s just typical Christine behaviour, isn’t it?