A few years ago, when Christine had been new to the horrors of Hell, a fireball thrown at her like that would have made a hit. It would have instantly burned away her feathers and dug into her skin. Such a blow would have incapacitated her for days while she healed and she would have just allowed it to hit her; she had been so unwilling to fight back.
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
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?