The shot fired at Finnegan burns through the air and brutally shatters his hip, sending him down to the ground just as his face regains shape. The cold cruel splicer howls with rage above pain, hands darting to his pulverised hip and clutching the damaged area with resentful disbelief. He spews quite a few colorful curses, bloodshot eyes glaring with the burn of dry ice. He's down and doesn't seem a threat, save for that blistering stare.
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.
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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.