Christine is immediately aware that something has been thrown off kilter. It would seem that she is no longer used to people not fearing her. The fact that Fitzpatrick barely flinches at her actions but then starts shaking like a leaf the second Cohen speaks forces a knot to form in her throat.
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.”
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.”