Christine has carefully planned her every move as thoroughly as she could in the little time she has been given to prepare. She has multiple escape routes thought out and an escape vehicle sitting a little ways down the road. She is forever thankful for the extra eyes that her crows can now afford her. With their help, she has the entire layout of this decrepit old theater committed to memory. Every twist, every turn, trap doors, the catwalks above the stage. She has a decent idea of how many people are in there, how many might be particularly dangerous, which ones simply seem like the audience.
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....
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.