{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)]
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?