enfant terrible

Whilst the sheep grazed (or downed their champagne, she failed to see the difference), Brielle intended to play the role of goat.  Shaking her horns with stubbornness, she snuck away with deftness, intent on unfolding Charlie’s academy for herself. Light-footed, she moved as a shadow, no concrete presence in the world.

Perhaps the ghost residing on her shoulder helped. Where ever the daughter stepped, the haunted memory of her mother would follow. Even more so tonight. After all, it was no coincidence that her Clara Jonas’s dress hugged her body. Brielle had intended to invoke her - to best her. Youth had stepped into her icy heels. Under her direction, they would only reach loftier heights, until they were high enough to knock over an empire. Cosmic girls might have considered that their dream. But Brielle was anchored to the ground - and that made it a fact.

Instinctively, she moved towards the room that would serve her most well. Sliding her heels off and carrying them by hand, Brielle moved silently, almost as if she had wings. They did, after all, want them to become angels. Even in the darkness, Brielle could make out the familiar shape of the most lethal weapons man had ever created, ones which fit neatly in the palm of her hand. They were cold to the touch. That made her smile.

Although unexpected, the strut of heels and creak of the door did not disrupt Brielle. Instead, she raised her gaze, face impassive in the dark. I swear to God…if they want to make friends. So far, the people she had encountered were far too…holiday camp-ish. 

“You shouldn’t try - “ Try being the key word. “- to sneak up on someone in a gun room. We might have had our very first casualty.”

Perhaps the ghosts that whispered in her ears and tugged her hair in the proper direction helped. Their memories had a nasty habit of straying ahead, carving a bloody wake for her to follow. She needed them to lead her now. It was no coincidence she wore a dead girl’s gown. Other people were of no use without something she needed - something vital.  She had always preferred the sky to the ground, especially when asked where she should be buried. 

Instinctively, she ran her palm over the wall, feeling it hum with electricity, with the music she’d left behind. It was quiet the further she travelled, dead still, like her eyes were closed and she was asleep without dreaming. Strange that they would want them to become angels and not give them anything pretty to play with. A sound. Even in the darkness, even from a distance, she could see the gleam of metal and red hot triggers. Pretty playthings. Maybe. Then again, there were more lethal things than mere guns.

Although unexpected, the open door provided only a solution for Maroon. She stepped through it, eyes ahead, finding a cold gaze in the dark. What could she possible be doing here alone...and how could she find the mansion’s best playthings so quickly. So far, Charlie’s home was a golden ballroom with too many people, hallways and...this. 

“Or -” The silence hung on that oh-so important or, waiting for its alternative. “- We might have had our very first martyr.”

She teeters slightly on heels she hasn’t had occasion to wear in months, at the very least. A waiter presses a glass of champagne into her hand—it isn’t the first one, but she accepts it all the same, drinks it all at once, feels it fizzing all the way down. 

No hesitation. No fear. Here we go.

There’s cause to be cautious, but caution has never gotten her anywhere. She dares most, she dares first, and even in this strange gilded welcome party, she doesn’t hold back from being the one to lay down an opening gambit. As if on cue, a waiter replaces her empty glass with a full one, and so she snags a second, an overture in an outstretched hand for the nearest agent. “I think they’re trying to get us drunk—if I’m going down, I’d rather take someone down with me.”

She can’t remember the last time she wore heels like this, if ever, and they’re damn near impossible to walk in. A suit-jacketed server hovering gently overhead gives her another glass of champagne—it’s practically forced into her hand, but she doesn’t let it slip from her fingers and shatter, shallows it all at once, can feel it going to her head just as quickly.

Keep calm. Keep moving. There you go. 

She’s spent too much time being cautious, but she supposes that could kill her here. She needs to dare more, even surrounded by a golden cage purpose built to keep her in. She moves second, fluidly, reaching out to accepted the offered glass, taking the first hand she’s given and setting her cards on the table face-up. “I think they’re trying to kill us, so—if we’re going down, then better for me to die in the arms of someone instead of alone, thank you.”

The ambiance was so romantic. ( Though she could craft a candy heart out of a cement brick if she wanted to. ) But there was something about an old spy film - the suits and slinky dresses, the high stakes, the fast cars, the bloodshed, that made her want to deliver herself over to the next death. Willingly - with her heart open and her legs spread.

Madeline ( Scarlet, now. Scarlet, Scarlet, Scarlet - just like her heart. ) bit down on her lip as the bon-bon melted in her other hand. She popped it onto her tongue and licked her thumb, making eye contact with the agent prowling the hors d’oeuvres. “A bit messy, hm?” She cleaned the chocolate off the corner of her lips, then gestured out at the pretty faces shadowed by the darkness of the room. “Just like the lot of us.”

The atmosphere of the gold-clad room was so intoxicating. ( Though she could get drunk on the implication of night blooming jasmine perfume if she wanted to. ) But there was something about an old spy film - the tailored shirts that looked better slightly open and stilettos, the ‘I love yous’ at the peak of tragedy, the promise of forever, the blushing, beautiful girls, that almost made her want to be loved. Now. Willingly - with her lips curved in a delicate smile and one eye closed.

Maroon ( Always Maroon. Maroon, Maroon, Maroon - the colour of the insides of her cheeks in the dark. ) toyed with the candy pinched between two fingers, letting it roll in her palm. She slipped it under her tongue and drew her finger under her bottom lip, meeting the eyes of an agent with chocolate in the corner of her mouth, eyes following the shape of it as she spoke, the way she pointed. “Not messy enough if you ask me. Where’s the fun in being clean?”