brutality

Whilst the mortals played below (or drank from endless fountains of gold flecked champagne, was there really any difference), Maroon intended to take on the role of Olympian. She picked up the hem of her silky skirt with quick fingers so it wouldn’t drag, knowing she was a goddess without omniscience and there was an unfamiliar mansion to explore. Floating past the open doors, she was a phantom haunting the party from a distance, unnoticed. 

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.”

Martyr. A person who is killed because of their religious or other beliefs. How appropriate a death for angelic creatures, for a woman with tresses the same hue as her gown, looking every inch the mystical being sprung from the pages of the Bible themselves. At least this one looked as if they might belong. Even in the darkness, Violet thought she could see her formation - the head slightly tilted (was it with pride?), the stoic and impassive expression, words witty and fast. She noted those things with slight irritation, angered by the thought of someone playing her at a game of her choosing. Or Violet’s game, anyhow. Brielle’s chess board was hugged close to her chest, a secret that would die at her lips, or Charlie’s. There was no other choice.

The weapon was still in her hand. For a moment, she pondered of how it would feel to raise it, point it and squeeze. Murder was one lesson she had yet to learn. Soon, she knew, it would beckon. Here, a chance to learn was presented. Seven people were already missing - who cared if it was eight? The coldness in her thoughts did not shock her, nor chill her to the bone. Her mother had killed (never her fellow agents, of course, a more loyal creature than her daughter would become) so why shouldn’t she? Clinically, she rejected the idea. Far too messy. And it was smarter not to show your hand until you needed to.

“A wasteful death.” Placing the gun back in its place, Violet reluctantly tore her gaze away - settling instead of the girl - or was it woman? - in front of her. Lips curling, it emphasized the word wasteful, her disgust bitter on her lips. How...uneconomical. How illogical. Like mess, it set an uncomfortable feeling crawling across her bones. “Unless our gracious - “ She almost felt her eyes roll to the back of her skull at that falsehood “- host had you earmarked for roadkill.” Violet cannot help herself. She possesses Brielle’s competitive spirit - the girl who cannot be outdone, the golden girl who went for first place every time. There’s a goddess inside of her after all. And the time for aching has been and gone. Her lips curl into a smile, but there’s no warmth to be found in it. 

The champagne was flowing, and Briar had more than enjoyed making his entrance. They were a room of strangers, brought together by some enigma of a man hiding in the shadows. He was eager for what was to come–he was IMPATIENT at best. Sure, he’d done rounds like this at parties before but there was always a game to play, always an eye to catch or hand to press lush lips to. Here? Maybe he’d have to make his OWN fun. Very…interesting.

Another song reached its crescendo, and Briar scanned the room for someone to occupy his time. Where should he…AH, perfect. Near a waiter carting glasses of golden bubbly stood another agent, and maybe a chance at some entertainment. How was he to be James Bond if the evenings were filled with drivel and small talk? Who’d have thought the Bond girls always had the right idea. His shoes silent, (perhaps the only thing truly quiet about his ensemble,) he slipped through the crowds and grabbed two flutes from the waiter, a devilish grin attached as he shot them his thanks. Flushed cheeks–huh, he’d file that face away for later maybe–before finally greeting his new..classmate? Cohort? Time would tell.

❝ You look like you’re looking for some FUN. I’m here to volunteer. ❞

Turning down yet another glass of champagne (what did that have to be now? Her fifth offer), Brielle trained her gaze to the room - determined to gleam meaning from it. The others (they existed, in her mind, as opposites to her - not comrade or colleague) might have been here to enjoy themselves - smiles of sunshine and smugness, but only she understood the truth. Only she knew that the mission had already begun. Forever on the ball of her feet, waiting to take flight, Violet considered the event with a tinge of suspicion, stilling her bones as if not to give herself away. Let them imagine her to be the ice queen with just a touch of snobbery. It would hide the truth underneath.

Preferring to be left alone, she did nothing to invite the company of others - averting her eyes whenever they came close. There’s no I in team, or so her cheerleading coach used to say, all those years ago, but there is a me. This was not a game for multiple players. It was for her - and her alone. Still, that hardly seemed to deter the most persistent of people, Violet catching golden hues enter her space from the corner of her eye.

Cocking a skeptical eyebrow, Brielle pursed her lips into an unamused frown. “No.” She ran her eyes up and down, soaking in every inch of him - dusty hair, pearly whites - clearly someone who thought the world of himself. No doubt, people didn’t deny him often. Never one to mince her words, Brielle refused to dull her bluntness, adamant in her answer. “It’s a firm pass.”

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.”

Pretty girl beware of this heart of gold. This heart is cold. Madeline smirked as she brought her champagne flute to her lips and traced the neckline of her gold bustier. It cinched at her waist and frilled out into amber tulle, a gift from her former lover; she’d found it after his demise, tucked in a black box with a card marked only by his initials - no profession of love nor sweet ode. As if a cold heart had ever stopped her before.

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.”

Illuminated by never-ending flecks of gold, Violet (mere hours in, she has already denounced the name her mother gave her, spurning it in favour of one with a divine purpose) projects the aura of an Angel. No holy being but a creature of severe seriousness, her wings were not made to fly, but tear. And her halo? She’ll slice your neck open with it, emotionless as the blood spills. That is the life they have promised her here, a world of darkness and bloodshed, answering to the man without a face. This is your welcome party, they say, with smiles that fail to convince. Well where’s our host? She feels like shooting back. But it’s smarter to remain silent. It’s better to climb to the top and watch the world burn from up there.

Radiant, her limbs like porcelain, glass and grace across the floor. Violet is no stranger to this life, to elegance. Better this than some keg party. The Yale sororities and frats never could maintain her interest, Brielle finding little pleasure in getting so intoxicated she couldn’t walk - or think - straight. Nursing the same glass of champagne the entire night, her ears prick at the sound of another voice - a doe-eyed floozy with sugar-dusted lips. What sort of Angel is she?  

Time should tell. Stiff in her response, Violet straightens herself, grip tighter on the flute. “Speak for yourself.”

like this post if you want a closed, personalized starter with brielle/violet!!!! chances are, i’ll come weeping into your dm to run ideas/plot stuff with you, since we’re starting from a blank most of the time!!