Cherise Thompson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
broken_trifecta) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
genessia2014-01-01 10:15 pm
broken_trifecta) wrote in genessia2014-01-01 10:15 pm
Entry tags:
Operatic Dreams
WHO: Cherise Thompson
WHAT: After last night's party, Cherise crashes safe and sound back in her pad, and dreams of the past when she and her partner went to the opera.
WHEN: January 1st, 2014
WHERE: Cherise's Apartment - Genessia City
"I don't. Like. Ties." Wolcott scowled.
"They don't seem to care much for you either," Cherise tsk'ed, reaching to fuss for her partner's necktie out of habit. He swatted her hands away. "Why would you choose something in plaid?" she huffed, withdrawing her wand from her pocketbook.
"Scottish heritage."
She raised her eyebrows, looking at his dark skin and tight black curls. "You are not Scottish." She pulled at his arms, lifting them up into a 'T' so she could run her wand over his sides and chase away the cat hair. Why was there so much?
"Damn, you saw through my clever ruse."
Cherise chuckled despite herself, circling him and blasting away more and more cat hair. It was as if some feline spirit had him ringed in, with all the little orange and white hairs fluttering to the floor. "Think I've got it. Just need to make the tie a solid shade of navy, and--"
Wolcott had clapped his hand protectively over the tie, stopping her short. Cherise drew back, brows knitted in confusion.
"What...?"
"It was my old man's. I know it ain't pretty, but c'mon." Seeing the uncertainty on her face, he gave a half-nod of his head, gently shooing her back. "C'mon. Just for tonight, okay? That old man loved Wagner."
Understanding, Cherise relented, lowering her wand. "I suppose we can suffer a little plaid for one night. Certainly."
He smiled, flashing neat white teeth, and held up his arm for her to take. Cherise accepted.
The balcony seats were a luxury indeed, one the two Spellcatchers couldn't normally afford. But a little splurging was healthy now and again, and as a mutual birthday gift to one another (despite the wide gap in birth dates), considered perfectly acceptable. The blue satin of her dress rippled down to her ankles as she took her seat and Wolcott took his, both receiving a shiny laminated placard of the evening's program and listed performers. A fine souvenir, particularly to Wolcott, who began to flip it idly back and forth.
It took Cherise a moment to realize that his program-flipping wasn't quite so idle as she first assumed. There was something very precise and rhythmatic in the way he did it. Wasn't that...? She reached out quickly to lay a hand on his arm, stilling him.
"Morse code? Here? Honestly."
"Stark is here. Just saying hello," he said, looking mildly affronted.
Their boss? Cherise stiffened, sitting up straight to see the pale-haired woman in another balcony on the far right. She was still wearing her black suit as if she'd strolled here straight out of the office. The severe expression on her face was directed straight at Wolcott. Her program flipped a little too.
If Adelaide was here, and Wolcott was signaling her... "Is this a mission?" Cherise hissed, her eyes going wide.
Now he looked at her as if she'd sprouted two extra heads. "No. What? No! I didn't even know she was going to be here. Would I wear a tie, if I were on assignment? Uh-uh," he gave his head two emphatic shakes, staring back at Stark. "NnnnOPE."
"What did she say?" Cherise asked, leaning slightly toward her partner to see if she could get a better look.
"She said 'hello.'"
"...That's it?"
"That's it." He settled back stiffly, wriggling his shoulders as if he were trying to squash a bug with his back. "But it's strange. Didn't think she'd be the type to like opera. What's she doing here?"
Cherise didn't know. She supposed it could be a coincidence, but something about the situation didn't sit right with her. She glanced at Wolcott, who had beetled his brows and shot a disapproving sidelong glance at her in return. It seemed they were of a similar mind: something was up.
There was no more time to wonder about it, however. The lights grew dim, and the curtains went up.
The music was beautiful, but she found that she couldn't fully concentrate on the sweeping melody. The conductor's wand danced and flitted with precise grace as he led the musicians. Would that she still had her wand. Officers were ordinarily allowed to carry wands in distinguished places like these, but not when they were off-duty. Her gaze strayed again to Adelaide, who seemed to be focused on sweeping her steely gaze across the audience, even when the performers marched onto the stage and lifted their voices with booming baritones and soaring sopranos.
Then there was a sudden burst of green light. Three people in the rows below slumped bonelessly in their seats.
Cherise sucked in a sharp breath, jerking to her feet as the screams began to rise. Another shot, and another.
"HOLY SHIT!" Wolcott shouted, fingers spidering over his tie.
The sorceress seized his arm as she started to drag him back further into the balcony, but he leaped back and shook off her fingers. Flipping the tie around, he popped the seams, and took out two wands.
Cherise's mouth fell open. That was incredibly illegal! Why would he do this unless he'd already suspected...? "You--!"
"Are a genius," he finished for her, muttering something in Mandarin as he lit up his clothes with a pulse of white light.
"That wasn't what I was about to say," she protested...until he handed her the second wand. "...I've changed my mind."
He flashed her a smile.
They burst out of the booth through the back doors. Wolcott sped left, Cherise went right. She could hear his big feet pounding on the stairs as he delved down to the common level. She went up. Adelaide Stark must have suspected a Devourer attack as well, she thought, yanking the slit in her skirt to the side so she wouldn't stumble on the hem of her gown. If that was the case, then there were likely more Spellcatchers hidden in the audience to counter the attack. But how had Wolcott known?
More importantly, why hadn't he bothered to tell her? They were going to have words when this was over. They were going to have many words.
Nearing the first of the high level balcony doors, she felt a sudden nausea grip her the moment she touched the polished brass handle. The sheer evil of the killing spells was spreading like a disease, sending a riot of goosebumps prickling over her arms and legs. She snatched back her hand. The doors were probably warded, and a fool who couldn't predict that in time would likely be dead or writhing on the ground as their insides liquified. Devourer spells were nasty.
She had to do this fast. Wetting her lips, she gathered her focus and pointed the borrowed wand at the door. "Ouvert!" She let the solitary word puncture the air as she stabbed her wand at the door, forcing it to fling itself wide open. A wicked carved mask swiveled in her direction, stained with blood, and a wand raised with a green glow swelling noxiously at the tip. Cherise didn't give the Devourer time to speak. "Cinétique cils!" The spell cracked from her lips, battering the devourer with a lash of thick kinetic energy to throw him off of his feet. The wood paneling on the wall fractured as he collided into it and slumped unconscious to the ground.
Thank the stars he didn't have a partner, she thought, darting into the booth. From her new vantage point, she could see most all of the lower balconies and those that shared her level. Green arrows flew from neighboring alcoves as other Devourers fired without bothering to select a target. They'd come to slaughter, not assassinate. It didn't matter who they hit so long as blood was spilled.
A sense of helplessness tightened in Cherise's stomach. There were too many people to shield with a deflection spell, especially when there seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to who would be fired at next. Trying to cover the area with a large canvas, like the stage curtain if she were to kinetically rip it loose and force it to stretch wide, might be enough to catch the flung life-snuffing spells, but it would also trip up those trying to escape. And until those snuffing spells found a living target, they were almost certainly not going to dissipate.
~Think, Cherise,~ she told herself, cupping her hands over her nose and mouth. ~There has to be something...!~
She couldn't say what it was that inspired the idea. It simply came to mind, and though it wasn't perfect, it would at least diffuse the lethal spells until the other Spellcatchers could catch up to the Devourers. Cherise angled her wand elegantly between her fingers and spun the point outward. "Oiseaux!"
Birds began to spill out of her wand's tip, tiny wings beating the air as sparrows, finches, and robins burst into existance. They swarmed downward, fluttering chaotically. "Oiseaux!" she shouted again, and again. "Oiseaux!" Dozens became hundreds, the tiny creatures zipping and diving. Sometimes there was a bright green flash as a snuff spell pierced an errant bird and dropped its lifeless feathered body to the ground. A pity, but a necessary sacrifice to keep the spells from hitting people. The air was filled with their chirps and flapping wings, with a tiny body dropping like a stone every time another killing spell was fired. In essence, they were a living net meant to catch each curse. The more that spilled into the air, the harder it would be to pierce through them all and hit a living person below.
It wasn't but moments later that she saw bursts of red and blue light from the adjacent balconies as the other Spellcatchers arrived at last, ensnaring Devourers with enchanted curtains, punching them out with ice-encrusted fists, or even flinging them out of the balcony with a good hard shove.
One of the shoved Devourers tumbled head over heels over the railing as he fell, black robes fluttering. The masked figure muttered something guttural and stretched out thin arms. His body began to shift and writhe, shrinking to take the form of a black eagle.
Then an enormous alabaster statue blasted into it, leaving behind nothing but a puff of greasy black feathers. Cherise looked down, suspecting Wolcott. He was standing where the statue once had, more than pleased with himself if the enormous grin on his face was any indication. Of course it was him. If ever there were something large and statuesque to be found on a battle site, he wanted to throw it.
Nearly twenty years she'd known him, and she still couldn't figure out half of the things that made that brain of his tick.
* * * * *
The sun felt like it was stabbing into her eyes. She groaned, tossing on her couch and cramming her face into the throw pillow to deny the intrusive light. "Mmmnnn..." she croaked, sinking into the pleasant darkness.
No more sun. Victory.
...But she was awake now, and so was the throbbing in her head. A hangover? How could that be? She hadn't had that much to drink, but she supposed it had been awhile since she'd had more than a glass of wine with supper. Either that or one of the punch bowls was spiked. She suspected that was probably the case.
Her short dark hair was plasted against her left cheek and forehead as she rose groggily, and paused when she saw the open photo album on the coffee table. The pages were open to showcase a picture of her, Wolcott, and Adelaide, disheveled in their opera finery, and sitting triumphantly on a toppled statue.
Cherise chuckled tiredly, and drew her tangled locks of hair away from her mouth. That had been a good night, she reminisced fondly. Intense. But good. Both she and Wolcott had been commended for leaping into action despite being off-duty, and Adelaide had turned a convenient blind eye to Wolcott's wand smuggling.
"That tie wasn't your father's, was it?" she'd asked him as they took a cab home.
He smiled at her, loosening the ruined loop of fabric, and pushed it out the slit of the partially opened window to let it soar away, free as a bird.
"...Did you use THAT TIE for the job...just because it was ugly?"
"If my aunt ever asks where it went, I can truthfully say that it died for a noble cause."
And that was that.
She shuffled into the kitchen with a yawn, her gown rumpled and askew as she pawed through the cupboards for a potent brew to dispel her headache.
Coffee.
WHAT: After last night's party, Cherise crashes safe and sound back in her pad, and dreams of the past when she and her partner went to the opera.
WHEN: January 1st, 2014
WHERE: Cherise's Apartment - Genessia City
"I don't. Like. Ties." Wolcott scowled.
"They don't seem to care much for you either," Cherise tsk'ed, reaching to fuss for her partner's necktie out of habit. He swatted her hands away. "Why would you choose something in plaid?" she huffed, withdrawing her wand from her pocketbook.
"Scottish heritage."
She raised her eyebrows, looking at his dark skin and tight black curls. "You are not Scottish." She pulled at his arms, lifting them up into a 'T' so she could run her wand over his sides and chase away the cat hair. Why was there so much?
"Damn, you saw through my clever ruse."
Cherise chuckled despite herself, circling him and blasting away more and more cat hair. It was as if some feline spirit had him ringed in, with all the little orange and white hairs fluttering to the floor. "Think I've got it. Just need to make the tie a solid shade of navy, and--"
Wolcott had clapped his hand protectively over the tie, stopping her short. Cherise drew back, brows knitted in confusion.
"What...?"
"It was my old man's. I know it ain't pretty, but c'mon." Seeing the uncertainty on her face, he gave a half-nod of his head, gently shooing her back. "C'mon. Just for tonight, okay? That old man loved Wagner."
Understanding, Cherise relented, lowering her wand. "I suppose we can suffer a little plaid for one night. Certainly."
He smiled, flashing neat white teeth, and held up his arm for her to take. Cherise accepted.
The balcony seats were a luxury indeed, one the two Spellcatchers couldn't normally afford. But a little splurging was healthy now and again, and as a mutual birthday gift to one another (despite the wide gap in birth dates), considered perfectly acceptable. The blue satin of her dress rippled down to her ankles as she took her seat and Wolcott took his, both receiving a shiny laminated placard of the evening's program and listed performers. A fine souvenir, particularly to Wolcott, who began to flip it idly back and forth.
It took Cherise a moment to realize that his program-flipping wasn't quite so idle as she first assumed. There was something very precise and rhythmatic in the way he did it. Wasn't that...? She reached out quickly to lay a hand on his arm, stilling him.
"Morse code? Here? Honestly."
"Stark is here. Just saying hello," he said, looking mildly affronted.
Their boss? Cherise stiffened, sitting up straight to see the pale-haired woman in another balcony on the far right. She was still wearing her black suit as if she'd strolled here straight out of the office. The severe expression on her face was directed straight at Wolcott. Her program flipped a little too.
If Adelaide was here, and Wolcott was signaling her... "Is this a mission?" Cherise hissed, her eyes going wide.
Now he looked at her as if she'd sprouted two extra heads. "No. What? No! I didn't even know she was going to be here. Would I wear a tie, if I were on assignment? Uh-uh," he gave his head two emphatic shakes, staring back at Stark. "NnnnOPE."
"What did she say?" Cherise asked, leaning slightly toward her partner to see if she could get a better look.
"She said 'hello.'"
"...That's it?"
"That's it." He settled back stiffly, wriggling his shoulders as if he were trying to squash a bug with his back. "But it's strange. Didn't think she'd be the type to like opera. What's she doing here?"
Cherise didn't know. She supposed it could be a coincidence, but something about the situation didn't sit right with her. She glanced at Wolcott, who had beetled his brows and shot a disapproving sidelong glance at her in return. It seemed they were of a similar mind: something was up.
There was no more time to wonder about it, however. The lights grew dim, and the curtains went up.
The music was beautiful, but she found that she couldn't fully concentrate on the sweeping melody. The conductor's wand danced and flitted with precise grace as he led the musicians. Would that she still had her wand. Officers were ordinarily allowed to carry wands in distinguished places like these, but not when they were off-duty. Her gaze strayed again to Adelaide, who seemed to be focused on sweeping her steely gaze across the audience, even when the performers marched onto the stage and lifted their voices with booming baritones and soaring sopranos.
Then there was a sudden burst of green light. Three people in the rows below slumped bonelessly in their seats.
Cherise sucked in a sharp breath, jerking to her feet as the screams began to rise. Another shot, and another.
"HOLY SHIT!" Wolcott shouted, fingers spidering over his tie.
The sorceress seized his arm as she started to drag him back further into the balcony, but he leaped back and shook off her fingers. Flipping the tie around, he popped the seams, and took out two wands.
Cherise's mouth fell open. That was incredibly illegal! Why would he do this unless he'd already suspected...? "You--!"
"Are a genius," he finished for her, muttering something in Mandarin as he lit up his clothes with a pulse of white light.
"That wasn't what I was about to say," she protested...until he handed her the second wand. "...I've changed my mind."
He flashed her a smile.
They burst out of the booth through the back doors. Wolcott sped left, Cherise went right. She could hear his big feet pounding on the stairs as he delved down to the common level. She went up. Adelaide Stark must have suspected a Devourer attack as well, she thought, yanking the slit in her skirt to the side so she wouldn't stumble on the hem of her gown. If that was the case, then there were likely more Spellcatchers hidden in the audience to counter the attack. But how had Wolcott known?
More importantly, why hadn't he bothered to tell her? They were going to have words when this was over. They were going to have many words.
Nearing the first of the high level balcony doors, she felt a sudden nausea grip her the moment she touched the polished brass handle. The sheer evil of the killing spells was spreading like a disease, sending a riot of goosebumps prickling over her arms and legs. She snatched back her hand. The doors were probably warded, and a fool who couldn't predict that in time would likely be dead or writhing on the ground as their insides liquified. Devourer spells were nasty.
She had to do this fast. Wetting her lips, she gathered her focus and pointed the borrowed wand at the door. "Ouvert!" She let the solitary word puncture the air as she stabbed her wand at the door, forcing it to fling itself wide open. A wicked carved mask swiveled in her direction, stained with blood, and a wand raised with a green glow swelling noxiously at the tip. Cherise didn't give the Devourer time to speak. "Cinétique cils!" The spell cracked from her lips, battering the devourer with a lash of thick kinetic energy to throw him off of his feet. The wood paneling on the wall fractured as he collided into it and slumped unconscious to the ground.
Thank the stars he didn't have a partner, she thought, darting into the booth. From her new vantage point, she could see most all of the lower balconies and those that shared her level. Green arrows flew from neighboring alcoves as other Devourers fired without bothering to select a target. They'd come to slaughter, not assassinate. It didn't matter who they hit so long as blood was spilled.
A sense of helplessness tightened in Cherise's stomach. There were too many people to shield with a deflection spell, especially when there seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to who would be fired at next. Trying to cover the area with a large canvas, like the stage curtain if she were to kinetically rip it loose and force it to stretch wide, might be enough to catch the flung life-snuffing spells, but it would also trip up those trying to escape. And until those snuffing spells found a living target, they were almost certainly not going to dissipate.
~Think, Cherise,~ she told herself, cupping her hands over her nose and mouth. ~There has to be something...!~
She couldn't say what it was that inspired the idea. It simply came to mind, and though it wasn't perfect, it would at least diffuse the lethal spells until the other Spellcatchers could catch up to the Devourers. Cherise angled her wand elegantly between her fingers and spun the point outward. "Oiseaux!"
Birds began to spill out of her wand's tip, tiny wings beating the air as sparrows, finches, and robins burst into existance. They swarmed downward, fluttering chaotically. "Oiseaux!" she shouted again, and again. "Oiseaux!" Dozens became hundreds, the tiny creatures zipping and diving. Sometimes there was a bright green flash as a snuff spell pierced an errant bird and dropped its lifeless feathered body to the ground. A pity, but a necessary sacrifice to keep the spells from hitting people. The air was filled with their chirps and flapping wings, with a tiny body dropping like a stone every time another killing spell was fired. In essence, they were a living net meant to catch each curse. The more that spilled into the air, the harder it would be to pierce through them all and hit a living person below.
It wasn't but moments later that she saw bursts of red and blue light from the adjacent balconies as the other Spellcatchers arrived at last, ensnaring Devourers with enchanted curtains, punching them out with ice-encrusted fists, or even flinging them out of the balcony with a good hard shove.
One of the shoved Devourers tumbled head over heels over the railing as he fell, black robes fluttering. The masked figure muttered something guttural and stretched out thin arms. His body began to shift and writhe, shrinking to take the form of a black eagle.
Then an enormous alabaster statue blasted into it, leaving behind nothing but a puff of greasy black feathers. Cherise looked down, suspecting Wolcott. He was standing where the statue once had, more than pleased with himself if the enormous grin on his face was any indication. Of course it was him. If ever there were something large and statuesque to be found on a battle site, he wanted to throw it.
Nearly twenty years she'd known him, and she still couldn't figure out half of the things that made that brain of his tick.
* * * * *
The sun felt like it was stabbing into her eyes. She groaned, tossing on her couch and cramming her face into the throw pillow to deny the intrusive light. "Mmmnnn..." she croaked, sinking into the pleasant darkness.
No more sun. Victory.
...But she was awake now, and so was the throbbing in her head. A hangover? How could that be? She hadn't had that much to drink, but she supposed it had been awhile since she'd had more than a glass of wine with supper. Either that or one of the punch bowls was spiked. She suspected that was probably the case.
Her short dark hair was plasted against her left cheek and forehead as she rose groggily, and paused when she saw the open photo album on the coffee table. The pages were open to showcase a picture of her, Wolcott, and Adelaide, disheveled in their opera finery, and sitting triumphantly on a toppled statue.
Cherise chuckled tiredly, and drew her tangled locks of hair away from her mouth. That had been a good night, she reminisced fondly. Intense. But good. Both she and Wolcott had been commended for leaping into action despite being off-duty, and Adelaide had turned a convenient blind eye to Wolcott's wand smuggling.
"That tie wasn't your father's, was it?" she'd asked him as they took a cab home.
He smiled at her, loosening the ruined loop of fabric, and pushed it out the slit of the partially opened window to let it soar away, free as a bird.
"...Did you use THAT TIE for the job...just because it was ugly?"
"If my aunt ever asks where it went, I can truthfully say that it died for a noble cause."
And that was that.
She shuffled into the kitchen with a yawn, her gown rumpled and askew as she pawed through the cupboards for a potent brew to dispel her headache.
Coffee.