I think this is, like, the second last chapter of this arc or something. I haven't actually written the end yet so I can't be sure. I kinda hope I haven't lost readers up to now with my terrible writing, because the next one is going to be a doozy. If only I knew enough metaphors to put in it...
Oh yeah, and happy new year.
"Oh, no no no no no!" Ronald reaches out and grabs Eve's wrist. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Hmm?" Knife in hand, red streaks of hair grasped with careful fingers, the girl looks up at the one who had just stopped her from cutting her hair. "What?" The reaction, having come out of nowhere, puzzles her somewhat. After all, it is just a simple hair cut; what would anyone be worried about?
The blonde blanches and adopts an exasperated expression, as if having to explain something horribly obvious to a very small child. "When you wanted to borrow a mirror, I didn't think it was for… You can't just do that! Cutting your hair right off, what were you thinking?"
"…that it's not that big a matter and that having red streaks in one's hair is too unconventional to go unnoticed in public? We're going undercover, remember?"
"Maybe, but…" Sighing, out of ways to explain things to Eve, Ronald just takes her arms and tries to drag her somewhere. "Here, let me show you something."
…..
"There! Isn't that better?" After being taken to Ronald's small cubicle where he supposedly fills out paperwork, where the blonde had grabbed a small, unidentifiable box, and then to a bathroom Eve is not sure she is even allowed to be in, Ronald had handed Eve a towel, told her to cover her eyes, and then squirted something cold and thick into her bangs, telling her to 'stay tight' for a while.
Several minutes and a thorough washing through later, Eve is standing in front of a mirror staring at a mess of long, wet, completely black hair. Blinking, as if trying to stare at something far away, she examines the black stands in front of her face, then in the mirror, and back again. "What sorcery is this?" She wonders aloud, making Ronald laugh.
He covers his mouth with his hand as he tries to get his fit under control, only to explain, "It's hair dye, Miss Britford. Not quite as magical as sorcery, but probably way easier to use. Next time you want to hack off your bangs, you can always come to me and I'll help you with that, alright?"
"…Thank you." Eve says without thinking. "This was a much better solution than what I was going to do."
"Glad to hear you say." Her partner answers, sounding quite relieved. "I suppose from now on getting ready for that ball won't be too much trouble, right? So long as no one else has any adverse objections, or the like…"
…..
"Oh, no no no no no! That won't do at all!" The shrill scolding grates the ears and causes every single worker in a ten foot radius, but oblivious as he always is to the fact, Grell presses on. "Don't tell me you plan to wear that raggedy excuse for a dress!"
Caught off guard by the random remark, Eve's head snaps up almost audibly, bringing her into eye contact with a certain red reaper that happens to be standing over her with an expression on his face tantamount to what a chicken may have upon laying a bad egg, if chickens can even contort their facial muscles. (Upon later research involving chickens and way too many feathers, Eve will later learn that they cannot.) She takes the formal gown on her arm and deliberately leans it away from Grell, lest he do something impulsive (which he probably will) and damages it. She had taken great metaphorical pain to procure it, after all. "...yes." Is all she says to answer. 'Is there a problem' is the most natural thing to say immediately following that, but the junior reaper refrains for a total of two reasons: one, she is not the most talkative person in the world, and two: Grell is, and most days she wants nothing more than to shut him up.
She never asks the question, but to her chagrin, the redhead starts to nag on like she had in the first place. "I mean, where's the flair? The style? The RED? That has to be one of the most boring things that dares calls itself a gown I've ever seen! Hmmm, if you ask me, I can probably make something to suit you MUCH better. It'd be a lovely crinsom, for one thing..."
"It is not meant to make me stand out, only blend in. It will serve its purpose, and that is all that I need from it." Eve defends, trying to satisfy the self-declared fashionista before he goes too far. "That aside, since when did you care for me at all, much less my tastes in disguises? The last time we met, I beat your face into the ground. And the Gods know how sensitive you are on the topic of your face."
Appearing to conveniently avoid hearing the last bit of the rather hostile protest, Grell croons, "That goes out the window when I want to give someone a makeover, darling."
Darling? Is the first thought to enter her head, but the word that flies out her mouth just so happens to be some kind of natural reflex to the word. "Makeover?!"
"You don't think I'd let any of my precious students go around wearing such an abomination, would I?" The reaper's smile curves into the oh-so-slightest sarcasm at the word 'precious'. He takes a tiny, but still noticed and noted, step with his left foot, like a wild cat scouting out prey. "And Will's been bogging me down with just soooo much paperwork lately; I simply haven't gotten the time to find an outlet. You'll let me 'help' you, won't you...?"
Another step clicks on the hall floor, resounding in Eve's ears like a thundering echo even above the other noises of leather soles slapping on tile made by passing reapers. The red-obsessed reaper speaks softly, almost seductively, if it is not for the menace looming over the scene.
"I'm fine." She says, swallowing hard for some reason. "There's no need to-"
But Grell does not want to take 'no', whether it is outright said or implied, for an answer, so eager is he that he is literally creeping upon Eve with a glint in his eyes and his fingers poised like claws of a robber, or maybe a tyrannosaurus. And when she least expects it, which is technically when she usually expects bad things to happen the most, but even Eve can be caught off guard sometimes, the red-dressed reaper pounces, those claws of his reaching to catch the girl on the shoulder and drag her backwards.
"!" The victim in question sees him move, and turns to flee, but only manages to flail and run for a second or so thanks to the cumbersome dress and shoes held in her arms before she is captured. "No no no no no!" She thrashes to free herself but the lace and heavy fabric ensnares her and for some reason Grell has decided to develop super strength and hold her with an impenetrable grip. "Let me go! I need an adult! I need an adult!"
Alas, her rare pleas for help are ignored. "Too bad!" Grell half purrs, half chortles in victory. "William's not here, so there's no one who can stop me!"
He smiles a wide, cattish smile, one that means unimaginable, and to Eve, Grell looks more terrifying than he ever has.
…..
"And voila!" Grell gestures dramatically with one hand and then brings it to his mouth in a coy expression. "Absolutely gorgeous, I'd say, what do you think?"
"I will never forgive you for this." Eve snarls through grit teeth.
Pouting, Grell decides to get up close and personal, far too much so, and leans next to Eve, near enough that either party can reach out and touch a strand of the other's hair (not that Eve will ever desire for such a thing to happen, ever.) "Oh, dearie, when are you ever going to loosen up?" There is something close to pity or sympathy in his voice, and it is the sourest thing Eve has ever heard. "The cut, the design, and most of all, the color... It's fabulous."
"You think the dress is fabulous." The voluntold model points out. And truth be told, it is not a bad dress, she has to admit. It is simply the worst possible thing one can ever wear while undercover. The red, the feathers, the sparkling jewels. It suits Eve with frightening accuracy. However, despite this, she looks like a peacock. That had been set on fire. Because setting things on fire is exactly what to do when you want to be inconspicuous. (Note the heavy sarcasm.)
"Well." Grell grins and tosses his hair. "Even you should admit, when it comes to fashion, I am. On. Fire!" He purrs, poking his fingers with a sharp, manicured jab at each staccato note. Flaunting himself for no good reason makes him seem more annoying than usual to a certain someone.
"No you're not." Eve, suddenly acting on impulse, sparks a bit of flame in between her thumb and forefinger before raising it to Grell's head of hair, the strands of which are hanging over her shoulder because of the way Grell is leaning over her.
Fortunately for Grell, but not so for Eve, the former manages to quickly dart away from the flame, albeit with quite a panicked squawk, before spitting to the latter, "Why did you do that?!"
"You wanted to be on fire."
"That's not how I meant it!"
"That's how I took it."
"Why you- oh, hello, Ronnie." Indignantly, Grell moves to nearly slap Eve, only to stop short thanks to the entrance of his junior reaper. "What do you think of my work, hmmm? Unlike someone, I can always count on you to appreciate my talent~!"
"Hiya, Grell-sempai. Um, what are you doing here?" Ronald greets, as he closes the door behind him and tries not to look too taken by surprise. Apparently this is not the first time Grell has ever forced a makeover on someone. Yippee. "And wow, you look great, Miss Britford." He compliments, but the words are lost on the girl.
"Don't get used to it." Is all she mumbles.
The flamboyant redhead that should have burned to death for all Eve cares walks over to Ronald so the two are ogling Eve from the same vantage point. "See, Miss Britford here told me she was going incognito for a party and needed my help-"
"I told you no such thing!"
"-So suspenseful, don't you think? But she had this awful dress, you should have seen it, it was all pink and frilly and boring, ugh, that she was going to wear and well, I couldn't allow such a fashion faux pas to happen to anyone under my watch."
Ronald sweat drops. "Nice try. You just wanted an excuse to force a makeover on a girl that hadn't put a restraining order on you yet, didn't you?"
"Ahh, yes..." Grell admits. "But so few girls have the nice curves I look for. There are some things a corset can't get you, you know. Men, on the other hand... How about you, Ronnie? Fancy some new clothes?"
"Sweet offer sempai, but I'm not too hot on wearing dresses."
"That makes two of us." Eve groans, trumping off the desk she had been standing on until now and trudging towards the changing screen that Grell had pulled from thin air somewhere (or maybe he had been keeping it inside his scythe) but had not really been used. As she passes from one end to another, she changes from donning her (correction: Grell's) heavy red ball gown to her usual suit, the dress in question draped over her forearm. "Now if you don't mind, I'm returning this." She says sourly, attempt to shove the red thing into Grell's chest before walking past him out the door.
"Oh no you don't! You absolutely have to wear it to the party tonight, I insist!" Grell whines, grabbing Eve's arm as she passes and pulling her towards him.
"No, I don't." The girl snatches her original choice of dress off of a nearby chair from where it had been previously placed.
Looking with mild distain until he seems to get an idea, Grell's smile turns incredibly scary. "Well then... Now you do!"
And with that, he grabs said gown and runs off.
"What!" Once again, Eve is taken by surprise, but enough that she does not have the sense to give chase.
The following ten minutes involve three reapers running through exactly seven different rooms, ten hallways, and over eight coworkers' heads. In the end, when the redhead is finally cornered, he ends up smirking insufferably, raising the pink mass of frills in her hands, and tearing it in two.
"Now you have to go!" Triumphant, Grell spins around with the ruined dress in tow, unaware of the growing danger before him. "You shouldn't be so glum, I'm doing you a favour- eh?" He starts to say, only to be cut off when he is grabbed by the front and then swiftly punched in the face.
"You tore it up." Eve says, the deadened tone of her voice hiding something much more alive... Angry. She glares down on the dazed reaper, asking, "I suppose you didn't realize the trouble I went to procure such a thing?" It is not a question meant to be answered.
"Oh, no no no no no-" Ronald, suddenly coming to the correct conclusion of what Eve is about to do, tries to stop her, arms outstretched, but he is far, fartoo late. The resulting scream soon fades away as Grell falls from the window that Eve suddenly decides to put him through, but the thud that follows echoes loud and clear in Ronald's head like an explosion of fury and violence, which seems to sound very loud indeed.
As they watch a group of reapers remove the remains of Grell from the ground in a rather nonchalant fashion, (although a few trainee reapers who had the misfortune to witness the incident are in the middle of attempting and failing to prevent hyperventilation), the two watch from the window Grell had so unceremoniously exited through, one with embarrassed sheepishness, one with barely no emotion at all.
"You didn't really have to do that." The first one says, breaking the momentary silence as he looks at the shorter reaper beside him. "Was the dress really that important?"
"..." Eve refuses to make eye contact like she often does, although this time it looks a bit like she is pouting at the same time. "It wasn't necessary, just satisfying." The girl admits, turning away from the view to leave. Then, addressing the second point of the conversation, she continues, "And that gown was very important. Undertaker gave it to me."
"I see." Somewhat startled by the abrupt, almost tender sentiment Eve is presenting, he tries to apologize for his earlier snapping. "I'm sorry, I didn't know-"
"Because my pay was insufficient to afford a proper ball gown, he had to buy one for me. We were looking for a suitable shop for five hours because his erratic behavior kept causing us to be turned away." Eve suddenly keeps explaining, as if she had never heard Ronald talk in the first place, and stares at the ground in a grim, chagrined posture. "He ended up picking something pink and frilly. And he then sold it to me for what he 'said' was its 'worth of laughs'. It took far too much trouble to get, I swear..."
Ronald sweat drops again. "So that's what that was really about..." He mutters.
"Just my luck." She sighs. "Either way, I won't be enjoying tonight. I was never one for parties."
Now this, Ronald has to admit, he finds funny at Eve's expense, and he laughs in a way he hopes will not offend her as he says, "Don't I know it. From what that poker game was like, you're don't welcome strangers all too kindly. No need to worry through," He reassures her, or at least tries too, with a thumbs up and his best smile. (Which, by the way, he knows for a fact has made women swoon and crying babies laugh. Just putting that out there.) "Your Sempai here has it all covered when it comes to having a good time!"
...
"What a lovely vision of passion you are, my Pheonix! You look as if the embodiment of perfection itself made to bless humanity with its presence, shining glorious light on the darkness that is the human nature! Such delicate elegance you walk with, such grace with which you hold your head high, with what astonishing ability does your dress complement your very being!" The Viscount Druitt Alistair Chambers' mouth drips with compliments as sweet and sickening as overly rich chocolate, not that such a thing really exists, but if it does, it will do so for the sole sake of proving exactly how sugar-coated he madman's speech is. "I must ask, is this what love at first sight is? I do hope you'll be here to stay? We have some delightful entertainment I promise will not disappoint."
Fuck you, Grell.
Fuck.
You.
They are supposed to lay low, the two of them.
They are supposed to blend in, the two of them.
They are supposed to merely attend, observe, and in Eve's case, reap a soul that is meant to discreetly pass away in three hours' time, leaving when the job is done with no one to the wiser, the two of them.
They are NOT supposed to gain the attention of anyone, much less the very host of the endeavor they are infiltrating, nor are they supposed to then arouse- which is really the best word, judging from the looks the Viscount is giving, to describe it in the worst possible sense- his interest in such a way that he may have his eyes on them the entire night. Or at least, her.
But then again, Eve had never been supposed to wear a dress of flaming red satin and silk, be drenched in jewels, nor stuffed into an unbearably tight corset, nor adorned with feathers that swayed whenever she turned, which, while complementing the dress itself perfectly, also makes her look like an attention grabbing peacock.
That had been set on fire.
(Because doing so seems to so obviously solve all of Eve's problems these days, like trying to be inconspicuous.)
She evens has a matching fan she had been using in vain to cover her face, but alas, the flapping and refraction of light of the nefarious, jewel-in crusted thing has done nothing to help her.
She really cannot ever win, can she?
Her partner, meanwhile, is still rubbing his jaw, no doubt trying to hold it shut after it had swung open earlier in the night. True, in retrospect, Eve should have warned him that, in his words, she is "actually GOOD at this kind of stuff?!" But to be fair he had never asked. After all, it never really occurred to her to share personal, detailed facts about herself, much less that she had grown up as a noble lady, until... Things changed. She had had perfectly good reasons not to share the fact, namely that she does not usually share anything, and when she does, it is hardly a story that is viable to cause old wounds to open for her.
Even her heart can be ripped, just like the rest of her. That is why she keeps it under lock and key. A lock that she knows is hard to break, and she should be one to know, and a key she will not place in the hands of just anyone...
"Miss?" In a rare moment of distraction, Eve snaps back to reality without a beat but mentally curses her carelessness. To phase out of the conversation like that, is she going soft? The viscount Druitt is talking to her, and hard as he is to listen to, she must do so considering the (unfortunate) rules of etiquette in place for an occasion like this. "Would you care to join me? I have seats reserved in the front that would of liking to your no doubt impeccable taste."
The lady-dressed-in-red-that-certainly-wishes-she-is-not widens her smile that on the outside make her look like a perfectly charming young lady but in the inside makes her cheeks feel terribly sore, and responds sweetly, "I would love to." But instead of just taking the offered hand, she finds herself swiftly swept into the grip of the viscount as he spins her into his arms as if in a dance, and then proceeds to practically parade his down the aisle, all eyes on her, the man's hand crawling far too down near her waist for her liking. The crowd of people between them and their destination part like the Red Sea as they come, making way for the viscount and the lady on his arm (that very dearly does NOT want to be).
She really hates this person, nearly as much as Grell, even. A flamboyant, self-centered man with absolutely no notion of what a fool he is or in fact, how blatantly he is advertising who he is in the first place (everyone's identities are meant to remain a secret, hence the half masks that conceal the top halves of all the partygoers' faces, but Druitt's personality makes him stand out as a sore thumb regardless) is not someone Eve ever wants to spend time with, ever. And now he is trotting her along like a pig led to slaughter, where she most certainly will be the centre of attention.
Fuck you Grell. Is still all she can think right now. Fuck. You.
After being carefully led to the front as if made of glass, Eve is offered a seat which she takes with a gracious 'thank you' and curtsy, followed by Ronald, who sits behind her. She can only hear him at the moment, with him being a row behind, which makes it all the harder to read his words as he leans forward ever so slightly, and whispers to her with such quietness that only she can hear, "You alright there?"
With equal volume, she mutters as if in a great daze and shivering in disgust at the same time, "I've never felt so violated in my life." Which is sadly true. The places that Aleister had touched still burn with a strange, unnatural coldness. No doubt the effect is psychological, but the fact is little comfort to her.
Chuckling slightly like he is not too sure if he should be, Ronald leans back and stays silent for the next few minutes. The show is about to begin.
The viscount Druitt had, after sending Eve off with an overly flirtatious wink, gone up to the front of the room, where a stage awaited him, to start the auction about to occur. The first cage is already prepared, standing hidden and cloaked by a thick black cloth. (In fact, everything about this room, the underground layer of the mansion, seems to be quite dark; there is little lighting to compensate for the shroud of darkness the night had brought, and it is a little difficult to see. Though Eve can see fine, she is somewhat concerned about other things, such as whether Ronald can as well or if her eyes are glowing in the dark.) Tied up underneath it, everyone knows, is a human being awaiting purchase. More specifically, it is revealed with a dramatic lifting of the cloth, a human being that is barely a grown woman, with rather long blond hair but eyes of an unknown color; she is blindfolded, like no doubt the rest of the auction subjects will be.
"This sweet young lady just recently turned of age." The viscount begins, listing off the girl's qualities. "Her soft skin and enchanting blue eyes would make her the envy of any doll- she would make a wonderful pet..."
Eve does not listen. For all she cares, it is the gossip of old ladies huddled around church celebrating or mourning who knows what. The viscount's words do not matter to her mission. What does matter is finding a way to where ever the cages are stored without being noticed.
While Ronald is meant to merely watch the auction itself and assure the Grim Reaper Association that nothing of particular peculiarity, such as a demon appearance or sudden scythe malfunction, occurs, Eve is meant to reap exactly one soul: that of a kidnapping victim who will, in fifty minutes' time, strangle himself to death.
She gets her opportunity when half an hour later, halfway through the event, everyone is given a short break to socialize once more, and stretch their legs. Discreetly gliding as far away from the viscount as possible as closer to her partner, she eventually asks the blond-brunette if she can have a private word with him, of it is not too much trouble. He grins in return, enjoying her noble lady act far too much in Eve's opinion, and responds, "Of course, my lady. Whatever is it that you wish to talk about?" Despite usually talking in a cockney like accent, rougher and more casual than the voice of the nobles, he pulls off the posh snootiness that sounds like the essence of high society extremely well.
"I'm afraid I have to disappear for a bit; it's rather stuffy in here. I trust you'll keep account of the gossip while I am gone?" Though what the girl says sounds like an innocent walk outside, both of them know what she means: "It's time. Keep an eye on the viscount or anyone who might notice."
The blonde gentleman nods, and passes her off to mingle with a crowd of several young ladies, while Eve sneaks off to the edge of the room where the elevated stage is, and disappears behind a wall from the sight of others.
Well, most of the others.
...
Despite the many whispering layers of fabric on her and her unfortunate choice of shoes, heels that click when treading no matter how softly it is done, Eve manages to sneak into the next room with near silence. Still, she is not as stealthy as she likes, and cringes internally at every squeak and creak of the floorboards of the stage and rusty-hinged door.
However, what little noise she makes seem to mean little when she is finally inside.
The inhabitants of the many cages lining the walls seem rather despondent. The majority of them, having a dead, broken look (one that is familiar to her; when is the last time Eve had looked into a mirror?) etched into their face, hardly move when the lady enters, save for some shivering and begging. Some are dressed in tattered gowns like the ones many a noble lady will wear. Others are hardly covered by rags no doubt gained from the streets.
These are the doomed, Eve acknowledges. Snatched from their homes and shelters, there are humans here that have no other fate than to lay in their iron prisons and wait to have their lives put into the hands of their highest bidder. No one is coming to save them, just like no one had saved her that day when she had been in a cage of her own.
Oh well. The concerns of humans are supposed to be beneath reapers. It is back to business for her.
The business in question is in a cage near the far corner, already in the process of dying. The little boy, tangling poorly tied ropes in an even poorer escape attempt, has looped his bonds around his neck, and pulled too hard until realizing the tight chocker around his neck had been knotted too firmly to undo. Eve steps towards him, taking caution not to be noticed, which is not terribly difficult given the lack of light (it has become increasingly darker the deeper the trainee reaper had delved into the mansion basement) and the pre-existing occupation of his dying. Once close enough to be able to do her job, Eve watches the boy as he dies and get to work.
Summoning the miniature scythe into a gloved hand, and putting on her green-tinted glasses with another, Eve fixes her sights on the child and plunges the weapon, cutting him. The boy's back is facing towards her when she strikes, and if he notices anything, he certainly makes no move to display that. Instead, the reaction Eve gets is the expected: reels of film spill out, lashing wildly, showing her the victim's life through his eyes.
As she watches on, she realizes; this is the brief moment in which this human has a name to her.
"Davis Thompson."
An existence.
"Born November 8th, 1876, died December 14th, 1888 of suffocation."
A life.
"Born and raised in the East end of London. Mother was a prostitute who regularly drank and beat him. Father disappeared when he was young. Was looking for a way to earn a living on his own through small business shining shoes and doing services. Kidnapped when tricked by an offer to earn money. Strangled to death trying to escape."
"No further remarks."
She feels a little empty, truthfully. Seeing what it is like to take a life like this is a great deal different from the mass slaughters she is used to. It is more personal, more meaningful. Something that she needs to take care with, in this human's final moments. Reapers will do this over and over again, but for humans, they only die once, fade away once, and, if they are someone who had gone an entire life with recognition from any fellow human, are acknowledged once; by the very person that stands by, watching them die.
Is this what he feels like? Empty mourning and sacred…
Is this what Undertaker feels, whenever he gets a new corpse to prepare for a funeral?
Eve is still trying to find an answer when the records disappear, sucked into the tip of her scythe. Glancing down, she watches as the boy's feeble whimpers die out, and the small spark all humans seem to have in his eyes go out like a blown candle. He is dead, and so, the task is finished.
Her job done, the trainee reaper snaps closed her book and tucks away her glasses. It is time to return to the party, play the act of the perfect noble lady once more, and in a few hours, once the party is finally over, she and Ronald can leave and she will never have to do something like this again.
"Done so soon, my Pheonix?"
At least, that is what had been meant to happen... But several things have gone wrong running their course lately.
Aleister Chambers is waiting for Eve in the doorway, blocking her only way out. How he had gotten there, blocking her only available exit, without her noticing at all is a mystery to Eve, considering that humans are very noisy creatures, the viscount especially, but the more pressing matter is that he had just seen her real the soul of a boy he had been about to sell off.
"N-no!" She scrambles to stand straight and lady-like as she racks her brain for a suitable excuse for her being there. "I just wanted to see-"
"You mean, you wanted sneak into here to fulfill your assignment. Don't bother trying to hide things, Evangeline."
Even when he had first interrupted her, Eve had felt something had been off about the party host, but the moment he says her name, her blood runs cold.
There is a terrifying thought in her head, and she hopes to the Gods that it is not true.
"How do you know my name?" She rasps, hushed and urgent.
Smirking, the viscount moves to remove his mask as he explains himself. "I know the 'who' of what you are just like how I know the 'what'." As he uncovers his face, a change comes over his physical form. Purple eyes burn blood red and slit-pupils, blond hair leaches to crimson, and fangs lengthen themselves and glint in the light of the doorway.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no...
By the time she can see his face, Eve is most definitely sure that this is not the viscount Druitt.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten me already?"
This is the vampire Eros Ashworth.
Fear blooms like a poisonous flower in Eve's heart. She steps back, holding her breath to the best of her ability so her chest does not heave in panic and her hands behind her back so they do not tremble, as she tries to bring back her miniature scythe.
What the girl's subconscious knows is that this is not really Eros. Vampires cannot shape shift, and the action itself already tells Eve what this thing is, but on the surface of her mind, she can only think of Eros, and what he had done to her, and of how she is seeing his face again after she had killed him, which sets her quite on edge. As such, she has a bit of trouble accomplishing her plan of action.
The way the doppelganger is advancing towards her, so predatory and hungry, is not helping in the least.
When it gets too close, she manages to get her bearings and lash out, but being so slowed down (Damn this fear and infernal dress!)the doppelganger makes short work of the attack, swiping a hand almost lazily to knock her weapon out of her grip and far away, too far away that she can simply reach out and grab it again.
She has more weapons- needles slipped inside her gloves, knives strapped to underneath the folds of her skirt, and she brings these out and uses them too, throwing them at the thing's supposed weak points, but it suddenly decides to be made of mist and the blades nearly quite literally pass through it, so fast that it moves. "You'll find subduing me in a fight much more difficult than last time. I've consumed many more hearts before coming to London." Cocky, self-assured, and incredibly snide, the doppelganger continues to advance at a leisurely pace, watching Eve run out of space to step back into, relishing the sight of its prey squirming like a trapped animal. "Just imagine my surprise when I found you here... As you can guess, it was non-existent, since I've been following you since I found you."
He -it- creeps forward until its body is pressing hers between it and the wall and its hands are encircling her wrists to pin them above her head. True to its word, the monster is a great deal stronger- she tries to push it away, only to be slammed none to gently back- and it knows that, simply standing there and basking in the knowledge. Everyone else present is dead, unconscious, or uncaring of her situation, which they cannot be blamed for since theirs is so bleak in comparison. She will get no help from anyone here. "I could kill you right now..." It purrs, gloating with a sickening smugness, as a gloved hand wraps around Eve's chin and forces her to look directly into her assailant's eyes. "But I won't, not just yet. I'm not done with you, and have a great deal of unfinished business to take care of. Until then, enjoy living like this, knowing I'll be watching..."
In answer, Eve shakes off her daze and sparks a flame in her mouth, spitting it out in the form of a fully-fledged fire. Working its way out of her throat like a dog's bark, the blaze manages to hit this doppelganger in the face, burning the skin momentarily before it heals, or at least, changes to look as if it had healed. The creature hisses and steps back, hand pressing on the wound. "Stubborn, as always." Its voice curdles in its mouth, so sour it is with venom and bitterness. "Well then, I'll have to teach you a lesson about that."
And with those parting words, the doppelganger turns tail and runs, out of the room, out of sight.
But not before she sees it pick up something black and sharp off of the ground.
And not before she can see a scrap of its coat turn from white fabric into a red feather.
"No..." Eve gasps in frustration, running after it. "It wouldn't dare..." That thing does not have the conviction, the audacity, to go and create a massacre, does it? While wearing her face, using her knives...
Her question is answered in the most unfortunately possible of ways as soon as she makes her way to the edge of the stage. The way in which she sees people scrambling among themselves to leave through exits too small to let everyone escape quickly enough. The way, in which she sees Ronald struggling to stay afloat in the raging sea, pushing through crowds and mouthing one name: hers. And the way in which she sees herself, (only it is not really her it a simple copy, but that detail makes little difference to the doppelganger's victims,) striking at random, dealing death like cards at a poker game, and seeming to enjoy every sick second of it.
Oh no no no no no no NO...
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo !
Cliffhanger :P