Butterfly Arc -- #11
I decided ya'll needed a reward.
Title: Artificial Butterflies
Theme: #18 Freedom
Genre: Drama, mystery, general
Rating: PG
Summary: There's nothing left she needs.
Artificial Butterflies
The assassin dug her hands deeper into her coat pockets and buried her neck deeper into the white-and-black striped scarf, her eyes scanning the theater, landing on the stage. They hadn't moved the body, hadn't covered it in a sheet yet, hadn't even brought out the gurney. The coroner knelt at his head and shoved the thermometer into his liver, ticking something off and shouting something at the crime scene investigators.
She roved her gaze over to the audience left behind, many of them with tear-stained faces and red eyes.
"Miss? Did the police retain you?"
The CSI smiled at her and she pushed her glasses up her nose, snorting lowly.
"Yes."
"What did you say your name was?"
I didn't. "Lorelai Lacrosse."
"What relation did you have to the scene?"
"I was working the sound board until an hour before he... collapsed. I went outside to get coffee and left Sandy in my place." She nodded over at the girl that was having a nervous breakdown and two emergency officials were trying to get her to calm down.
"Did you know Colin very well?"
She turned her eyes away from the stage, to the floor.
"Nah. Not very. I was just a hire-in for the tour here. Their regular got food poisoning. I don't even live here."
The CSI nodded. "I think you can go. Do you have a number where we can reach you?"
She pulled out a card from inside her sleeve and passed it over, crinkling against the black leather of her slim glove. "That's where I'm currently staying. My home number is on the back, but only call after next week. If you can't reach me, then that means the electricity's gone again."
Lorelei drifted into the shadows, slinking backstage and divesting it of any trace of her being there, scratching at her straight black hair and pulling at one strand of blue highlight. She pranced out, noticed by everyone, and walked down the street.
The CSI followed her inexpertly, probably sent by someone. She waltzed into a bakery, raised two fingers at the gel behind the counter, and walked into the bathroom. From the chute, a black bag dropped down at her feet. She set a timer and shed her outer clothes, pulled off the wig and the glasses, flapping riotous brown curls everywhere, and took out her contacts. Brilliant amber eyes scanned the bathroom before transforming into blue eyes and elegant hands wiped off the makeup, revealing her slightly paler complexion. She stripped off all her clothes and pulled on a green T-shirt ("Easy as 3.14159...") and a pair of jeans before the black sneakers, the black corduroy jacket, and the black beret.
She checked herself in the mirror, combed out her hair, wrapped a neon green scarf around her neck, and smiled dimly. Then, zipping up the bag and leaving it in the corner, the timer buzzed nastily and got shoved inside a pocket. Sneakers made no noise against the tiles as she lifted one finger to the same girl behind the counter and ordered a mocha latte and two meat pastries.
Exiting the bakery, she saw the worker walk into the bathroom and walk out with the bag, taking it behind the counter. The CSI was sitting in front of the bakery, his jacket shed and reading a newspaper. He looked up at her and then back down. The assassin went in the direction of the theater and checked her pockets.
"What's going on?" she asked the police man at the front in a breathy Southern accent.
"There was a murder. You can't go in there, Miss."
"Oh, but. But my bag's in there. And my bass. I was supposed to play tomorrow night."
"You're going to have to reschedule," the officer stated.
Her eyes sparkled hopefully. "Could you maybe come with me and let me get my bass? At least?"
He stared down at her and sighed. "Oi! Sparky! Get over here!"
A CSI loped over, nodding at the assassin.
"This is..."
"Cassie Londers."
The CSI interrupted the officer. "Londers? As in the architect that built and owns half of the theater?"
She blushed and tipped her head down. "I'm his niece. I left my bass inside and I was wondering..."
"Come on. You don't mind if I check it, do you?"
"Nah. Go ahead. What's going on?"
She walked in and stared as they rolled out the murdered man.
"This isn't good for press coverage," she sighed. "Uncle's going to be so mad. You'll find out who did it, won't you?" Cassie gave the CSI a winning smile and he fumbled a little before nodding and leading her into the back.
The bass guitar case slipped through her fingers and the investigator dusted it, lifted it, checked it for blood and anything else, before nodding and passing it to her. Cassie smiled shyly.
"You can find your own way out, I assume."
"I'll go out the back way," she promised. The CSI disappeared and then Cassie's shoulders slumped before she disappeared out into the back street and stripped herself of the blue eyes and she opened up the fake compartment of the case, switching her beret and jacket for a full-length brown trench coat and a fedora. She buckled it over her T-shirt, abandoned her green scarf, and disappeared into the shining light of late afternoon Edgewood, Maryland, just another person free to be whoever they chose.
Such a limitless freedom she had and such great care she took care of it, too.
-End-
Title: Artificial Butterflies
Theme: #18 Freedom
Genre: Drama, mystery, general
Rating: PG
Summary: There's nothing left she needs.
Artificial Butterflies
The assassin dug her hands deeper into her coat pockets and buried her neck deeper into the white-and-black striped scarf, her eyes scanning the theater, landing on the stage. They hadn't moved the body, hadn't covered it in a sheet yet, hadn't even brought out the gurney. The coroner knelt at his head and shoved the thermometer into his liver, ticking something off and shouting something at the crime scene investigators.
She roved her gaze over to the audience left behind, many of them with tear-stained faces and red eyes.
"Miss? Did the police retain you?"
The CSI smiled at her and she pushed her glasses up her nose, snorting lowly.
"Yes."
"What did you say your name was?"
I didn't. "Lorelai Lacrosse."
"What relation did you have to the scene?"
"I was working the sound board until an hour before he... collapsed. I went outside to get coffee and left Sandy in my place." She nodded over at the girl that was having a nervous breakdown and two emergency officials were trying to get her to calm down.
"Did you know Colin very well?"
She turned her eyes away from the stage, to the floor.
"Nah. Not very. I was just a hire-in for the tour here. Their regular got food poisoning. I don't even live here."
The CSI nodded. "I think you can go. Do you have a number where we can reach you?"
She pulled out a card from inside her sleeve and passed it over, crinkling against the black leather of her slim glove. "That's where I'm currently staying. My home number is on the back, but only call after next week. If you can't reach me, then that means the electricity's gone again."
Lorelei drifted into the shadows, slinking backstage and divesting it of any trace of her being there, scratching at her straight black hair and pulling at one strand of blue highlight. She pranced out, noticed by everyone, and walked down the street.
The CSI followed her inexpertly, probably sent by someone. She waltzed into a bakery, raised two fingers at the gel behind the counter, and walked into the bathroom. From the chute, a black bag dropped down at her feet. She set a timer and shed her outer clothes, pulled off the wig and the glasses, flapping riotous brown curls everywhere, and took out her contacts. Brilliant amber eyes scanned the bathroom before transforming into blue eyes and elegant hands wiped off the makeup, revealing her slightly paler complexion. She stripped off all her clothes and pulled on a green T-shirt ("Easy as 3.14159...") and a pair of jeans before the black sneakers, the black corduroy jacket, and the black beret.
She checked herself in the mirror, combed out her hair, wrapped a neon green scarf around her neck, and smiled dimly. Then, zipping up the bag and leaving it in the corner, the timer buzzed nastily and got shoved inside a pocket. Sneakers made no noise against the tiles as she lifted one finger to the same girl behind the counter and ordered a mocha latte and two meat pastries.
Exiting the bakery, she saw the worker walk into the bathroom and walk out with the bag, taking it behind the counter. The CSI was sitting in front of the bakery, his jacket shed and reading a newspaper. He looked up at her and then back down. The assassin went in the direction of the theater and checked her pockets.
"What's going on?" she asked the police man at the front in a breathy Southern accent.
"There was a murder. You can't go in there, Miss."
"Oh, but. But my bag's in there. And my bass. I was supposed to play tomorrow night."
"You're going to have to reschedule," the officer stated.
Her eyes sparkled hopefully. "Could you maybe come with me and let me get my bass? At least?"
He stared down at her and sighed. "Oi! Sparky! Get over here!"
A CSI loped over, nodding at the assassin.
"This is..."
"Cassie Londers."
The CSI interrupted the officer. "Londers? As in the architect that built and owns half of the theater?"
She blushed and tipped her head down. "I'm his niece. I left my bass inside and I was wondering..."
"Come on. You don't mind if I check it, do you?"
"Nah. Go ahead. What's going on?"
She walked in and stared as they rolled out the murdered man.
"This isn't good for press coverage," she sighed. "Uncle's going to be so mad. You'll find out who did it, won't you?" Cassie gave the CSI a winning smile and he fumbled a little before nodding and leading her into the back.
The bass guitar case slipped through her fingers and the investigator dusted it, lifted it, checked it for blood and anything else, before nodding and passing it to her. Cassie smiled shyly.
"You can find your own way out, I assume."
"I'll go out the back way," she promised. The CSI disappeared and then Cassie's shoulders slumped before she disappeared out into the back street and stripped herself of the blue eyes and she opened up the fake compartment of the case, switching her beret and jacket for a full-length brown trench coat and a fedora. She buckled it over her T-shirt, abandoned her green scarf, and disappeared into the shining light of late afternoon Edgewood, Maryland, just another person free to be whoever they chose.
Such a limitless freedom she had and such great care she took care of it, too.
-End-