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[hr][b][sup][color=#fadadd]｢ Geneva, Switzerland | January, 23 | Midnight ｣[/color][/sup][/b]
Seven didn't like this masked man or the way he seemed to peer at her, the etched smile on his false visage taunting and sinister. At Emmanuel's order, her lips curled into a frown, trembling as protest threatened to spill out. [color=#fadadd][i]I don't want to leave you[/i][/color], she would have liked to say. Instead, she heeded orders like the dutiful child Emm expected and ran to her brother, taking hold of his hand to lead him outside. Whatever Ten's friend injected into him seemed to have counteracted his earlier punishment, but she was still worried for him.

[color=fadadd]"Let's go!"[/color] she said, even as she herself moved reluctantly.

They were halfway to the entrance when Seven turned to look back. A throng of zealots now surrounded the two handlers, moving slowly at first, circling them like predator would a prey, until Ten's friend all but gave them the signal to begin their hunt. Seven continued to run, but faltered in her step as a thought popped in her head.

A few of them were 'close' now, weren't they? Seven nodded to herself, convinced that she has found a loophole in Emm's orders. As she reached the wide double doors of the entrance, she harnessed as much fear as she could muster: fear so deep-seated that it ravaged mind and body, penetrated soul. Collected more and more until she was overflowing with it.

Once, she had explained to Emmanuel that she imagined her miracle was like her favorite part of church: Communion. Seven has been to countless masses in Italy, and while she never paid attention to the repetitive prayers and the long sermons, she was fascinated with the Communion rite. There, people held hands, kissed in a sign of peace, and feasted in the body and blood of their lord. Seven especially appreciated the lattermost ritual; it was similar to her own ritual with her best friends, although perhaps theirs may be more symbolic.

Ah, but back to the point. As she told Emm, in her Communion line, she is the one administering the Host, which in her case, is made of an emotion of her choosing instead of bread. The people around her are corralled into this line, mouths pried open in anticipation, whether or not they've consented. 

This was what she did now. Seven picked the woman furthest back in the mob and served her a healthy dollop of fear. The switch in her mood is instantaneous, like a whiplash. Irrational fear swallowed this woman whole before she could blink, and down she went, curling into herself, heart beating erratically and mind rendered blank in terror. Then Seven targeted the older man next to her, then the man next to him. All three reacted differently; Seven has noticed there was no singular way to experience an emotion. One pissed himself – unfortunate, she thought pityingly – while the other turned tail and fled, his bloodcurdling scream loud even in the midst of all the commotion.

Seven did no more after that, afraid that Emmanuel would notice and threaten her with the cage again. They were out of the ballroom now and she had shut the doors for good measure. What was happening inside was a mystery to her, and she could only hope that her Emm was holding his own.

[color=fadadd]"Brother,"[/color] she called, wringing the skirts of her dress in worry. [color=fadadd]"Where do we go now?"[/color]