Nicole was a dancer, and always had been. Her size limited her in most things, but not her dancing. She was delicate and graceful, flexible to the point of breaking herself. Most of the people whom Nicole let herself be seen by were about to die. Nicole knew this. She could sense it, and danced for them, knowing that they’d die and think her an illusion. She didn’t want people creating a fuss about dancing faries, although she knew all that would get them would be a fourty-eight hour lockdown in a pysch ward.
Cheryl, because of her aforementioned clumsiness, was a singer. She had a voice bursting with refreshing clarity, and although was punk, had a pop sound that was completely unique. She played the guitar and wrote her own songs. Don’t, though, imagine an artsy indie chick in a bohemian dress and moccasins alter-ego. While Cheryl did have an alter-ego, she was nothing like the singer-songwriters of today. The other Cheryl was named Olivia. Olivia was tall, and looked sophisticated and chic.