An (In)definite Epitaph feat. agent CONNECTICUT & agent CAROLINA as agent CONNECTICUT & agent TEXAS
By the time she's being hustled from her place in the chorus out to the green room, CT's heart has long since fallen to her stomach. She has been staring, dumbly, at the listing in the playbill since she first caught sight of her own name and no matter how many times she blinks, or flips the page, or tries to stand, it does not change and she cannot move. Not until it is her turn. Not until she feels the draw to rise and step through to be costumed, to prepare her for her starring role.
A skintight bodysuit pulled up from toe to neck, pitch black and clinging to every curve, thinner than the kevlar it mimics. Deep brown armour snapped onto her body in pieces, one by one, too light where it rests to feel right, but it looks the part. Each click and clasp familiar, a ritual that had once been as routine as breathing air now stripped from her own control and placed into that of the costumers.
When it comes time for the helmet, for the narrow eyes of her visor to settle above her own and the HUD to spread out in digital space between them, there is... nothing. The costumers step back and her vision is clear, but she sees only Carolina, armoured up to the throat like she is.
And then she is hurried away. Go, go, the show is about to begin! The stage is set, the lights toned red and dimmed dramatically so the incoming action can just barely be seen in the gloom.
Kill the Messenger [for Carolina]
feat. agent CONNECTICUT & agent CAROLINA
as
agent CONNECTICUT & agent TEXAS
By the time she's being hustled from her place in the chorus out to the green room, CT's heart has long since fallen to her stomach. She has been staring, dumbly, at the listing in the playbill since she first caught sight of her own name and no matter how many times she blinks, or flips the page, or tries to stand, it does not change and she cannot move. Not until it is her turn. Not until she feels the draw to rise and step through to be costumed, to prepare her for her starring role.
A skintight bodysuit pulled up from toe to neck, pitch black and clinging to every curve, thinner than the kevlar it mimics. Deep brown armour snapped onto her body in pieces, one by one, too light where it rests to feel right, but it looks the part. Each click and clasp familiar, a ritual that had once been as routine as breathing air now stripped from her own control and placed into that of the costumers.
When it comes time for the helmet, for the narrow eyes of her visor to settle above her own and the HUD to spread out in digital space between them, there is... nothing. The costumers step back and her vision is clear, but she sees only Carolina, armoured up to the throat like she is.
And then she is hurried away. Go, go, the show is about to begin! The stage is set, the lights toned red and dimmed dramatically so the incoming action can just barely be seen in the gloom.
CT takes her place, stage left.
And the music swells.