This armour is not real, and there is no silver cuff around her wrist. The 'hologram' that falls from her like a soul rising from a body is something else, someone else—a shade of a demonic servant, maybe, barely tangible, there to play a role and then disappearing back into the shadows of the stage. It leaves as CT springs forth, on shorter legs but no less graceful for it. A spin and a pivot and a blade with no true point, even its jagged edges somehow toothless, clasped in her hand like it can do anything.

When she twists Carolina-Texas's arm behind her spine she does not pin it there, there is no piercing trauma to the too-human spine. Instead, she grasps the hand and spins the woman out, until the whole length of their arms is stretched between them, then back, chestplate to chestplate, bare face angled up so close that the outside of the visor fogs, and then out again. Out, out, across the stage in dizzying motion, forcing a distance between them that she knows will not last.

They both know how this ends, even if this is only the beginning.