She knows what's coming before it happens; Agent Connecticut seizes Agent Texas's arm in a quick, smart maneuver and pins it at her spine. Blade sinks into armor. Sparks flash.
Not this time.
Connie's face twists just beyond her visor (even thinking the name feels wrong, like over-stepping a boundary; a pleasantry undeserved), a product of fear and something undefinable manifesting in hot, heavy breath. For a moment she can see nothing but flashes of brown skin and armor. Carolina's lashes flutter rapidly. Her jaw goes slack and her throat tries desperately to squeeze out words. Not an excuse— never an excuse— but the simple declaration; I don't want this.
There is no going off-script.
Carolina pirouettes a great distance, anchoring her sights on Connecticut to avoid motion sickness (she can't look away, she can't look away) then continuing her pursuit. What else is there to do? Gnashed teeth and silent screams of protest bring no relief. The show must go on.
A burst of movement toward center-stage. Savage quickness. She throws herself into a double cabriole derrière with legs fluttering and weight propelled high off the ground to close the gap between them, where she meets her target with outstretched hands and facial ambiguity. Death coming to collect what belongs to her.
(Not yet, of course. This is only the beginning.)
Agent Texas (she's Carolina. Carolina, damnit) collects Connecticut's meager weight into her arms and throws her skyward, catching her waist and holding her up, up, up like a prize to be paraded around stage.
no subject
She knows what's coming before it happens; Agent Connecticut seizes Agent Texas's arm in a quick, smart maneuver and pins it at her spine. Blade sinks into armor. Sparks flash.
Not this time.
Connie's face twists just beyond her visor (even thinking the name feels wrong, like over-stepping a boundary; a pleasantry undeserved), a product of fear and something undefinable manifesting in hot, heavy breath. For a moment she can see nothing but flashes of brown skin and armor. Carolina's lashes flutter rapidly. Her jaw goes slack and her throat tries desperately to squeeze out words. Not an excuse— never an excuse— but the simple declaration; I don't want this.
There is no going off-script.
Carolina pirouettes a great distance, anchoring her sights on Connecticut to avoid motion sickness (she can't look away, she can't look away) then continuing her pursuit. What else is there to do? Gnashed teeth and silent screams of protest bring no relief. The show must go on.
A burst of movement toward center-stage. Savage quickness. She throws herself into a double cabriole derrière with legs fluttering and weight propelled high off the ground to close the gap between them, where she meets her target with outstretched hands and facial ambiguity. Death coming to collect what belongs to her.
(Not yet, of course. This is only the beginning.)
Agent Texas (she's Carolina. Carolina, damnit) collects Connecticut's meager weight into her arms and throws her skyward, catching her waist and holding her up, up, up like a prize to be paraded around stage.