Connecticut rushes forward, her image filling the narrow frame of her visor. A spring of heel and snapping arch of hip, hitting nothing. She ducks back. Out comes the forgery, armor-clad demon springing forward to continue the momentum with a flutter-kick in Carolina's direction—
Late nights on the training floor. Poorly timed trips to the bathroom. Sweating, exhausted, not at all ready to quit. CT with her hands bracing the edge of the sink, white ceramic spotted red where her nose leaks. 'You shouldn't do that. You'll kill yourself without an AI.' CT's knowing smile in response. Bright red smears on brown skin. What it is she knew, Carolina could never put her finger on. It made her uncomfortable. Stripped naked by eyes that seemed to see through her and at her in one fixed look.
What are you thinking?
A crash of symbols from the pit creates the illusion of force, and like a doll Carolina is flung across stage. She hits the ground on fluid hands and knees. Her helmet goes flying. Skates ceremoniously across the stage, unreachable.
She breathes hard, no plastic barrier to obscure her vision now. Doomed to full transparency.
Panic and humiliation crawl up Carolina's throat biliously. She's back on her feet before she can think. The show must go on. You deserve this. You deserve this. You deserve—
Connecticut's eyes on her. She hates it. Hates it.
She hates how her own face squeezes, afraid of what comes next. How she's lost the strength required to shape her expression into anything short of utter mortification. And what a selfish want it is— to hide behind a visor when it's her fault Connie's dead.
Carolina's hair plasters to her face. She bursts forward on her right foot, closing the gap between herself and her enemy.
There's beat of silence from the pit when they collide chest-to-chest, like torture. The awkward bathroom silence, shouldering her way past CT and out onto the training floor feeling raw and annoyed, made new and horrible for the stage.
A orchestra cues and together they move. Together they ebb and flow, passing and catching each other's momentum in pretend attacks, all too real for her liking. The stakes, just as high as they'd once been. Where her enemy breaks away, she follows. Hunts her in step and spin and attitude, chasing her across the stage with fingers splayed across her nape. Her implant module is cold against Carolina's palm.
no subject
Connecticut rushes forward, her image filling the narrow frame of her visor. A spring of heel and snapping arch of hip, hitting nothing. She ducks back. Out comes the forgery, armor-clad demon springing forward to continue the momentum with a flutter-kick in Carolina's direction—
Late nights on the training floor. Poorly timed trips to the bathroom. Sweating, exhausted, not at all ready to quit. CT with her hands bracing the edge of the sink, white ceramic spotted red where her nose leaks. 'You shouldn't do that. You'll kill yourself without an AI.' CT's knowing smile in response. Bright red smears on brown skin. What it is she knew, Carolina could never put her finger on. It made her uncomfortable. Stripped naked by eyes that seemed to see through her and at her in one fixed look.
What are you thinking?
A crash of symbols from the pit creates the illusion of force, and like a doll Carolina is flung across stage. She hits the ground on fluid hands and knees. Her helmet goes flying. Skates ceremoniously across the stage, unreachable.
She breathes hard, no plastic barrier to obscure her vision now. Doomed to full transparency.
Panic and humiliation crawl up Carolina's throat biliously. She's back on her feet before she can think. The show must go on. You deserve this. You deserve this. You deserve—
Connecticut's eyes on her. She hates it. Hates it.
She hates how her own face squeezes, afraid of what comes next. How she's lost the strength required to shape her expression into anything short of utter mortification. And what a selfish want it is— to hide behind a visor when it's her fault Connie's dead.
Carolina's hair plasters to her face. She bursts forward on her right foot, closing the gap between herself and her enemy.
There's beat of silence from the pit when they collide chest-to-chest, like torture. The awkward bathroom silence, shouldering her way past CT and out onto the training floor feeling raw and annoyed, made new and horrible for the stage.
A orchestra cues and together they move. Together they ebb and flow, passing and catching each other's momentum in pretend attacks, all too real for her liking. The stakes, just as high as they'd once been. Where her enemy breaks away, she follows. Hunts her in step and spin and attitude, chasing her across the stage with fingers splayed across her nape. Her implant module is cold against Carolina's palm.