How dare she? The thought, the indignation, washes over CT all at once at the sight of her exposed face twisted with fear and disgust. How dare she look at her like that, like this is her worst day put on display for all to see? How dare she look at her like this wasn't a choice she made—command star beside her name and team at her back and ordering CT to come with them, this is your last chance.
Late nights on the training floor. A drive in a viewing bay computer, preventing FILSS from recording her turning off the hardline power. The scent of iron in her nose and bile at the back of her throat. Trying, but not always succeeding, in going unnoticed in her recklessness. Carolina's eyes full of suspicion of... something, she never did seem to know exactly what it was that she thought CT was doing. Work beyond reproach, training little more unusual than her own, questions always toeing the line but never crossing it—until she was gone.
And then what was she? Liar. Traitor. Insurrectionist.
No escape, not even here on the stage—of course not even here on the stage, the futility recreated in breathless accuracy. Fingers around the back of her throat, firm and unyielding, CT imagines them closing around the metal and tearing it free—reclaiming the program's stolen technology and turning her out like a light. Merciful, by comparison. Quick. Instantaneous.
Teeth gritted so hard it aches, eyes burning into Carolina's vibrant green like a forest fire, she surges forward. Slams bodily against her so hard another cymbal crashes and leaves another false-prophet in her wake as she falls back, away, forces a distance between them that she knows cannot last.
Three 'holograms'. A countdown nearing completion.
cw: imagined body horror
How dare she? The thought, the indignation, washes over CT all at once at the sight of her exposed face twisted with fear and disgust. How dare she look at her like that, like this is her worst day put on display for all to see? How dare she look at her like this wasn't a choice she made—command star beside her name and team at her back and ordering CT to come with them, this is your last chance.
Late nights on the training floor. A drive in a viewing bay computer, preventing FILSS from recording her turning off the hardline power. The scent of iron in her nose and bile at the back of her throat. Trying, but not always succeeding, in going unnoticed in her recklessness. Carolina's eyes full of suspicion of... something, she never did seem to know exactly what it was that she thought CT was doing. Work beyond reproach, training little more unusual than her own, questions always toeing the line but never crossing it—until she was gone.
And then what was she? Liar. Traitor. Insurrectionist.
No escape, not even here on the stage—of course not even here on the stage, the futility recreated in breathless accuracy. Fingers around the back of her throat, firm and unyielding, CT imagines them closing around the metal and tearing it free—reclaiming the program's stolen technology and turning her out like a light. Merciful, by comparison. Quick. Instantaneous.
Teeth gritted so hard it aches, eyes burning into Carolina's vibrant green like a forest fire, she surges forward. Slams bodily against her so hard another cymbal crashes and leaves another false-prophet in her wake as she falls back, away, forces a distance between them that she knows cannot last.
Three 'holograms'. A countdown nearing completion.