Ideas, she's come to learn, mean absolutely nothing. Ideas are the wet kindling to an unsuccessful fire. Ideas are words to put on paper then neglect in practice. A state of the art scientific endeavor, with one goal in mind: to ensure the security of humanity in a harsh and violent galaxy; the idea on paper. In execution; a poor attempt to Frankenstein a dead woman.
Ideas are the meaningless blather her Sim Soldiers toss around over canned meals.
She's hardly confident in her own idea-making. (Maybe those idiots killed a few of her braincells.) Find the Director, easy in theory. Kill the Director, easy in practice. She can kill anyone— maybe not Texas, but she could kill him. Soft, pliable, no defense training. A sitting duck.
Did her fellow Freelancers have any of their own ideas after deserting? And how quickly did they fall apart?
Ideas are worthless. Action is what they should be relying on.
"That's promising."
She follows Connecticut out through the doors, holding her own a little better than her companion (then again she isn't the one who'd died on stage, now is she?) She prepares to catch CT should she fall, and otherwise focuses on scanning the dark and narrow channels they pass through.
Her voice probes over CT's shoulder. "You know where you're going?"
no subject
Ideas, she's come to learn, mean absolutely nothing. Ideas are the wet kindling to an unsuccessful fire. Ideas are words to put on paper then neglect in practice. A state of the art scientific endeavor, with one goal in mind: to ensure the security of humanity in a harsh and violent galaxy; the idea on paper. In execution; a poor attempt to Frankenstein a dead woman.
Ideas are the meaningless blather her Sim Soldiers toss around over canned meals.
She's hardly confident in her own idea-making. (Maybe those idiots killed a few of her braincells.) Find the Director, easy in theory. Kill the Director, easy in practice. She can kill anyone— maybe not Texas, but she could kill him. Soft, pliable, no defense training. A sitting duck.
Did her fellow Freelancers have any of their own ideas after deserting? And how quickly did they fall apart?
Ideas are worthless. Action is what they should be relying on.
"That's promising."
She follows Connecticut out through the doors, holding her own a little better than her companion (then again she isn't the one who'd died on stage, now is she?) She prepares to catch CT should she fall, and otherwise focuses on scanning the dark and narrow channels they pass through.
Her voice probes over CT's shoulder. "You know where you're going?"