"Just like our alien friends back home," Carolina grunts, splicing a stretch of cobweb that would have veiled her face. She isn't in the mood to be a bride right now. "We get swept up into their game without any clue what the hell is actually going on. Not until we're staring it in the face. Or dead." Or both. Does this count as both? No; they're walking and that's all the proof-of-life she needs.
Still, shaking off the black tendrils of their performance is... difficult. The original memory not easily shunted in her mind— unsurprising. She continues forward and watches CT sway, hunch, catch herself on the wall. Struggle to shape herself into the sturdy soldier she'd like to be in this and every moment. Not a soldier, but a bag of bones and blood and stunted breath smacking loudly against the wall.
And her, the shadow who would have chased CT even after she'd dealt the killing blow. Carolina looks down and is dizzied at the sight of herself, black faux-kevlar taking on new meaning.
Her stomach tosses. Dread, the rare kind where she knows a mission will fail before their boots touch soil. "I don't like the sound of him. Whatever he's aiming for, he won't stop once he has it. They never do. And you can't go making alliances without considering the consequences when the enemy's gone—" Careful, a quiet voice. You're scolding again. "—If what he's promised turns out to be a sham, who's going to stop him? There'll be no one left. Anyone that proactive about power is bad news."
Their stuffy corridor branches out venously, darker and darker the further they move from the stage, and deliberately so. The building— wherever, whatever it is— seems fitted to deter restless audiences back into their seats.
One door leads into a rehearsal room, mirrors constituting the walls from floor to ceiling.
Another draws wanderers up a metal spiral staircase to a catwalk.
Some doors lead nowhere. Others lead everywhere, their insides incomprehensible to non-demon eyes, causing terrible nausea.
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"Just like our alien friends back home," Carolina grunts, splicing a stretch of cobweb that would have veiled her face. She isn't in the mood to be a bride right now. "We get swept up into their game without any clue what the hell is actually going on. Not until we're staring it in the face. Or dead." Or both. Does this count as both? No; they're walking and that's all the proof-of-life she needs.
Still, shaking off the black tendrils of their performance is... difficult. The original memory not easily shunted in her mind— unsurprising. She continues forward and watches CT sway, hunch, catch herself on the wall. Struggle to shape herself into the sturdy soldier she'd like to be in this and every moment. Not a soldier, but a bag of bones and blood and stunted breath smacking loudly against the wall.
And her, the shadow who would have chased CT even after she'd dealt the killing blow. Carolina looks down and is dizzied at the sight of herself, black faux-kevlar taking on new meaning.
Her stomach tosses. Dread, the rare kind where she knows a mission will fail before their boots touch soil. "I don't like the sound of him. Whatever he's aiming for, he won't stop once he has it. They never do. And you can't go making alliances without considering the consequences when the enemy's gone—" Careful, a quiet voice. You're scolding again. "—If what he's promised turns out to be a sham, who's going to stop him? There'll be no one left. Anyone that proactive about power is bad news."
Their stuffy corridor branches out venously, darker and darker the further they move from the stage, and deliberately so. The building— wherever, whatever it is— seems fitted to deter restless audiences back into their seats.
One door leads into a rehearsal room, mirrors constituting the walls from floor to ceiling.
Another draws wanderers up a metal spiral staircase to a catwalk.
Some doors lead nowhere. Others lead everywhere, their insides incomprehensible to non-demon eyes, causing terrible nausea.