she crept up on him || odesta || listen on 8tracks
a mix for the broken girl back home & the golden boy fighting to stay alive
1. from the mouth of an injured head [ radical face ] || 2. c’est la mort [ the civil wars ] || 3. ghosts that we knew [ mumford & sons ] || 4. boats and birds [ gregory & the hawk ] || 5. friends make garbage ( good friends take it out ) [ low roar ] || 6. little talks [ of monsters and men ] || 7. forget me not [ the civil wars ] || 8. all is well ( goodbye, goodbye ) [ radical face ]
i had to miss my school’s casino night semi formal and i was pissed so i decided to get dressed up anyway and take dramatic selfies
posts from my rp blogs are everywhere on my dash and i getting really confused as to what blog im on
montparnasse is a dork pass it on
When she had still be flesh and bones, she had never taken the time for reflections. She had never paused to contemplate her life, challenge her every thought and action with a nagging shred of doubt. She had no time for regrets, and hardly a second to spare for nostalgia. Such grievances had been thought to be petty and unnecessary, a worthless collection of guilty memories that would do nothing but hinder her ability to move forward if acknowledged for any length of time.
Now it is in her very nature to do little more than think. Her intricate programming allows her petabytes worth of extensive knowledge, while something perhaps a little deeper than the gears and wires affords her the luxury of conscious thought.
She never before thought she’d have to face something akin to a personal memory, not when she could only trace back her awareness to her day of activation. And yet things surfaced, smalls habits and mannerisms, responses triggered by a voice, a peculiar familiarity to what was unknown. It was almost terrifying, this instinct, this horrid sense of déja vu that passed as, piece by piece, she began to understand. She had never been one for reflection, in a life long past. And now, facing these memories, obscured for so long, she likes it even less, still.
It’s no wonder she strikes these intrusive thoughts from her mind at the first chance she gets.
" — Caroline deleted.”
She’s never killed before. Not once. There is a difference between being the one to place another in a situation of danger, and being the one to cause the danger, and she treads carefully on the side of the former. Death, from what she’s seen in the security of a bullet-proof observation deck, is a terribly messy business, and she’s never been one to like getting her own hands dirty.
She’s far too clever for such direct violence. Murder was inconvenient, far too explicit to hide from prying eyes when one’s finger was still poised on the figurative trigger. All it takes is a couple names switched around for testing assignments and a file or two misplaced, and any individual could easily disappear or be disposed of without question nor hassle.
But it isn’t murder. Not when the odds are merely stacked against the victim, and they fall by their own means. It’s merely careful calculation, manipulating and leading a target to its own self-destruction. She can’t be held accountable for her deeds if no blood taints her hands.
No, she’s never killed before. Not once. But when she’s revived and awakened with new life, a new body, she finds it comes terribly easily.