fridgetothefire: (professional)
[Warden Filter]

I have a proposal I'd like everyone to listen to.

I know the Admiral is being an unbearably condescending inscrutable prick about this. But I honestly believe him when he says he doesn't have the strength to fix our ship and chase down that other one. He's too proud to claim that kind of incompetence if it weren't true, and you can hear how aggravated he is. It's why he's being extra dickish at the moment.

So we need to hold it together, if we ever want to see our friends again, if we want not to be siphoned away until the floors start going dark and airless like they were over there a few months ago. I need to hold it together. And I need help.

Volunteers are welcome, of course, and anyone who has any experience in carpentry or plastering to help with training others would be even more appreciated. But frankly we also need you all doing your own jobs and watching out for the inmates, and they could stand to have a little less free time to cause mischief in.

So. I'd like to formally request that upper-deck privileges be restricted. No pub, no CES, no CTS, and no firing range access for any inmates who don't complete, let's say, fourteen hours of maintenance service a week, to my satisfaction, or that of a deputy, with no sabotage or dawdling. Fewer hours for inmates already performing other work details, I'm open to numerical suggestions.

All of those locations are privileges, and always have been despite how casual we are about them, and the chapel and greenhouse are still available to inmates who are unwilling or unable to work but who need some mental respite. I'll make an announcement to the inmates soon and maintain a list of everyone in good standing if you all agree.

I realize this is probably hopeless. I need unanimous cooperation. Even one of you with an item can scuttle it. If you have doubts about whether we should do this, or how, or why, please talk to me.

For those of you who were inmates on the other ship, who are wardens here, listening to this - I know it sounds like I'm asking you to help us take you back to hell, but I swear I'm not. Iris - you don't know her, but she's a version of Bianca who never went cruel or possessive. She's exuberant and dauntless and compassionate and amazing, and she's over there right now suborning that ship with nanites that can affect the barge substance on a fundamental level, that transformed this one almost completely. There's hope for unmaking that place, without abandoning the innocents there, yours or ours. But not if we disintegrate and give that place all our strength to fight her assault.

You can hear this because you're all good people, whatever you've done, however you've struggled. Please help me.

...and if you could all respond, at least in acknowledgement, that will let us know if we have anyone posing as a warden now who isn't one.
fridgetothefire: (disgruntled)
[Spam for Ben]

[They were together in the arena, and they end up together on the barge too, in between their cabins, sprawled a few steps apart on staircase by the fourth floor. As the depthless darkness recedes from her vision and her counterpart's sharp, bright, selfish mind gingerly extracts itself from her own, she glimpses him, and thinks for a dazed moment, with relief and quiet love, and when you wake up, I will still be here. Except - except - he is looking at her, and his expression is all wrong.]

[Public Video (actual immediate response reserved for Peter)]

[She switches to video, with an awkward view of her chin and collarbone as she holds it close to her mouth and speaks as clearly as she can, teeth gritted.]

Help. Stairs, fourth deck, high powered. Fast, please. Ben's mirrored.

[Then she just holds it, turns the view to face Ben and Riddick's fight.]
fridgetothefire: (wish you were right)
[Public, video]

[Anya's in the chapel, curled into a ball in the corner of a pew. She's not crying, but she has been, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks tear-stained, sniffling a little, hair a bit mussed. But she faces the communicator squarely.]

I just saw my sister for the first time in almost three years.

I killed her, for those of you who don't know. I basically raised her - our parents certainly didn't help - and she was one of the only people who was ever kind to me. And then I killed her.

I've been waiting to make that right almost since I came to the barge. And now -

[A shaky breath, but she gets it under control, doesn't start crying again.]

She doesn't hate me. She will, I think, when she can really process how I betrayed her. But right now she's just - scared, and hopeful, and alive. She has good people taking care of her now.

And I just - I want to talk about forgiveness, I guess. Because it's never, ever required. If you forgive someone, it should be for you, because you don't want to carry the anger anymore. Nobody deserves to be punished forever, but that doesn't mean you have to be support to people who've hurt you. It doesn't mean you have to accept them in your life, even if they've reformed.

If Wanda never wants to see me - if she never wants to be my sister, if she can't trust me after I broke her trust, then that's - fair. That's her right. Just like it's my right never to forgive our father, which I haven't. Which I won't. I hope she forgives me. But I hope more that she's happy, that she has the tools to build a life she wants, with the people she wants in it.

The thing about the other barge - I know some people are scared or confused and some people are jaded and just hunkering down, and we'll get through it, and it will end, and our wounds will be healed and our tolls paid but the thing about the other barge, the actually terrible thing, is that sometimes it gives us no opportunity to choose against our own monstrosity. And sometimes we do unforgivable things there, and it isn't us - it isn't our choices - but it is us, too. Sometimes trust is broken in ways that can't be fixed with a week or two of suffering.

[She thinks of Cassel and Iris, of herself and Abigail, of herself and Beatrix, herself and Dean.]

But that doesn't mean it's impossible, either. When we're back. When the tide goes out and our wrecks are bare on the sand. Just. Remember to be kind to each other, as much as you can, whatever side of it you were on. And be kind to yourselves. I think that's the most important thing we can do.

[Private to everyone who was around for the Tosh fiasco]

Is anyone still here who fell into the abyss during Tosh's takeover?

[Private to Peter, backdated a few days]

So it's me with four inmates to watch, now.

[And to think maintenance used to be a warden's club.]

And the ship's going to pieces no matter what I do.

Mal volunteered to pitch in awhile ago, so if you still feel - tired, I'll bring her in. But the ceiling's always yours if you want it.
fridgetothefire: (Default)
[Public, Video, forward-dated slightly to after the flood]

[Anya's hair is braided, a bit awkwardly given that she was unable to hold her own head up at the time, and a bit mussed, although she's changed into an unwrinkled shirt.]

It seems like there haven't been any major disasters while I was unconscious.

Were the comms all broken? Did I miss the signs or something?

[She sounds bemused, half-joking, half not at all. Seriously, is the admiral punking her, did the boat actually not crash.]

[General friends filter; if you think you're on it, etc.]

I'll need to catch up on the minor disasters, though. Let me know how you're doing, all of you.

Confidential to Morgana, Dean, Stiles, Connor, Harvey, and Stephen )
fridgetothefire: (mild and cold)

[Anya is broadcasting from the maintenance office. Not the desk, but the workshop-like part, where she has been putting together medium-to-large boxes of construction materials.]

Okay. Everyone's had some time to lick their wounds, sleep off the worst part of their tolls or heal from their wounds, and generally flop around after that crazy mess. But here's the deal: those weird rotten spots on the walls left over from the mirror barge? That's where the Joker got first his hooks into the barge structure as a whole.

I've been working on cleaning them up, but it's been slow going. So this is an open call for volunteers. Inmates, wardens, anybody that has an interest in that bullshit or worse not happening again, I want to get all of them totally cleared before the next weird whatever hits.

[She gestures to Stephen, the Zane look-a-like puttering behind her, checking the kits.]

This is Stephen Hart, for those of you who haven't met him yet. He's going to be one of the regular maintenance wardens. If you don't know how to fix a wall, he or I or Mal will be available to teach you. If you do, so much the better.

Jean, Kara, if you guys aren't busy, I'd love you to pitch in. The places where I completely removed the rotted areas and rebuilt from scratch are still whole, but anywhere else the decay has come back again. I'd love you guys on demolition - I can give you a list of trouble spots, think you can disintegrate all the damaged material?

We might have a few holes left unpatched for the next couple of days, but I'd rather that than the alternative. Everyone who's willing to help, let me know so I can put the work groups together.

[Private to Mason]

...look, I'm not going to twist your arm or anything. No pressure. But sometimes helping to fix things helps.

[Private to Tig and Andrew, both of whom have probably patched at least one weak spot in handwavetime before]

You guys too. No excuses, you're practically experts.

[Private to Dean, backdated to a day before the announcement.]

Get on deck, loser, we're going shooting.

[Private to the Admiral]

I'd like a key to the lab and my own space there, please.

[OOC: Feel free to spam work teams if you want! Please assume at least one warden is watching every team and inmates cannot make off with tools or building materials with impunity, but feel free to choose your own teams ICly or OOCly for CR purposes other than that. Also feel free to thread with Stephen, who will also be around/replying.]
fridgetothefire: (Default)
[Public but filtered away from the Joker; Day 1ish]

[Anya is on the hallway of level five, standing in one of the boats, tethered to the wall by a bungee cord and a hook she apparently hammered in a moment before, bobbing serenely, a dust mask loose around her neck, and a bruise forming at her temple. The rest of the boat is filled with plastic bags labeled Sam's Club. She's got a staple gun in one hand, and threads the bag handles with a zip tie, secures the loop, and then staples the whole thing to the ceiling.]

I'm trying to post bags of supplies on every level. These are from me, not him. They've got food, aspirin, and disposable dust masks, and a few with respirators. Those will be marked R in sharpie. Chemical weapons are a thing for this guy, so if you're not immune try and get one.

Don't be too trusting - anyone can get into these, so please do double-check that stuff is still sealed before you consume it, but if you can't make it up to the dining hall, I'm bring stuff down.

I've heard about several of the floors, but more information is good. What's on 1 and the Deck? What about 8? Zero? Check in.

[spam, various places, various times]

[After scrambling her way into the maintenance office, she loads up on useful tools. A crowbar and a blowtorch serve her well against the bumper cars on the way out, and again when she encounters the robotic animals on four, leaving yowling, twitching slag behind her. Sometime on day 3, she can be found loading presumably poisoned corndogs into a bag from the concessions on Level 1, before hauling them down to Level 3 and chucking them into the water for the piranas.]

[Spam for Horatio, later???ish]

[It's when she's exploring the deck that the Ferris wheel grabs her, and communicator and crow bar spilling to the deck floor as she stumbles, roughly compelled. Inside the little car, she is locked in total darkness, smaller on the inside than the outside. She feels wood. She's in a coffin, again; if she tries to carve her way out with the only tool she has remaining, most likely she will burn. She tastes the air, carefully - only mildew and pine and earth, it even smells like being buried - and then uses her mask to protect the skin of her fist as she pounds on the door, hollers. She hates this, hates it so much. The crowbar is right there.]

Help! Somebody help me! I'm trapped in here!

[Bangbangbang. So they know which one she is. It's not futile. It's tactical. It is.]

[Private to Morgana; Day 1]

Talk to me.
fridgetothefire: (63 o rly)
[Public, video]

If anybody wants to take measurements so they can actually find clothes to borrow that fit instead of guessing and going with whoever offers first, we've got a couple spare tape measures in the maintenance office.

[Asher Lehnsherr: more sensible than you in every universe.]

And try not to stretch anything out. Your counterparts are going to want their shit back in decent condition.

[Public spam]

[Asher can be found in a couple places, in Winchester flannel with the sleeves shoved to his elbows, old burn scars and crisp colorful tattoos tessellating up his forearms. He occupies one of the common rooms with a beer shoved halfway in between couch cushions to hold it while he practices guitar, working out classic rock adaptations of Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff for the hell of it, humming vaguely along.

He goes to the gym, unlike Anya, who does the majority of her physical training in the privacy of her cabin, or her teachers'. A long time ago, he was more shameless about urging Wanda to heal his lungs, so he can run through a much longer workout without having to pause and gasp for air - although he still only drills half the styles he knows in public, the half that give him more trouble.

He's in the library as much as she is, practicing languages and picking a new discipline to study, piling a workdesk with books on meteorology. He watches the stars on deck and eats an apple, including the core. He works on the design of a miniaturized maglev engine featuring panes of leaded glass with the maintenance door propped open. He hits the pub in the evening. He'll probably let you in.]

Confidential to Touko, Iris, Ben, Dean, Morgan, and Hannibal )
fridgetothefire: (on the job)

Okay, listen up.

If you haven't had a bad port yet, let me clue you in: when the admiral actually gives us supplies, it means we are about to hit a bad fucking port. The last time this happened, we lost somebody. As in, she got trapped in a town full of corpses and nightmares and never made it back. No death toll, no popping up fine in the infirmary. Zev was an amazing woman, who came from terrible circumstances and was bright and compassionate and determined, and she didn't vanish, she got caught by somewhere worse than here. I might not get along with you, or even know you, but there's no one on this ship I want that happening to.

Brass tacks: whatever the admiral is, I personally doubt he's humanoid. [Dryly] You may have noticed, but he's not always great at realizing what we actually need. So here are some things everyone should add to those packs if they can.

cut for length )

The Admiral's made fewer preparations and given us less warning this time around, so let's hope that means it's a proportional response, and we don't have have to worry about the risk of losing anyone like we did in Silent Hill. I hope it's fine, and we'll all be back here bleeding and bitching in a few days. But we can't guarantee it. So whatever happens, wherever we go, take care of yourselves, and take care of each other.

[Private to Morgana]

Tell me what you're missing, and what I need to get you.

[Spam for Dean]

[He's already stabbed someone. On the other hand, he's already stabbed someone, so it's not like it's going to make that much of a difference if he really wants to cause trouble. Or at least that's what she tells herself, rapping on his door.]

Me again.
fridgetothefire: (on the job)
she is an archaeologist of her own civilization, sifting mosaic stones and bone shards (narration; cut for length) )

[Public, video, backdated to the middle of the flood]

[The camera passes slowly over an extremely thorough collection of mostly depleted but not discard knitting supplies, the dozens of half-skeins left over from finished projects, in a neatly organized rainbow of colors and yarn qualities, spread out on a pale blue carpet. The view shifts to Anya's face.]

I am searching for information on any garments that appear to have been created from these materials. There are very few matching items in these quarters.

I also require volunteers to consume a batch of lemon pastries and provide feedback.

[She pauses, becomes momentarily architectural, still and precise as an icon in a alcove.]

If you could speak to the perfect stranger, but never receive a reply, what would you say? Would you say anything at all?

[Not a perfect stranger. The.]
fridgetothefire: (Default)
[Public, Video]

[Anya is sitting at the desk in the maintenance office. Dean's jacket is thrown over the back of the chair - she couldn't leave it behind, couldn't quite wear it either. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her cheeks are dry, and she smiles.]

Hi. For all you new kids, I'm Anya Lensherr, former crazy inmate, and current head of maintenance.

[That was a little harder to say than she expected. But she mostly doesn't let it show.]

I'm in the market for some minions. Any inmates who know basic carpentry, electrical wiring, or plumbing should come talk to me. Any inmates who want to learn any of that should come talk to me. I'm a good talker, I'm a good listener, and I make great cookies.

You don't get to use the cool power tools until I'm convinced you'll use them according to the factory guidelines, but it's a pretty good gig, lots of downtime in between wall-shattering catastrophes, independent projects generally allowed. Preference goes to people without other jobs yet, I get final say, this is a benevolent hardware and transistor dictatorship, et cetera.

[Private, to Alec Trevelyan]

Did you ever talk to Dean before he left? I don't know if you're even still interested, but we'd be happy to have you.

[Private to Sylvanas, later, from her room]

You sing, right?

[Private to Debra Morgan]

How are you settling in?
fridgetothefire: (stubborn)
[Video, public]

My clothes are coming up bloody again.

[She swivels the view. A scraggle of emptied dark blue laundry bag coils limply on the floor beside a heap of clothing like a popped balloon. Individual pieces are dark with bloodstains, neither old and faded nor quite fresh: the matted rust-brown of a few days' procrastination. The marks are splashed or smeared across individual pieces; the stains don't enjamb from cloth to cloth. They were bloodied while she - or someone - was wearing them, not in the bag. Back to her face.]

For everyone keeping track, that's the third sign in the last few days that also appeared right before we encountered the other barge, and at no other time, along with messages on Morgana's mirror, along with people on the network who shouldn't be without a full-scale glitch and messages in Morgana's mirrors. Am I missing any?

Arthas is right. We need to be prepared, since we have the chance for at least a few of us to manage it, and anyone who wasn't there before who wants a better picture of what to expect should find a veteran to ask.

But I'm not sure it will be the same as last time. It can't. That place was falling apart. Not all wardens - let alone inmates - were allowed to leave during ports. Their admiral wasn't answering queries or supply requests, the death toll was becoming unreliable, Ellie blew up the kitchens, and the lower levels were shutting down and turning dark, losing power.

If it exists, if someone restored it enough for people to hang on...well. I'd be trying to jump ship. We've had a thorough reminder that passengers can take over the barge's course, with the right resources. Maybe we aren't running into them this time. Maybe they're running into us.

[What would that change, what could they do. Maybe it's some other manner of encounter entirely. She doesn't know, but it's the only idea she has. If that Anya wakes up in her room - could Anya leave her a message? What message could get her to do something approaching the right thing? There is another Ben from this barge and he is real, he needs you too. Something.]

Anyone who has any idea what actually happened at the end - it might help if we had a clearer picture of it.

[It also might not.]

Private messages for Ben, Dean, Iris, and the Admiral )
fridgetothefire: (Default)
[She's smiling with all her teeth, effusive, almost glowing.]

This was my second flood, when I first came aboard. Christmas cheer, and then truth. It ripped me apart. I told people who would become very dear friends that I wanted to see them and everyone like them wiped out. I told people about all my shames and fears and weaknesses. I told myself - because I knew, deep down - that my rationalizations were worthless, that I'd done unbearable things.

And then I had to bear it.

I'll always love this flood, for forcing me to face myself. For those of you who don't know me well: I'm Anya Lehnsherr. I murdered my father and I'm not sorry. I tortured my sister and I am sorry. I love more of the people who have hurt me than I probably should, and I love this place even though it's terrible.

I let Arthas make me into a vicious undead thing full of corrosive power a few months ago, and it wasn't nearly as bad as I expected. It got me graduated, actually.

I've been here for sixteen months now, and I've seen and done and survived more than I ever could have imagined. I used to keep secrets like breathing, and I'm learning to let almost all of them go. So I only have one question.

What do you want to know?

[Private to Sylvanas, the third day]

I forgave you a long time ago. I thought you should know that.
fridgetothefire: (bitter)
Narration TLDR )

[Private to Ben]

Ben. If you can hear this, tell me where you are.

[Private to Morgana]

[There's a lull of silence, just Anya's face, frowning faintly at the screen. She doesn't know what to say. She's harder and colder than the Anya Morgana knows - not bright and sharp like she was on the mirror barge, but hunched and honed.]

Do you have information about me, too?

[Open spam]

[She paces out the bounds of her new prison. Larger, nicer, stranger. She wants to rip someone else's hair out. Malachai walks behind her, with a buffer of air between them, one foot of No Man's Land. He's a sandy-brindled creature in the shape of a sleek, low-slung dog, some kind of mutt, certainly part greyhound - unless someone really looks at him, realizes how big he is despite the way he slinks, over six feet from nose to tail tip, or the curving, not-quite-right way his hips are slung. He is nothing like a dog.

She's been told there are no other daemons here, that it doesn't make them mindless, or monsters. but every time she passes anyone, she has to struggle not stare, and Malachai draws mincingly closer to her, though she pushes him away.]

[Spam for Riddick but also Open in the CES]

[Zane is hungry. And he's some kind of sea creature and not - (her brother) - not the one she knows, not the one she promised to try to come back to. But he's still hers, somehow, and he's in a box, and he's hungry.

Anya is the sort of person who leaves herself notes, nowadays, in case of floods just like this: a little folded placard in her own handwriting sitting on top of her warden's item, This opens doors, like a much more helpful version of Alice's Drink me. So she looks for a door with food behind it, and finds a forest instead. She hears rustling and bird calls and she doesn't understand, but it doesn't matter: Malachai is an ambush predator. She climbs a tree, and he stalks out a place some twenty-five feet upwind. It's a small stretch, for them. And they wait.]
fridgetothefire: (professional)
[Filtered to graduates/wardens who were once inmates]

What did you sacrifice, to graduate?

Someone asked me recently, and I didn't have an answer. I'm wondering if that's strange.

[Filtered to wardens who were never inmates.]

Do any of you feel trapped here? Or have you, in the past, because you needed your deal so badly? It just - it seems like a much more important distinction, in some ways, between wardens and inmates, than being able to get a drink without asking someone to buzz you in first, that we can walk away and they can't.

But I'm not sure it's that straightforward.

[Filtered to inmates]

How many of you want to change? Not to graduate, that's a very different question, and not necessarily into - whoever the admiral wants you to be. Just change, in general.

Do you want to be different than you are, in any way, or not?

[Private to the Admiral]

[Wryly, amiably.]

I don't suppose you'll tell me what you're getting out of all this.

[Spam for Harvey]

[For a long time, she practiced in private. In Bruce's room, in Cass's. She'd work with Natasha or Sokolov or Bea in the gym, because that's where they were, but when she was on her own, without the clear label of 'student' hanging over her, she'd do it with a yoga mat and a locking door. Old paranoid habits, needing to be underestimated. She's realized, lately, how much more convenient the gym is, has been gradually trying to acclimate herself to working through drills under anyone else's eyes. She's there now, moving through forms and combinations Bruce taught her, counting out her breaths. Her lungs are - compensating, slowly, better than they were, even if she'll never quite hit the same caliber of athleticism that she might have otherwise. It feels good, not just to push herself, but to know she's going somewhere.]

[Private to Abigail; wibbly timed to after their conversations with Ben.]

I told you once that I was being as straightforward with you as I knew how to be. In the interest of resurrecting that - this scares me. Not what Ben's doing, me and you.

But I will do everything in my power to take care of both of you, as much as you need.
fridgetothefire: (fidget)
[Open Spam]

[At odd times, Anya can be found in the common rooms, curled up on a couch with the guitar Bea gave her for Christmas, humming and practicing chords. She's still new at it, and not worried yet about picking up anything fancy. Her fingertips are still in the raw stage, pink and sore, but she practices diligently, with a small smile.]

Confidential to Morgana, Zane, Bruce, Cassel, and Dean )
fridgetothefire: (ponder)
[Anya looks - not scared. Slightly apprenhensive, gently vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with how she normally uses her vulnerability. When she speaks, it's calm and clear, in Xaladytko Romani.]

Mama, it's me. Anya. I'm - I'm so sorry, for everything. I'm working on a way to fix what happened to Wanda. I know that sounds impossible, but how many impossible things have happened in your life? If you can hear me, believe this one. When she's taken care of - if you want to get out of there, I'll bring you out, I promise. Bring you somewhere better.

[And. If she doesn't.]

And. Whatever you decide, I forgive you. You should know that.

[She takes a breath, runs a hand through her hair. There are other people she'd love to talk to, but she doesn't know where to start or what to say next; it feels a little like she's used up all her poise and eloquence for the day getting that out without breaking down.]
fridgetothefire: (what in hell)
[Spam for Morgana]

[She aches everywhere. The particular, awful lassitude of the deathtoll is unmistakable, like the deformed child of a hangover and a fever. She's cramped and nauseous and alone in the dark. It is, she notes distinctly, less comfortable than the coffin.

Her communicator isn't in her pocket and she can feel - a door, the dryer door, motherfucker, but she can't get it open. She gulps down shallow breaths, and tries very hard not to think about the fact that she's inside a box of metal. She needs to get over this, she needs to be calm, she needs to control herself. She counts her breaths, shallow and thin though they are, her diaphragm crushed where she's nearly bent in half. She gathers what flimsy strength she has, what leverage she can manage, her elbow wedged into her side, and slams the whole side of her forearm against the door.

She feels the thin metal flex, but the door doesn't budge. Breathe in, breath out. Fingertips along the edge, searching for the latch. She can't trip the mechanism from inside. Breathe in, breathe out. Do not focus on the parts of your body in order, do not focus on your body all all. A dissociative meditation: imagine a single object in entire, perfect detail, and think of nothing else. A ball of yarn, simple and detailed, around and around and around. She waits until she hears footsteps, then bangs the door again, weaker this time. She doesn't know how long it's been.]

Let me out. Please let me out.

[Her voice sounds - well, like death warmed over. But the words are distinct.]

[Voice, Filtered to Erik, Charles, Alex, Ben, Cassel, Lua, Jesse, Jean, Riddick, Arthas, Peter, Harvey, Zane, and Dean.]

Someone attacked me. I'm death-tolling, so I'll probably be scarce for a few days.

I accept offerings of soup, cookies, and people willing to hold my yarn while I catch up on last-minute knitting.

Cut for a ridiculously long gift list )
fridgetothefire: (alright)
[Private to Ben, Backdated to Friday.]

[She's smiling in the easy, bright way that means she's had a few drinks, but not enough to start laughing at everything or lose even an iota of her sharpness.], I need some help with a project. How busy are you?


[A soft whoosh of air, as Ben slides through the corridor at superspeed, leaving a chugging fog machine nearby. Shortly afterward, Anya and Cassel come through, giggling in their masks, capes, and dramatic feathered hats, carrying baskets that groan with delicious-smelling baked goods. This time it's all beautifully decorated christmas cookies and rich peppermint bark. Maybe they've ambushed you in the corridor. Maybe they're (attempting to) break into your room. Either way, delicious (mysterious~) holiday cheer is about to ensue.]


fridgetothefire: (Default)
Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

November 2015

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