fridgetothefire: (nightwaif)
[Public video]

[Anya doesn't look markedly better than she has in the last two months. She still has her crown of bony protrusions (a few of them now snapped by the recent invaders), messy hair, fading bruises and scrapes, and wan, exhausted features. But her gaze is clear and direct, her expression tight-lipped.]

...normal maintenance services will resume shortly. If there's anything you've been waiting to have fixed, please report it for triage.


[Private to Jean]

I don't know if they're still there after the latest debacle, but Arthas had zombies packed into his cabin like sardines when last I checked. Cleanup, aisle seven, etc.


[Private to Stephen]

Thank you.


[Spam for Morgana]

[She skulks, trembles, hides in a nearby empty cabin, like a mouse at a mousehole, until Morgana comes to her own door. She darts out, left hand closing on Morgana's wrist, nails digging in. Her other hand is full of partly-scrunched pages, torn from wherever they come from, a scribbled bestiary and neat pentacle diagrams and a few leaves that are slightly scorched, that look like ordinary paper but smell like burnt hair at the edges.]

Every key has teeth.


[Spam for Ben]

[She comes to find him, after his shift. It's not the first time she's done it in the last few weeks, but it's the first time without a distinct air of aimless hopelessness or frenetic desperation. She still feels weak, drained, and her hands shake a little when she holds out her arms for him, but her gaze is free and clear.]

Ben.
fridgetothefire: (battered)
[It's been over two weeks since Anya abruptly lost regular - or at least straightforward - contact with reality. She hasn't been violent, or even especially obtrusive. Ben is her constant shadow, makes sure she eats, and carries her back to her own room if she falls asleep in an unoccupied doorway or curled up under her desk in the office.

For people who pay attention, though, it's obvious something is awry. She's normally a fixture at mealtimes, leaves the maintenance office door open during daytime hours for people to drop in if they need anything fixed, can be seen keeping the barge in order. Now - Stephen and Peter have been working on the shattered greenhouse, but it's slow going, and there are other places ripped up or dented or bloodstained after the sha eradication that haven't been cleaned up, furniture that hasn't been repaired or reupholstered. Splashes of paint from Mickey's April Fool's escapades dry and flake and curl. The barge accumulates little scars, looks a tiny bit more like the battlefield it is.

Anya herself haunts the barge like a ghost, like Mad Bertha in the attic, like she is haunting herself. She doesn't scream and rarely approaches people. But she lingers, skulks, perches and coils. She stalks after people she knows, or thinks she knows. She hunches down sometimes, covers her ears, makes jerky, distressed animal noises, or whispers a word over and over, or grips doorknobs so tight it hurts her hand, rigid with fear, stares like a cat at corners and nothing. She tries to scratch her skin slowly off, until Ben catches her hands, and she shakes and whimpers and collapses against him, and then is distracted by some other elusive mystery for a little while.

There are periods, thanks to Jean, where she is, if not coherent, at least mostly stable. But they do not last. It's possible she's getting worse.]


[OOC: some location/starters in comments, feel free to make up your own. Anya wandering might conceivably go almost anywhere.]
fridgetothefire: (mysteries)
[Video]

[She's posting from the floor of the maintenance office, where she is on a tarp in the middle of a mess, boxes and sponges and bits of felt and ash and mutilated pens scattered all around her. She has smears of blue and black ink on her face and hands and bathrobe she's wearing - which, when she turns, is open in a deep V-wedge to keep her mostly decent without touching the red, fist-sized external heart now clutching steadily in the center of her chest. She tries to brush her hair out of her face, and adds to the ink smudges.]

If you're fighting the parasites, or demons, or whatever they are, come by the office. I made stamps with the anti-possession sigil on them. They're a little haphazard, but they'll work. Once you clear someone, stamp them. I don't want anyone getting reinfected.


[Open Spam, wibbly time through through the general throwdown arc]

[Anya is also running around exorcising people herself, knocking on doors, poking anyone she finds to see if they'll snarl or flinch. She's weary and bloody and bruised, after the first one or two, and she could probably use some backup to help fight the monsters once she forces them to manifest with the rituals Dean taught her.]


[Spam for Ben, backdated a wee bit to before the sha throwdown kicked into high gear]

[With Dean shuffled off to the kitchens, Andrew gone, and Stephen and Tig in comas, no is left in maintenance to notice Anya not turning up to work but Peter, and he won't hassle her about it. So when she wakes up to find a fresh heart tucked between and a little below her breasts, arteries and veins sliding back under the skin, the raw muscle wet and twitch, rabbit-fast with her shock, she decides that today is a good day to hide in her room and eat jerky and crackers and do nothing and see no one.

Until, of course, he comes to check on her, and her door opens for him, just like it always does.]
fridgetothefire: (Default)
[Hallway spam]

[Ben appears first, in full black cape, domino mask, and bandito hat with silly ball fringe, carrying a billowing, humming fog machine. As the mist starts to fill the corridor, Anya, Cassel, and Cass sneak around the corner, similarly decked out. Anya and Cassel are clearly tipsy, in full dramatic pantomime, first holding their capes in front of them and then flaring them out dramatically, almost losing their balance and revealing large baskets of baked goods. Cass is actually sneaking, despite the glaringly obvious costume, and quite innocuous in contrast to the others. Between them, they are picking locks, nibbling cookies, drinking champange from the bottle, and humming their own theme songs.]


[Your room!]

[They are breaking into any room they can, including several doors previously secure against them, thanks to Cassel's new far-future electronic skeleton key. They have every intention of sneaking in, rearranging any ugly knickknacks you may possess, and hiding delicious cookies, brownies, and cupcakes in strange places. They may or may not contain weed, depending on how uptight the united Mystery Baking Companions think you are. If you're already in your room when they tumble into it, pastry-laden and giggling, they will probably toss their capes and pose heroically.]

Special delivery!!!

[If you catch them as they're 'sneaking' away, they will toss confetti in your face and attempt to make a daring escape.]



[OOC: if you would like to find your offerings later and make a silly stoned post, go for it!! They are very generous.]
fridgetothefire: (restrain)
[Private to Riddick and Abigail]

The bad news is, I didn't find him. The good news is, he's definitely not where he came from. How are you guys holding up?


[Public]

[Anya looks tired. Not frazzled or grimly frantic the way she did last month, just - tired. Particularly observant folk may notice her hair is an inch or two longer than it was four day ago.]

I'm back. Any dramatic murders in the last few days?


[Private to Iris and Cambridge]

Speaking of which, do either of you have some biohazard-safe cryogenic storage type devices I could use?



All backdated to the 21st )
fridgetothefire: (headtilt)
[Public video]

You may have noticed the ship disintegrating. Yes, I've heard the complaints. I've spoken to all of the wardens on this ship, and we've agreed to implement a new policy.

Until I decide it is no longer necessary, all the upper-deck, warden-access areas - the pub, the firing range, the CES, and the CTS - are now restricted to inmates who complete fourteen hours of maintenance work a week, to my satisfaction or that of a supervising warden I've deputized. If you want to play with guns or holograms or take scenic picnics or drink free booze, you're going to have to work for it.

That's an if. If you don't care, if you are outraged at the very suggestion, if it's beneath your dignity, whatever. Don't help. I'm not interested in wasting my time hanging over you trying to induce productivity. You forfeit those privileges. You'll live.

If you're already working a critical job - kitchens or infirmary - then the requirement is only four hours. If you join and dawdle, or try to steal tools or sabotage the work, you'll go to zero and you won't be allowed back when your time is up. Yes, I realize zero isn't intimidating to most of you. It's not about punishment. It's just about getting you out of my hair.

None of this is about punishment. Most of the wardens are pitching in too. It's about making sure the only place we have to live right now doesn't fall apart around us.

So if you want to keep your pub time or anything else, let me know here or at the maintenance office, level 7, and let me know if you have any construction experience or not. I'll have the first training and work schedules roughed out by tomorrow.


[Private to Arthas]

I know you need the CES to hunt. I also know you want to catch those bastards before we all turn into them. I've got some ideas you can help with besides mortar and paint.

[So please don't shank anyone for their item.]


[Spam for Riddick]

[After fielding as many of the responses as she can manage for a night, she finds his room and knocks.]


[Spam for Ben]

[A little before making the announcement, she goes down to see him. She owes that much. To whom precisely, she isn't sure. She brings her own chair.]



[OOC: I am gonna let 99% of the actual maintenance work go handwaved. Please just assume she is terrifyingly efficient and finds work for everyone and keeps the schedules running smooth. If you want to set up a spam with your character working in a team with someone random for CR purposes, please assume they are competently supervised and knock yourselves out. Fingers crossed no more Anya spamming for the rest of the month after this, she is too busy working and managing the shifts and stuff.]
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: (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: (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: (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: (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: (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.]

...so, I need some help with a project. How busy are you?


[Spam]

[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)
Confidential to Zane, Abigail, Cassel, Ben, Sylvanas, Mal, and Arthas )


[OOC: I may add other starters to this post as older things play out/I think of them. If anyone has something they want to have brought up with Anya BEFORE she becomes a zombie, let me know and I will add it. There will probably be a separate public zombie post later.]
fridgetothefire: (skulk)
[Friends Filter, afternoon of the second day]

[If you think you might be on it, etc]

So. This one is...uh. Disconcerting. If any of you guys want me to grab dinner for you or something, I'm willing to play gopher.


[Open Spam, throughout]

[Anya is, in the finest sense of the phrase, tempting fate. She skitters through the hallways on the most-used levels (cafeteria, dinings, bathrooms), deliberately takes corners at a hurried clip. She tells herself it makes sense, tactically, that she's still just gathering as much information as she can. She will admit, later, that it's mostly just her love of new experiences, of the chance to be someone new and do things she couldn't imagine before. Even with the sheer amount of pain the barge carries and the way it exposes her history in turn - it's worth it, she thinks. It's incredible.]


[Open Spam, Pub, sometime after running into Felix, possibly literally.]

[Anya needs a stiff drink. And she is going to get one. Right now.]


[Private separately to Ben and Cassel]

How are you holding up?
fridgetothefire: (goth)
[Anya is sitting on the bed in a plain cabin, the kind with the bland, motel-inspired decor of the uninhabited rooms. She looks a little bit stricken, sad and relieved and guilty and uncertain, all of it more-or-less contained.]

Junko Enoshima is gone from the barge.

[She takes a breath, bows her head. It feels wrong, not to say anything more than that.]

I don't know if anyone else. Cares. I don't know why you would. She was a horrible person, all the way through. She was twisted and fathomless and impossible to talk to. But we had a few things in common, and she made me feel less alone when I was still too awful myself to trust in anyone's kindness.

Cut for length. )
fridgetothefire: (Default)
[Backdated to Tuesday]

[She's been in the infirmary since late Sunday night, but she spent most of Monday sleeping. She looks a little pale, propped against pillows, hooked up to an IV, but she seems comfortable enough.]

Hello, barge.

I am so bored. Worse, I can't read without getting a headache right now. So.

[She holds up an infirmary clipboard, the paperwork turned over so she could draw neat, careful charts on the back.]

Come in, sign up for a half-hour time slot and book. Books are sorted by genre and how many hours I estimate it will take to finish them. If you read to me, I'll bake you something nice later.

[OOC: feel free to ignore the regimented tyranny of storytime and talk to her about whatever, either on the network or via spam.]


backdated wobbly time before the attacks )
fridgetothefire: (cast down your eyes)
[Private to Alex, Bruce, Ben, Cass, and Pietro.]

I'm going to be okay.

[Private to the above + Riddick, Felix, Cassel, Rhade, and Dean.]

Let me know if you made it. Please.


[Public, a day or two after.]

If anyone who got hurt is still laid up, in the infirmary or wherever else, and wants me to bring them some books from the library, I'd be happy to.

I can read to you too, if you want, although I can't make promises how long my voice will last.

[It's still a little bit hoarse from screaming, but Anya knows all about painful, boring recoveries. She imagines most people on the barge will have more company than she used to, but it can't hurt to offer.]


[Spam for Erik]

[After a night of deep, utterly dreamless post-adrenaline-crash sleep, Anya manages to drag herself into out of bed, because she can't stand the thought of more trail rations when she could get real breakfast. And there in the hall, just stepping out of his own room, is Erik. He's not her father, he never was and he never will be. But he's something like it, and he told her stories once, trying to protect her from the man who keeps haunting her all too literally. After a moment of staring, Anya flings herself at him and clings on tight.]

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fridgetothefire: (Default)
Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

November 2015

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