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: (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: (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.]
fridgetothefire: (goth)
On the Rage:

[It hasn't been so bad, her brief stint on the Rage, the third ship in quick succession that she's grabbed a berth on, this time as a scullery maid instead of a stowaway. Better the open sea and sky than her father's treasure-packed harbor stronghold, bristling with ruffians and strung up with old skeletons. A few people have even been kind to her. But it's still a pirate ship, still part and parcel of his world, and a life she wants nothing to do with. While most of the crew are busy with repairs, scouting the island, or trying to decide what to do about their apparent company on the other side of the Island, Anya prepares to seize her chance and slip away. She packs light, pilfering just enough from the kitchen to get her across the island, a sturdy carving knife, her spare shift and a single book wrapped carefully in oilskin. She walks calmly, unobtrusively, fighting not to blink in the sunlight after the hold, as though she's on some entirely innocuous errand.]

Throughout the island:

[She tries to strike a balance between staying a bit inland from the shore - where she suspects she'll run into more people - and going straight through the unknown and no doubt treacherous terrain through the heart of the island. She is only occasionally successful. She tries to avoid bothering the wildlife as much as she can, but she will not turn back, even when her heart hammers in her chest at every startled caw and rustle in the sweltering underbrush.]

Approaching the Redeemer:

[By now she's a bit of a mess, muddy and scraped, hair tangled, her already-patched clothes a bit worse for the wear. She hasn't got any white cloth, but she holds up her hands when spotted, smiles hopeful and harmless, then, abruptly, starts to cry. She's so close.]

I was, I was captured by pirates, and. Please, I beg your aid.
fridgetothefire: (fidget)
[It's been a few days since the end of the undersea port, and Anya is...not really dealing well with certain ramifications of it. She hasn't been dealing terribly poorly, even off the Lehnsherr curve, but not well, either. She's not freaking out or breaking down, but she feels persistently discomfited, alien in her own skin, more isolated than she's felt since she arrived here.]

[She's doesn't look frazzled at all, except perhaps a little shadowed under her eyes from lack of sleep. She reclines in her windowseat, the stars sparkling softly behind her. She's solemn, pensive.]

So, who else here has dealt with...something that was your identity, what defined you, being taken away? Or just changing, suddenly. I can't imagine it's a terribly uncommon experience, given the peculiarities of our population.
fridgetothefire: (curious)
[Anya looks a little frazzled, shadows under her eyes, hair rumpled. But she's relaxed in a windowseat, with the starfield arrayed behind her, and she looks, if not content, something like satisfied.]

It's kind of crazy. At home, I kept a lot of secrets. And it was vital, my life literally depended on it, but it was easy, too. I just had to let people see the things they already expected. But here, whether it's forcing us to spill it ourselves or bringing other people to talk behind our backs or whatever's next, it feels like everything is conspiring to have us ripped open. And it hurts like crazy but everyone is on display together, and even if there are consequences, nobody punishes me just for being - me. Not yet, anyway.

[A small grin. Gallows humor, or something like it. She's not all that paranoid. Really.]

I don't like it, but at the same time - part of me feels like I can breathe, for the first time in awhile. It's kind of nice, you know? So I'm trying to be more open.

[Deep breath, self-deprecating smile, shy little wave.]

Hi, barge. I've been here for a few months. My name is Anya, and if I haven't met you yet, I look forward to it. Believe it or not, the people I've gotten to know here so far are some of the best I've ever known.

Spam, OTA except Castiel XP )

Private to Charles )

Private to Erik )

Private to Cass )

Spam for Alex )
fridgetothefire: (laughing)
[Guess who found the English lyrics to the old Ukrainian Bell Carol she used to sing when she was small?]

...hark how the bells, sweet silver bells, all seem to say throw cares away...

[She goes through the first verse and the chorus, juggling parts as well as she can manage. Her voice is a little rough, no formal training, grabbing breaths in awkward places, but she carries the tune well and it comes out pretty enough. She trails off, then flips on the video feed. She's in the art room, surrounded by scraps of white cloth and half-finished paper mache horns.]

Hi, um, everyone. If you haven't met me yet, I'm Anya. And as you can probably tell, I need some help with the harmonies. When I was little, caroling was one of the biggest parts of the Christmas celebration. Does anybody want to come singing with me? We could do the rounds on each level. If you bring treats we could hand them out to people! It would be so fun.

Private to Wanda )


fridgetothefire: (Default)
Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

November 2015

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