fridgetothefire: (defy)
[Public video]

[The post comes thirty, maybe forty-five minutes after Kara's. Even with the major broken bones and butchery repaired, from just the shoulders up, Anya looks an absolute wreck. She has a swollen, mottled lump at her temple, ugly purple dripping under her skin like a watercolor stormcloud. Her throat is bruised too, the wide brumous darkness there slashed through with line of red lightning, gleaming and raw rather than simple rusting scab, where she thrashed against the rough iron wire binding her neck. Her mouth has a dab of blood that wasn't all washed away, her lip ragged where she chomped partway through it. Her hair is a sweat-matted mess. Most of all, though, is the look in her eye, an unhinged lurching snarl.]

This. Is done. Now. This thing, with Dean, it's me and him, and we are square. Whatever private wars you've got to settle, I don't care, but any one of you touches him in my name - no vengeance. None.

Or I will take it out of your fucking hide.

[She is not entirely sane right now. And she is not even remotely fucking around. The feed cuts out. And then, fifteen seconds later, still broadcast to everyone.]

Including you.


[Private to Ricki]

[Slumped, quieter]

...except you, I guess. Sorry.

But please don't.


[Private to Stiles]

[Also quiet, eyes downcast, exhausted.]

If he can't be bothered to tell you, I think he thought I was the admiral. That he could get free, save the people here. I know you have to do something, I know you'll do. Whatever you decide is best.

But I'd like to be. Informed.


[Private to Iris]

Thank you.


[Infirmary spam]

[She stays there about thirty-six hours, too worn out to do very much, letting the minor surface wounds that didn't get mended with magic stay cleaned and bandaged and iced. She'll see visitors if they come, will be wan and weary but lucid, without the vicious freneticism of the immediate aftermath. After that, she can't stand it any longer despite the advantages, retreats to the sanctuary of her cabin.]
fridgetothefire: (ponder)
[Public]

[Anya's only shown her face on the network briefly since Karazhan, when most people were still reeling, when she figured her new additions would fade in a day or two. They haven't. Anya has white spikes of errant bone growing out of her head in a rough organic crown. The camera view is mostly close enough that it crops them out, but occasionally glimpses of the bases - especially the ones near her temples - show through her hair, or when she moves.]

Andrew's gone.

[Clipped. Almost stern, with fate or the ship or herself. She looks down at her tightly clasped hands, which tilts the horns a bit more into view, then back up again.]

I. I've been wanting to make a memorial for the vanished since Esther. How many of you even remember-? Nevermind. I don't think I want to know.

[Speaking a bit more quickly than she usually does; as though she's being harried on, as though there's some reason for tension. Then again, they've few enough reasons for calm.]

It's been quiet, in maintenance. Now that the ship isn't falling apart anymore. So we could build something. I don't want to ask the admiral for a separate room for it, though. Auxiliary rooms are always the first to go. Maybe in one of the common rooms? Tell me if you want it on your floor. Or if you really don't. I kind of want - something with alcoves, you know? Where people could leave tokens and letters and things. I don't want to lock it up, it - it'd belong to all of us. Because the losses do.

I suppose some people would probably vandalize it. I don't know.

[I don't know what to do. I don't know how to solve this problem.]

How would you build it? What would you want from something like that?


[Private to Barbara]

I saw Letty asked you about the engine. I think, given the ship's history, it would be good to have more people trained on it. Not just a second warden, but an inmate or two - some ports affect us differently, like the one where you died, and there was another I saw in Arthas's memories where the wardens were all kidnapped - and maybe a series of, like, On-Call wardens, like the kitchen has. People who know enough of what's what to patch us up after a crash if the keyholders are comaed or what have you.


[Private to Chris]

You owe me eighty dollars for Touko, by the way. Jean and Iris too, I believe?


[Private to Omar]

[Warmly,]

Did the admiral bring your stuff back along with you, or do I have to knit your Christmas hat again?

[The one with the crown on it.]
fridgetothefire: (honed attention)
Self-indulgent Introspection )


[Private to Dean, backdated to right after Chris's post]

I really need to hit someone who's going to hit me back right now.

You, me, the enclosure, ten minutes. Yay or nay?


[Open Enclosure Spam]

[The day after 'sparring' with Dean, Anya is in the Enclosure again. She has a shepherd's sling, tough old cord and worn leather cradle for whatever stones she finds. She hunts birds, strikes them in flight. It's the concentration she needs.]


[6th Floor Spam]

[When she does maintenance tasks, she's got the mask mostly on, moves smoothly, face professionally rather than disconcertingly blank. She works on T'Pol's door, reinforces the frame, adds a biometric lock she can program when she wakes up. She's got half a dozen manuals out on the floor, working through the particulars of Federation - no, Imperial - technology. She gets her meals quickly and eats them off a crate while browsing over the project.]


[Private separately to Zane, Riddick, and Cass]

I'm not good company right now. But if you don't want to be angry alone, you can come hold me.


[Thoughtcall to Jean]

What do you do when you're this mad?

[A flicker of a projection, because she doesn't have words. Like it's eating her from the inside out, like it's eating everything else she tries. It's like being on fire again, the way it consumes her attention, the horror and the helplessness, and she can't even go hazy from smoke.]

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Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

November 2015

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