037 ☣ Good news, bad news

[fridgetothefire]

[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.


[Private to the Admiral, Text]

Erik – some really expensive Columbian dark coffee, and the cheesiest #1 Dad mug you can find. Some obnoxiously large tesla coils so he can watch the effects of his field manipulation. A copy of Country of My Skull.

Ben – a comprehensive anthology of Russian folk tales, illustrated in that particular Russian style. A Byzantine icon of Mary, in pristine condition. The kind with real lapis in the paint for her cloak.

Cassel – a book of knitting patterns, Crush by Richard Siken, a good translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. One with awesome creepy illustrations. There’s got to be one.

Zane – a magnetic orrery of any solar system he'd like best. Wind chimes. Does he ever miss mist? Dry ice, a way to store it, and instructions for use.

Iris – some sort of intergalactic compendium of dirty jokes. Must exist. Perhaps an edition her future self contributes to. Some strange and lovely creatures.

Riddick – some décor to remind him of his favorite planet. A history of his people, if he wants to know. Some chew-toys for Partner that resemble his most annoying enemies from back home.

Arthas – awesome horse-themed gargoyles to augment all those skulls. A spine lamp, battery powered, since I don't think his room has outlets. A small personal shrine, if he has any desire for one now that he's dead again, unconsecrated so that he may use it as he sees fit.

Charles – helix bookshelves, a framed original copy of the radio crystallography picture that helped determine the structure of DNA. A copy of Country of My Skull for him too. Some Cambrian creature figurines.

Abigail – a pomegranate ring, The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce.

Jean – something she misses from her childhood, that she wouldn’t think to ask for, a stuffed toy or a blanket or a coin collection, whatever. A locket made out of whatever synthetic material can withstand the highest temperatures, with pictures of her and scott inside. Not fire themed, or wings. Just a heart and curlicues, classic, delicate. A beginner’s manual for Vulcan meditation.

Mal – some punk clothes. The kind I saw in London with lots of spikes? Definitely some vests. A badass jacket. Artfully asymmetrical to match her hair. Extravagant boots.

Alex – amateur geology kit. Small pick, hand shovel, rock tumbler/polisher, jeweler’s glass, photographic reference guide, all of that. Maybe a few neat specimens to start wih. And one of those geode lamps with the bulb inside all the crystals.

Lua – the wedding dress of her dreams. Just so she has it, when they’re ready. And season DVDs of whatever shows she’d like best from the time period she’s planning to go to.

Jesse – worry beads for when he needs something in his hands. A stuffed penguin that tells corny jokes. A coffee table book of Natural Geographic’s best nature photos contest. A quote-of-the-day calendar, with a bent toward reminding him that he’s stronger than he thinks and he’s touched some people’s lives for the better. Actually, give that one to me first, I want to write a note in it. Prints of his favorite things he’s seen in his tenure supervising the art room.

Touko – an easily-hidden pinhole camera and basic surveillance system for her room, that only she has access to.

Harvey – an encyclopedia of comparative law. Interdimensional. A smoothie machine for when he doesn’t feel like chewing.

Hannibal – Original recordings of Dialogues of the Carmelites and Lucrezia Borgia. A first edition of The Brothers Karamazov. The body cavity cutting board.

Bush – a series of sounds of the sea – calm, stormy, with gulls near shore, and so on. Be sure to include the creak of the ship and so on. In whatever format he’d find comfortable to play, with instructions and looping capabilities. Long loops, though. Half an hour at least.

Beatrix – coiling snake earrings that don’t dangle and can’t be grabbed easily, some actual black mamba venom, stored in a clear nail polish bottle so that she can carry it around and brush it easily on anything she likes.

Peter – a good book on the pictorialists.

Dean – an archangel sword. A book on Enochian sigils. A few bottles of holy oil. A fuzzy wind-up mouse that looks like me when I was transformed. Angels in America. The complete works of Wilfred Owen. Psychoshop by Bester and Zelazny. The complete Chronicles of Amber. A original recording of Britten’s War Requiem, the version with the Russian soprano. A postcard from Felix. If you can make Arthas write Christmas lists, you can do that.

Nathan – really good maple syrup. Canadian, unless he'd prefer Maine. Warm wicking socks in amusing colors.

And, if you could please give everyone a few photographs of happy memories, for which they have no pictures. But no sex pictures. Unless they'd get a kick out of that.

Comments

[fireincarnate]

Always. [It's the least she can do, isn't it?

She's silent, for a time, letting her embrace speak for her - you're safe, I'm here, I love you. But then, low and tense - ]

Will they try again?

[fridgetothefire]

I don't know. If she does, not soon.

I think I know how to convince her not to.

[But if she can't talk Arthas around, it might be pointless. And it's half guesswork anyway.]

[fireincarnate]

[A slow nod, a deep frown.] If it doesn't work...

I can stay close, for a while.

[fridgetothefire]

[She's quiet for a little while. She'd be grateful, for a little while. To feel cared for, to feel secure while she regains her strength. That's precious to her. But it would be finite, and Anya would someday be vulnerable. She knows Sylvanas can be patient. She knows that even beyond Sylvanas, there are some risks she simply has to accept, has accepted already. She doesn't want Jean to have even more reason to blame herself when it happens. Gently, almost abstractly,]

I don't need to be protected. I mean, I don't need to be safe. To live here, to do what we do, to be myself and independent. I'm willing to accept that sometimes I'll get hurt.

But. A little while could be good.

[fireincarnate]

[Part of here wants to argue - the piece of her heart that was torn to shreds when she thought of Anya hurt and trapped and afraid. But she won't, because she understands. Because taking peoples' choices away isn't something she does, no matter how easy it is.

No.

She smiles, a little, and nods.]

As long as you want. And anyway, I'm always just a thought away.

[fridgetothefire]

[Contemplatively,]

We've never really done anything with that, have we? I projected at Charles a bit in the port where we crashed, to test his limitations.

[And because it felt safer to try it then. But still.]

Is it just a matter of intent? Thinking at you? Or something else?

[fireincarnate]

[A slight nod.] You have to focus on me, as hard as you can, and - project. [It was so long ago, when Charles taught them that.]

Maybe we should practice.

[fridgetothefire]

[She doesn't, as it happens, focus as hard as she can. She's tired, for one thing, and her full focus is not generally a thing she brings to bear lightly. Jean could handle it, no doubt, but they are friends. So it's one small, concise moment of focus instead, like a bright penny flicked into into a fountain, easy murmur attached: how's this?]

[fireincarnate]

[She wouldn't have caught it so clearly before - not without delving in herself - but Phoenix is sensitive to everything; she can fall deep into another mind without even realising.

It helps that Anya's mind is familiar, and the sharp-bright tones are a comfortable flash in the back of her mind.

She grins.]

That's perfect. [She's careful, with her own thoughts; Charles once said her mind burned to the touch.]

[fridgetothefire]

[Anya will never forget the feel of fire. She knows how it feels in an inferno, and how it feels banked, friendly. She lets herself be warmed. She closes her eyes as she rests against Jean's shoulder, as though she were about to doze off. To be strictly honest, she might.]

Do most people just send words? Or do you normally get more anyway, shades of...feeling, context and comprehension riding along.

[fireincarnate]

[She's holding a tight reign on her mind, but she doesn't feel tense, or anxious; she closes her eyes, too, and simply enjoys Anya's presence.]

There's always something. How much we get - it depends on the person.

[Bobby was always a big broadcaster. Scott, not so much. Not in the beginning.]

[fridgetothefire]

[She imagines skipping stones in a pond, ringing a softly chiming bell with a neat tug on a silk cord, tossing copper cholroide in a fire and making it flare blue. Ping. Ping. Ping. There's a feeling of lassitude wound into each touch, an absense of urgency, a child playing tag on a lazy sunday afternoon, the ephemeral sense of hello friend I am here neatly conveyed without any words at all.]

It's not my first instinct. Calling out. We can practice more tomorrow.

[fireincarnate]

[A soft smile curves her lips, and she instinctively responds in kind; climbing trees as the wind whips your hair, leaping off swing sets and rolling in the grass, clumsy handstands and dirty skids. It's sunlight and laughter, echoing across the years to show her contentment.]

We can.

[fridgetothefire]

[There's an echo like bells, sweetness and melancholy. At another time, there might have been an edge of jealousy, but she hasn't the energy for it now, and it's easier to simply bask the sense of things she never knew, or remembers only dimly. She has never been on a swingset, but the child she was in the Bargewell breach had liked them, she realizes very distantly. It's not surprising.]

Good night, Jean.

[It's not night. But she slips into like doze anyway, still tucked in the emotional effluent of their conversation-connection like a cat curled in the sun.]