Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fridgetothefire) wrote2013-12-28 07:28 pm
fridgetothefire) wrote2013-12-28 07:28 pm
037 ☣ Good news, bad news
[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.
[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.
no subject
Now lie down again. You shouldn't be up.
no subject
I like the windowseat.
[It's sort of lying down - reclining, resting, at least - and she likes the openness, there. She shuffles over, settles into her already somewhat ragged toll nest of new slanket and old cushions, motions for him to sit beside her.]
no subject
Is everyone panicked over you?
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Not - panicked. Ben is angry. Arthas is - angry, I think, but he's being a bastard about it and it's hard to be sure. Most people just seem...tired and morose, or at a loss for what to do.
[This is why she gave specific instructions. And yet.]
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[She feels miserable and resentful and guilty about being resentful and frustrated about all of it. She's glad people care that she died, but she's angry that she died, and she's still keeping secrets, about the torture, about the nightmare resurrection, angry that she feels like she has to, because somehow what really matters about her pain is still the way it ruins other people.]
no subject
[ On reflection. Maybe things would be a little different now; he'd take a moment and hear her out before jumping to a hurt conclusion. He has changed. ]
Is it all right if I...? [ He indicates settling his arm around her, and if she assents, he will, rubbing the arm on the far side from him and letting her lean against his shoulder. ]
I'm surprised she would do that. With a newer inmate, it's that cycle, of hurting people and realizing it's useless. With an older one...
no subject
She tortured me too, Zane.
[Quietly, simply.]
She planned this carefully. And whatever she wanted, I believe she got it.
no subject
What could she want?
no subject
My pain, for its own sake. The pain of people close to me. Causing trouble. Attention, even if it's bad, or especially then. To prove that she can strike out, and suffer nothing unendurable in return, to feel successful and strong. Vindicating her own scorn for the barge system and the people who value it, because the utter lack of prevention is one of its greatest failings, and few of its defenders can really accept that.
Maybe something else. Maybe several things.
[It calms her, contemplating it, sustains her in a way. If she can understand, she can handle it. And there are things in Sylvanas that she recognizes.]
no subject
[ He's thinking, now. ]
I don't think you can teach people how to do right without giving them the chance to do wrong. It just... inevitably has a price. We want to promise to protect each other, because that's what people do when they care, but I think in the end the wardens here have to know the risk and make their own choices.
...that's probably not much help, though.
no subject
I agree. With both parts of it.
I think...I think some of the wardens who were never inmates have a harder time understanding that part of the system. And when it's someone you love, it doesn't matter why. It matters that it hurts, and you can't really do anything to stop it from happening again, because safety is not the priority, safety does not - generally - promote change.
She hates the barge, doesn't she? So. Anything that makes her jailers resentful or ashamed of or just frustrated with what they're part of. That's a kind of victory.
no subject
We just think about things too much.
[ He still strokes her arm, slowly, rhythmically. He includes both of them as a category, even though they are so very different sometimes; they do think about things too much. They're both very smart and very canny, and at least a little bit, they both gave in to the Barge because they understood it was the only way forward. Enlightened self-interest. ]
You know, I don't feel that much better suited to be a warden. But I look around, and it seems to me that everyone else is a little worse-suited. So maybe I was just wrong the whole time.
no subject
You'll be good for someone. You're clever and patient and you want to understand. It's just all...messy. People are messy. Helping them is messy. What they need is all different.
Lua was always scared that she wasn't smart enough to help me. But I didn't need her to outthink me - and if I'd had someone who could, probably I'd have dug my feet in and been sneakier and closed-off and tried to fight back, resisted a lot longer.
no subject
I argued with everyone, not just Charles.
[ He'd been so unbearably curious. He still is, but he's a little gentler about it. ]
no subject
[She feels so unbearably fond of him right now, and she isn't sure when that happened exactly. She settles against him, closes her eyes.]
Did I ever tell you what happened to me, in Silent Hill?
[Easy, as if it were any other question, as if it weren't a nightmare at all.]
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Not specifically.
[ And he never would have asked, not a question like that. That place scared him like no other, all the way down to the bones, and he still feels it sometimes. ]
no subject
[Still utterly mild, in the same tone she might say "Charles brought me tea."]
no subject
He doesn't respond in words. Waits, to see if there's anything more she needs to say. ]
no subject
I don't like being trapped. At the time, it seemed like the worst thing that could ever happen. It seemed like - like maybe it would be better, not to thrash so much and only feel it closer around me, to sleep and run out my air in the dark.
But at least it was a wooden coffin.
[She swallows, because she has not worn this part thin and soft and grey with examination and survival and pride, not yet. She turns into him a little further, presses her face against his shoulder, hides everything from her eyes.]
She hid my body in the dryer, Zane. I woke up and I couldn't open it from the inside.
no subject
Did she know?
[ How deeply she was hurting Anya. Did she strike at Anya's weakness deliberately, or just use the dryer as a convenient place. The latter wouldn't be better, but it wouldn't be as bad. ]
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The burial isn't well-known, but my feelings about metal are. She's smart, but she's straightforward, more like Arthas than like us, and it was convenient.
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I'm going to ask, when I can go see her without falling down the stairs. We'll see how it goes.