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
[Ambiguous you, maybe plural, maybe not. It's their life together, jointly, and Anya has come to appreciate Jesse quite a lot. But it's still Lua who matters most to her.]
no subject
You remember when I left, wanted to go see one of my friends? She used her deal to make her world safer. We're going there.
no subject
[Both of them, again, even if Anya's focus is on Lua more. They deserve a happily ever after in a safer world than average.]