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032 ☣ public, video
Oct. 22nd, 2013 08:07 pm[The feed clicks on. Anya is in the laundry room.]
Okay. In the interests of putting any creepy stuff that crops up on the table in public so we can stick a fork in it -
[She swings the camera around. A few scraggly pieces of wet clothing are spread out on the folding table. They're dripping, like they were pulled from the middle of the wash cycle, instead of sitting in the machine after being spun out. There's not nearly enough for a whole load - closer to one outfit. It's torn in places, and it looks bloodstained - though not in the same places as the cuts. Anyone who knows Anya well or has paid attention to watching her would recognize most of it as hers - her lazy comfort-wear, at that. There's an overpriced, touristy sweater Lua got her at the London Eye last Christmas when she started shivering, a T-shirt with a baking pun, and sweatpants Cass gave her to practice her drills in, the hems a tiny bit ragged where Anya adjusted them. Besides the familiar pieces, there's a long grey knitted cardigan, the yarn unraveling in the places where it's been slashed.
Anya swings the camera back to her face, then sets it down and takes a few steps back. Sans cardigan, it's the outfit she's wearing.]
These are definitely mine. The stitching is the same on the pants. And the best part? I'm knitting that cardigan. It's not done.
[She sounds deeply aggravated, more than anything. It feels like a threat - creepy and amorphous and juvenile. She can't just dismiss the impossible, targeted nature of it, but it doesn't mean anything specific she can counter, either, no message she can interpret and use to prepare for whatever's coming. She's got a mulish set to her jaw. She wants to fight someone.]
Okay. In the interests of putting any creepy stuff that crops up on the table in public so we can stick a fork in it -
[She swings the camera around. A few scraggly pieces of wet clothing are spread out on the folding table. They're dripping, like they were pulled from the middle of the wash cycle, instead of sitting in the machine after being spun out. There's not nearly enough for a whole load - closer to one outfit. It's torn in places, and it looks bloodstained - though not in the same places as the cuts. Anyone who knows Anya well or has paid attention to watching her would recognize most of it as hers - her lazy comfort-wear, at that. There's an overpriced, touristy sweater Lua got her at the London Eye last Christmas when she started shivering, a T-shirt with a baking pun, and sweatpants Cass gave her to practice her drills in, the hems a tiny bit ragged where Anya adjusted them. Besides the familiar pieces, there's a long grey knitted cardigan, the yarn unraveling in the places where it's been slashed.
Anya swings the camera back to her face, then sets it down and takes a few steps back. Sans cardigan, it's the outfit she's wearing.]
These are definitely mine. The stitching is the same on the pants. And the best part? I'm knitting that cardigan. It's not done.
[She sounds deeply aggravated, more than anything. It feels like a threat - creepy and amorphous and juvenile. She can't just dismiss the impossible, targeted nature of it, but it doesn't mean anything specific she can counter, either, no message she can interpret and use to prepare for whatever's coming. She's got a mulish set to her jaw. She wants to fight someone.]
