fridgetothefire | 074 ☣ Snicker-snack

[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.]

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He's been through too much shit.

[and there's a spark of something - jealousy? - when he looks at how quickly Cassel shut him down to protect Anya. Something he doesn't want to really look into right now, not when a fellow warden is in serious amounts of pain]

If he didn't laugh at that, he's not gonna laugh at anything else I've got.

[It's not a smile, exactly, but there's gentleness in it, clemency.]

It's okay, Chris.

Just don't let him spend the night in one of these awful chairs, okay? You gotta come hug him and drag him out before he starts watching me sleep.

[A lot of times, Chris feels lacking, less competent, capable of saying exactly the wrong things. But his frown lessens out when Anya gives him that look, and he feels better. He can take that and run with it]

You mean you don't want vultures with back problems hanging over your bed every night when you're trying to get some motherfucking peace and quiet?

I'll bring him out, don't worry about it.

[And that actually makes her - not all-the-way laugh, but an amused little snorting noise, a twitch. She's coming down from all the vicious adrenaline, now, it comes - not easily or evenly, but surprisingly frequent, just now.]

Thank you, Chris.

Yeah.

Yeah, anything.

[Anything you want]

I got this.

Maybe you should organize something. Two, three days from now when the shock's gone and everyone's getting twitchy, a big fuckoff distraction.

Flaming unicycles at dawn, you and Iris. I don't know.

[She's not actually on painkillers, since the worst of her wounds were fixed with magic, but the natural endorphins in the aftermath are - not entirely dissimilar.]