Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

[CES]

[Anya spends a lot of her time in the CES, just - playing, experimenting, pushing herself and her temporary powers. She builds architecture out of ice on a perfectly blue lake, small but sound, in deliberate, latticed layers and glinting icicle spires. At other times she hunches over a baleful-eyed zombie hedgehog in a warm alpine forest, coaxing it to trundle about as she commands until it falls apart. When her work crumbles she lies back, corpse-still for a few minutes, considering what she did, what she could do better. Then she tries again.]


[Maintenance]

[Anya is not the type to skip work just because she's undead. She picks up the maintenance key from Felix and goes about her normal duties with absolute equanimity. She has bloodless grey skin, glowing blue eyes without any discernible irises or pupils, and she emanates bitter cold, which helps somewhat to mitigate the scent of death. She changes a few dead lightbulbs scattered through the common rooms and hallways, takes care of some of the grout in the women's inmate showers, and works on building a telegraph transmitter for Mal.]


[Library]

[She's got a basket over on arm, hunting down several books with targeted intensity. Several of them are histories of plagues - The Great Influenza, And The Band Played On, Legacy Hath Wrought - while others are purely scientific, ranging from the primary study on the artificial construction of the Polio virus to a trashy dog-eared how-to manual circa 2210 for home-cooked supersplicers.

She can't actually use plague magic on the barge. But she can think about it.]


[Private to Lua, Voice, shortly after this]

You asked me before if I could be around people. If I was dangerous.

I think I am now.

[Public Spam]

[She works with her hands a lot, now that she's in the maintenance crew. But there's a difference between fixing things and making things, and her occasional forays into invention in Aeris Navem left her itching to create again. Rather than indulging her inner engineer - who has a tendency to slide a little too easily from 'productive' to 'pragmatic' to 'paranoid' - Anya has her knitting bag out again, clacking plastic needles and all. She sets up in a common room, listening to conversation and people watching comfortably.

She's into her second skein when she abruptly realizes the design she's been replicating on some subconscious impulse: a dark blue and charcoal grey sweater with a herringbone pattern, subtle night camouflage for Cassel the cat burglar on nights when frigid high-altitude winds sliced through the floating city like razorwire. She groans heavily and flings her ball of yarn across the room in moment of pique. Which is a terrible idea, because now she has to collect and rewind the damn thing.]


( confidential to Erik, Lua, and Alex )