Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

[She's smiling with all her teeth, effusive, almost glowing.]

This was my second flood, when I first came aboard. Christmas cheer, and then truth. It ripped me apart. I told people who would become very dear friends that I wanted to see them and everyone like them wiped out. I told people about all my shames and fears and weaknesses. I told myself - because I knew, deep down - that my rationalizations were worthless, that I'd done unbearable things.

And then I had to bear it.

I'll always love this flood, for forcing me to face myself. For those of you who don't know me well: I'm Anya Lehnsherr. I murdered my father and I'm not sorry. I tortured my sister and I am sorry. I love more of the people who have hurt me than I probably should, and I love this place even though it's terrible.

I let Arthas make me into a vicious undead thing full of corrosive power a few months ago, and it wasn't nearly as bad as I expected. It got me graduated, actually.

I've been here for sixteen months now, and I've seen and done and survived more than I ever could have imagined. I used to keep secrets like breathing, and I'm learning to let almost all of them go. So I only have one question.

What do you want to know?


[Private to Sylvanas, the third day]

I forgave you a long time ago. I thought you should know that.

[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 )