[center][color=00aeef][h3][u] A N Y A  E C K E R D[/u]
[sup]The Bronx[/sup][/h3][/color][/center]
[color=90bbbb]Amidst the shock, the fear, and the sickening drain overtaking her, Anya had lost track of time. The tiny room above Anton’s butcher shop had no clock, and she no phone or watch. Through the one window leading to an old terrace, she could tell that it was dark, but little else. She sat up, no more refreshed than when she’d laid down, so it couldn’t have been too long, and saw mother’s knife on the ground before her, unmoved from when she’d set it down before.

Prior to her brief nap, she’d spent a fair amount of time trying to grab the heirloom. Not with her hands, per se, but rather with her mind. In her struggle with Uncle Anton, that was what had happened, she was certain. Yet, sitting there she had been unable to so much as skirt her mother’s knife along the ground. 

It was time for round two. Anya hunched, rolled her shoulders, and focused intently upon the knife. Snowy, wayward strands meandered across her vision, and she brushed the hair from her eyes, once, twice, then recalled from before her sleep what she’d seen in the mirror. She glanced down at her hands, suddenly distraught. Her skin was paler than she remembered, like chalk or bone, or nearing so, anyway. As well, her fingers seemed thinner, her wrists more narrow so that the tendons had a song and dance when she pulled a fist. A new peripheral view showed her the blackness of the ceiling, and yanked to the front of her mind the fact that she had a third eye splitting the territory of her forehead. Strangely, she did not feel as though she could see more, and in fact with focus she realized that the edges of her natural eyes showed her just the same. It was, somehow, a relief. 

Train of thought thoroughly derailed, Anya pulled herself to her feet, and made her way to the old, full mirror resting against the wall. It was hard to see clearly, but her eyes were quick to adjust, and even in the dark she got a good look at herself. Things did not get better. 

What she’d guessed from her hands was true, she was definitely [i]less[/i]. Not too terribly, she hadn’t had much meat on her bones to begin with, but it had been comfortable, and she knew her look well. The way her eyes had begun to sink into dark, tired pits, and by the boldness of her cheekbones and the thinness of her lips, the change was apparent. Her clothes even hung more loosely, and she tugged them around to see how, whatever it was, had or was still effecting the rest of her body. It was all consistent, at least. Her collarbones announced themselves, as did her ribs, and the natural taper of her legs was much sharper around the baubles that were her knees.

The eye scared her, simple as that. It followed as her two eyes moved, but could blink separately, which was an equally unnerving sight, but at least with that, she could keep it closed. Or covered, which was increasingly becoming the more likely option, thanks to her hair. Not long ago she’d shared her mother’s flat blonde color, but by the time she’d gotten to the upper room the vibrancy had all but washed away, as it had from the dull blues that were once oceanic eyes. That ocean now appeared to reside within her hair, ensnaring it in a melancholy drift that lagged behind each movement. 

It was ghastly, she looked like a drowned corpse. 

Retrieving her winter cap, she stuffed the rogue, blanche hair beneath and pulled it tight over her head. It didn’t help much with the sickly visage, but with the eye covered as well, she at least looked like a human being. Truthfully, she could have spent hours inspecting herself, trying to find any other, perhaps more minor changes that might have sprung up over her sleep. However, she wasn’t afforded that chance, and probably for the better, as a round of gunfire outside tore through the quiet of the room. It took every ounce of self-control not to scream, but clasping her hands over her mouth helped. 

Anya scurried over to the window, only absently aware of how quiet her steps were. To her relief, there didn’t seem to be much activity on the street directly in front, but after a few moments, more volleys cracked the air, and she could tell the conflict was some fair distance away. For a few minutes she just kneeled against the sill, head rested on her arms, listening to the scattered gunfire and occasional hazy explosion.  She could make out figures below, shambling from one side of the street to another, jerking in response to the sounds. When something caught one’s attention, it would catch that of a dozen or so others, and like a race they’d sprint out of her view. 

More time passed, and she was vaguely aware of a dip in consciousness, but when she focused again, it was still dark. Part of her wanted to wait until morning before trying to make any move. She thought it couldn’t be too far away, but then, the horizon as far as she could see was unwaveringly black. She didn’t want to sleep again, if she was going to change more, she wanted to be aware of it, or at least in her wits. 

Scanning over the room, Anya realized all she had was her mother’s knife. Everything else was clothes, or blankets, or too big to take with her. She resigned to bundle, threw a dark jacket over her shirt, rolled arm warmers up to her elbows, and draped a soft navy scarf about her neck. The knife rested comfortably at her hip, latched by its sheathe to her belt. It would a hard thing to leave the shop behind, and she did not realize until she tried to pull the window open exactly how hard. The more she thought, the worse of an idea it seemed, but even that was in conflict with the images of Uncle Anton’s body only a floor below. Further [i]still,[/i] the stupid window wouldn’t open. 

She stepped back, huffing, and determined that either the pane was heavier than she’d previously thought, or she was substantially weaker than her appearance let on. Neither was particularly good. She cracked her knuckles, opting for another try, and took a firm hold of the pane handle. 

[color=00aeef]“One…two…”[/color]

With all of her strength, Anya heaved up, and for whatever meager credit it was, she managed to shake the frame a bit. Alas, it remained sealed, either so molded into its place by disuse that it would not be convinced to move, or simply more resilient than she. She glared at the window, and her frustration culminated into an idea that only stuck when she realized how scant her options were. Either she managed to get the window open, or she’d be taking her chances on the street. 

Anya stepped back, extended her hands at the window, decision made. At first there was nothing, much like with her knife, and she had to fight despair away. But, on the back of that struggle and fear, she felt a mental [i]click[/i]. Her panic became tangible, but fleeting, she had to shut her eyes to keep it down. When she looked again, the feeling was different, stronger, as it had been with the cleaver and Anton. She could feel the window’s frame, gradual as though her mind was tethering to it. It was vague at first, but as she focused the frame’s presence solidified itself within her thoughts, not quite like she was holding it, but more perhaps a thing which controlled it. Her hands felt full, despite being splayed out like finger-turkeys. There was an itch in her palms, and then on her forehead as she realized her third eye was open, joining in the angry gaze with fabric against its cornea. The irritation quickly flared into pain, and on pure reaction, she flinched and shoved the cap away from it. 

A horrid cacophony of rending metal and shattering glass followed that motion, as the entire lower section of the window bent outwards.  

She shrieked, unable to quiet herself in time as glittering specks crashed against her clothes. Merciful fate saw her unharmed by the ordeal, aside from a flashing throb in her temples, but she went stiff all the same. When she looked down, her hands were shaking, and what was more, they were alight. Not from within, but rather from above, from [i]her[/i] as though her face were a spotlight. Suddenly there came a shriek in return to her own, from below. Not from the street, though those followed some moments after, but the initial reaction was from the first floor of the shop. Then came the unmistakable rushing footsteps. 

[color=00aeef]“Oh,”[/color] she squeaked. 

Anya returned to the window, and slipped through the jagged, bent frame with as much haste as she could bear. She felt it tug at the fabric of her sweats, and the hood of her jacket, but nothing tore and she emerged onto the terrace unbloodied. But she was not safe. No sooner was she out did the door to her room bulge with the weight of something slamming against it. She had secured all three locks and moved a chair in front of the knob when she’d first come up, but it would not stand forever, especially against the force of many. 

Her attention turned to the lip of the roof some feet above her. Too many feet, actually. The terrace was for decoration and had no rail, and even if she meant to climb, the building’s face was flat, she’d have nothing to grab. 

The door shook violently once again, and bent on its hinges. 

She felt herself starting to freeze up, staring like how she’d seen deer stare at oncoming cars. Trying to pull her thoughts back was difficult, but as she looked back up to the roof they returned with a degree of clarity. Bracing herself against the wall, she jumped up. At her furthest extension, her fingers could only graze the lip. With a bit of help she could make it. 

Focusing, Anya quickly realized that she could not sense her own body as she did the window frame. The sensation was entirely nebulous, like a puzzle with incorrect pieces. What she [i]could[/i] get a sense for though were her clothes. Their feeling came quickly, clear as day, and when she motioned up, she felt them tug against her. 

A smile, despite everything, quivered into shape and punctuated itself with a whisper: [color=00aeef]“Wow.”[/color]

Once again she squared up to the building’s face and prepared to pounce. Inside, the door roared with piling assaults. One of the locks tore off and clattered to the ground, then the second. She jumped as the third gave in, reaching up and willing her clothes to lift her all in the same motion. At the apex, her fingers brushed the lip, then gravity came for its due, only to be denied a moment longer as her shirt and jacket yanked against the bottoms of her arms. It was enough, she grabbed the ledge. 

The energy needed to pull herself up did not come immediately, so she hung like an ornament. Not nearly far enough below, she heard the door splinter, then break completely. Bodies crashed against each other, that she could tell for certain. They snarled, scrambling up or dragging themselves, the ferocity alone nearly startled her from her grip. When after a few seconds it became clear she was not going to be instantly pulled down, Anya took a breath against the dusty bricks, restrained a cough, and heaved herself up onto the roof. 

As she rolled over, she heard effort against the metal frame, and guessed that the intruding things had finally searched the room’s only exit. It was some comfort to know they were, evidently, not very bright. 

Anya got up and surveyed what she could. Lights along the streets were alive and buzzing, but the buildings were largely dark. She didn’t like Anton’s section of New Windsor as much as her home, but to its benefit, plenty of roofs were fairly parallel, and none too far apart. She could get a good distance away just by traversing them. 

Next door a flower shop had its glass skylights shattered, and she could strain to hear the movement there. A risk, but one significantly less daunting than being inside, or on the ground. She approached the gap between the two buildings, and assured herself that she could make the jump, especially with assistance. Where she was going, or what she planned to when she go there, she didn’t know, and frankly wasn’t concerned with. For now, the best choice was to move, and hopefully find people who were still people, or at least people like her. 

She stepped back, focused once again on her clothes, then belted forward. As she leapt the narrow alley, the sudden extra momentum carried her a fair few feet onto the flower shop roof. The landing was rough, she stumbled and felt a tremor carry up from her feet, but altogether, she thought, not bad. 

Anya didn’t hurry, any mistakes would likely be devastating. If the price she had to pay for a safe-ish journey was taking her time, she’d pay it gladly.[/color]