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“Would you like to see a demonstration of absolute loyalty?”

Celina Jackspar

”Chief Minister”


D - O - B
January 1st 2627 (50)

Smith’s Rest

There are statues which reveal more in conversation than Celina Jackspar, if such interactions with her could be considered that. To be face-to-face with her is rarely a pleasant experience, but they often feel necessary.

She campaigned promising to strengthen New Anchorage, and as far as one could tell, that's what she appears to want. Her iron will and lack of tolerance for insubordination invoke a sense of duty, and many assume she may even have some vendetta against the corporations, for how vehemently she promised they would not tread down the same road.

But there is something more, something terrible, that never has and likely never will see the public surface. In the end, whatever Celina is, whatever Celina wants, whatever drives this abyssal woman towards her ends, no one, not even her own blood, is meant to know.

There isn’t a person still alive in New Anchorage that could tell you about who the Jackspars are, how long they’d lived in the settlement of then-Smith’s Rest, or why they’d holed up in a ratty old building and filled it with books. No one knew, moreover no one cared.

Some can recall the daunting woman attending town-hall meetings, rallies and the like, well before the birth of her daughter. Others might tell stories of venturing into the shadowed library, and finding no one no matter how extensively they searched. Indeed it was rare for anyone to actually check a text out, but then, in so tumultuous a time, most agreed that immediate survival came before the immersion of dead history.

Even when her daughter became one of the handful of pilots vowed to lead Smith’s Rest to prosper, she was an enigma. Only, she was becoming a public figure, an enigma of person and politics alike. She no longer sat silently throughout public meetings, but argued the plans expressed by the council in power.

It became quickly evident that she was no dissenter, but a learned contender, wise not only in the machinations of politics present, but past as well. She had an arsenal of campaigning platforms tucked away in her mind, and before long she was no spectator, but a speaker at rallies urging change. So much spent on the protection of New Anchorage, and yet the city had fallen victim to attacks twice within the year of the NC program’s foundation. People were hurt, afraid, angry.

When Smith’s Rest became New Anchorage, when things finally looked to calm, Celina made her move. It was not the time to settle, to grow comfortable in the wake of assisted stability, but rather it was time for the settlement to establish itself. New Anchorage must be a force. Those who thought them weak for their meager history should not be rewarded, but punished to the fullest extent for their transgressions.

At first she was met with resistance by the settlement’s officials, perhaps because of her seemingly radical ideals, or perhaps just because she was a nobody come with the threat to take control. People had begun to support her, even if the vocal were few, but it would take more than raw intellect to gather the push necessary to get her in power.

It is an odd thing to be thankful for tragedy, but when New Anchorage was attacked a second time, Celina smiled. The chaos that ensued was mostly subtle, there were no fearful riots, and in fact the NC facility had clearly been the primary target. Nevertheless, the governing power began to collapse on itself, torn between its former views and a sudden jerk towards support for Celina. With the citizenry uproariously at her back, she was elected into an executive position by the end of the following day.


Celina is a menacing spire. Tall and narrow yet immovable, there are few she does not cast her shadow upon, even if their eyes level. Despite her position of authority, her attire has remained humble and plain, often bound in a deep coat and heavy boots that suggest she does not mind who hears her approach. Her face is sharp and cut with lines of thought, and her glacial eyes rest in pits behind thin glasses.

Most look away following a furrowed glance, and so to match gazes with her for long is tantamount to war. She has the look of one who understands their power, thoroughly.

Orator/Manipulator: Celina is good with words. She’s good with words that inspire, words that rally, condemn, threaten and terrify. She negotiates mercilessly, never yielding much in return, and what cannot be resolved civilly, can almost always be handled by other means.

Historian: Celina is well-read in many topics largely lost to the interests of the public. Her knowledge on subjects of ancient and modern history, politics, psychology, medicine and many more speak to a lifetime spent buried in books. The ability to arise from nothing with the apparent experience of a professional has proved invaluable in her political rise.

“You feelin’ this song? I’m feelin’ this song.”

Vera Jackie Voloshyna




D - O - B
April 30th 2664 (13)

Smith’s Rest

Equal parts easily excitable and hard to bring down, Vera displays more happiness than anyone likely has a right to given the state of the world, and especially the state of her home. The type to view every day as a new, wonderful opportunity, every stranger as a friend she hasn’t met yet. She isn’t quite dense to the natural cynicism of the world, though she doesn’t often try to assert her optimism as better, rather she tends to accept the views of others and present her own in kind. To her, bringing a few happy moments when necessary is more important than trying to outright change another’s philosophy, and even in the hardest cases, Vera always manages to find a silver lining, be it in situations or people.

While generally light hearted, Vera can at times display a caretaking maturity. Still unrefined and more reactionary than anything, dealing with trauma is something she learned growing up in the Jackspar home. Often times Elizabeth would end the days a broken wreck, and Vera was glad to be a source of comfort for her. The reclusive Ms. Jackspar never saw her daughter’s breakdowns like she did, never woke up to find Eli in a fit of silent panic, or clawing at her skin like she couldn’t feel it. Celina learned the signs to Eli’s problems, how to order her into preventing them, but Vera learned how to fix them, at least temporarily, and for better or worse, this is largely why the older girl never received professional help.

With the discovery of a potential future as a pilot, Vera has come to realize that she’s spent much of her life thus far as an emotional lifeline to her sister. She doesn’t resent this, and wouldn’t for a heartbeat consider abandoning her, but she can’t help the gnawing lust for an adventurous life not tethered to another. If she could have that, and still be close to Eli, it would all work out. Right?

Currently N/A.

Vera was too young to remember her parents leaving, but knows that she was born in what was then Smith’s Rest. Over the years she’s come to understand that the Voloshyna’s were in fact the only family close to the Jackspars, which to her was enough to explain why she was given to them. It never seemed to affect her, even when she was old enough to understand the implications of her situation she never harbored any anger against her parents. She had a home, a mother, and a wonderful sister, to her that was plenty to be happy about.

Eventually however, Vera started to notice cracks. The once warm and caring Celina Jackspar slowly discarded her façade, revealing a cold, calculating woman who shunned her in favor of focusing on her daughter, Elizabeth. And yet Vera was still not deterred. She’d grown attached to the girl, who had in turn grown attached to her, and by the time Vera was cresting nine the two were all but inseparable. So it came as no surprise that when Eli was accepted into the NC program that Vera was brought along as well.

What did surprise them was the possibility that Vera might end up in the cockpit of an NC too. Having been at the facility through vicious assaults and quiet lulls, she’s at least been made aware of the many risks the job entails, yet she’s signed herself on all the same. Now over a month out of surgery, and under the near constant watch of her sister, for the first time Vera is at least somewhat certain of her future, a future she chose. Even through the post-op debilitation, the girl has never been happier.


Standing on the shorter end for her age, with blonde hair nearing her back and wide, lively green eyes, Vera is not an imposing child, which is more than fine by her. It’s rare to see her without a smile on her face, and rarer still to see her frown. Even in darker situations she always appears to at least be trying to smile, if for no other reason than to offer a warm look to anyone who might need it.

She tends to dress similarly to Elizabeth, if not a bit brighter. Jackets over bright shirts with a scarf on occasion draped ‘round her shoulders. However, the girl’s staple is without a doubt the ushanka that rarely leaves her head. A memento from the family she never knew.

Your talents, interests, and skills.

General equipment used or educated with.

Origins of NC.

Size; small, medium, or large.

Support, Sniper, or Assault.

Modules and weapons applied to your NC.

Command notes of the NC's attributes.

“It’s a knife, it doesn’t have a story.”

Elizabeth Jackspar




D - O - B
May 1st 2656 (20)

Smith’s Rest

Cold and dismissive to all but her superiors, but unerringly dutiful and devoted to the protection of New Anchorage. Elizabeth is a good soldier, a great soldier even, but little else. Growing up in what was essentially a ruin of a library, and being rarely permitted to leave, shaped Eli at a young age less like a person and more like a lump of clay. She feels no sense of loss for any would-be social life, no sorrow for being deprived a childhood, only a sense of duty, and a longing for the fulfillment of that duty.

The protection of New Anchorage is without a doubt the most important thing to Eli, and anything that could be perceived as a threat to the people of her home should not be tolerated. It matters little that she’d met none of them, less that until she stepped into her mech next to no one even knew she existed. What matters is defending her home from all threats, foreign and domestic.

It did not become apparent until her teenage years that Eli had developed identity issues, though any outward eyes could have foreseen it. This is only heightened by a high sync-rate, something the girl is silently but immensely thankful for. When connected to her mech, and only then, does Eli feel certain of herself, like she’s stepped out of her constricting, ill-fitting skin. No doubts, no twitches, no shakes, only a unification of mind and body. And so, the inevitable disconnection never fails to leave her mentally ajar, a fact that would be unmistakably evident were she not so good at hiding it.

Elizabeth is an odd case. Where most pilots suffer some sort of lasting mental deficiency as a result of their NC's past, or the past of previous pilots, Elizabeth does not appear to be changed at all. This is of course not actually the case. The fact that the Blur is a "fresh" NC, combined with her being burdened naturally by identity dissociation, create instead a sort of mental unification.

Elizabeth is a weapon, but the strain of humanity has always ravaged her mind fighting this reality. Perhaps it is a trick of psychology, perhaps it is because in such high sync with Blur, she can be both a person and a weapon, perhaps it is merely luck. Whatever the case, the harmonious effect of her Shift is a blessing, to her, the only time she can feel whole is in the pilot's seat.


Eli was eight years old when she learned her name was short for “Elizabeth”. Her mother, the librarian recluse Celina Jackspar, had used it once, the first time she’d cried during her training.

”Get up, Elizabeth. Now. And never cry in front of me again.” And she never did.

The Jackspars might have been lepers for how little they interacted with the world. Confined to a modestly sized “library” nestled in the corner of what was then “Smith’s Rest”, few ever visited, and fewer were actually aware the spindly woman had a child. With little to their name aside from cases and piles of books, collected from far and unspoken edges, it would not have been unreasonable to assume the family would contribute nothing great to the world. They would exist quietly amidst a sea of old knowledge, and overtime the Jackspar name would peter out.

Celina would not it.

The training began early, and never slackened. Eli learned from a young age what she was, and would be, that the good majority of her life would be spent inside the cockpit of a mechanical behemoth. She did not attend school, she did not socialize with peers, she rarely left the library at all. Her life was dedication, she had to let go of the urges to want, and focus entirely on the future.

”Up.” And she got up.

The Jackspars could afford no firearms, and so forewent practicing them. Instead it was decided that Eli would master the art of melee combat in their absence. Lyosha Voloshyna, a carpenter and one of the family’s only “friends”, happily supplied them with wooden models of various swords, ranging from the typical and familiar, to the foreign and unique.

Eli was made to train with them day in and day out. They would not be weapons held, they would be extensions of her own body, or she would fall short. Countless other prospective pilots had the advantage of proper training, they could afford to be merely “adequate” so long as they rounded out a checklist and passed the neural exam.

”I don’t want you on-par, I want you better. Keep going.” And she would.

Hour after hour Eli practiced, submitting herself to the forms and tests of balance. By the time she was in her middle teens, picking up a sword felt like raising her hand, swinging felt like punching. Her threshold for pain was pushed further each day, and every time she kept her mouth shut, kept her face calm, she would catch the ghost of a smirk flicker over her mother’s face. Moving had become a dance, and she was the prima.

When she was fifteen, a practice sword broke in her hand, splintering midway down the blade. It was old, nothing unexpected, and the shattering caused her no physical harm. All the same Eli froze, wide eyes fixated on the broken blade, and her arm, then the girl collapsed in a fit of agony.

Celina watched, shocked.

”Get up.” But she didn’t. ”Elizabeth, get. Up.” But she couldn’t. It took all of her strength not to cry.

It was her first major incident, and the only one Celina ever saw. It took a few years to realize they weren’t going to stop, and seeking professional psychiatric help would murder Eli’s chances at becoming a pilot, so Celina resolved to handle the situation in her own way.

Eli knew Eli. Celina knew Elizabeth.

”Stop shaking.” And she would.

The final years leading up to application were smooth by Celina’s standards. Her daughter was sharp, fast, resilient, and above all, obedient. She would protect Smith’s Rest, she would protect its people, and she would do so under the instruction of whosoever commanded the forces.

Second to her, of course.


Eli is pale as a ghost, chalky from hair to toe, most wouldn’t hesitate to describe her as “haunting”. However, what people tend to notice first about her are her eyes. Icy, both in color and gaze, she always appears to be judging her surroundings, be they people or otherwise, and it’s rare that they hold even a glimmer of levity in public view. Rarer still are smiles, laughs, slouches, but an attentive eye wouldn’t struggle to spot wayward twitches, restless legs, and tapping fingers.

Her attire leans towards casual however, often wearing hooded jackets and rarely caught without a scarf wrapped up her chin. Beneath everything is the pilot suit, worn near constantly. She’d claim this as common sense, practical for quick response, but she’s as attached to the piece as her own skin.

CQC: Both in and out of the mech, this is Elizabeth’s strongest skill. Growing up without the means to practice with firearms, she learned quick and learned well to trust her two hands and what she could swing with them. Eventually this translated much more elegantly into a form of swordplay in anticipation of a melee-oriented NC piloting career, and so her prowess with most things what can be held and cut with is highly refined. Unfortunately, if not predictably, she is untrained and unskilled with guns, having only operated a firearm outside of her mech, and in the context of a test.

Reflexive: Elizabeth is quick, both in body and mind. While this doesn’t necessarily equate to a proficiency in tactics, she is able to form appropriate reactions in combat, and in prolonged engagements–especially in close quarters–is able to begin analyzing offensive and defensive patterns in her opponent.

Driven: Perhaps not explicitly a skill, but doubtless one of her most notable traits. Elizabeth does not shy from completing a mission or fulfilling an order, be it in combat or otherwise. Her fierce loyalty combined turn many scenarios to “do or die” in her mind, something that, while sometimes advantageous, can be equally dangerous.

General equipment used or educated with.

Red Star


Melee Assault

  • NA01 Energy Sword: Blur’s primary weapon, the blade is projected from the handle. A contingency, physical blade, carried onboard, can be attached as well with edges able to sustain similar heat.

  • NA02 Energy Pata: Attached to Blur's left forearm is a deployable secondary gauntlet, which cups over its hand to be grasped for added stability. From the front, a shorter blade projects, though it lacks the physical backup of the NA01.

  • Deployable Claws: Blurs fingers are overlaid by sharp attachments designed to latch on and stay on. Can be activated and retracted.

  • Explosive Charges: For breach scenarios and other situations that require the close-proximity planting of explosives. Housed in two separate pieces to prevent accidental detonations due to trauma/weapon fire.

Its notable equipment is as follows:

  • OMNI Propulsion System: Blur's key assets are speed and maneuverability and these owe largely to the propulsion system which served as the foundation for the NC's design. Four powerful engines on Blur's back act as the central piece, sleek and jutting like stagnant wings. Firing at once they allow for rapid acceleration and a tremendous peak-speed. As well, each can adjust direction independently, which, in addition to the thrusters at the base of Blur's legs, grant the NC fantastic directional control.

  • Flare Cache: Typical of any evasive NC, but nonetheless crucial, Blur houses a small volley of deployable flares.

The Blur is a lightweight, standard-height NC based on Red Star designs, which were later scrapped in favor of more generally practical and less specialized models. It is Stark white with only a few wayward cerulean lights and the bright azures of its jets to stand out. The frame is lithe and sleek, lending to its aerodynamic nature. However it is thinly armored, built for speed, but lacking the ability to take much punishment.

Blur is an embodiment of the “high-risk-high-reward” philosophy. With its primary function being the melee engagement of high-priority targets, many of its maneuvers, both combative and evasive, necessitate a hyper-reflexive sync rate, and even then it’s rare for the NC to emerge from solo engagements unharmed. In reality, Blur is designed to work alongside a team and is often even dependent on one, despite that the pilot may deny it.

The Bronx

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 less. 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 still, 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.


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 click. 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 her 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.

“Oh,” 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 could 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: “Wow.”

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.

f e m a l e - e i g h t e e n - AB p o s i t i v e

Simply enough, Anya can move inanimate objects with her mind. As it is, she cannot move big things, but something small, or lightweight, she can handle. How fast, or far she can make something move is mostly a matter of intent, and focus, but even then her scope is, for the time being, quite narrow.
Anya was always very meager, but with the onset of her mutations, these attributes have begun to root. She’s a rather brittle girl, almost skeletal, thin of bone and muscle and prone to bruising. She walks in an even drift, and such a ghostly appearance is only further cemented by perhaps her most notable mutation: her hair, sapped of its color floats when uncovered. Not directly up per se, but more like a muted submersion. Competing for this slot would be either the third eye opened on her forehead, or the sleek, fleshy pair of antennae sprouted from her skull. Were it not for the fact that she often keeps the eye closed and covered, along with the antennae, by a hat or hood, these would most certainly take the cake.
Anya's mutation operates in two modes: her passive, pale, "banshee"-like state, and the easily identifiable "active" state. As she continually uses her telekinesis, most semblances of physical humanity are gradually lost. At its peak, her eyes open for the duration, and are overwhelmed by a vibrant white glow. Her flesh darkens dramatically over time, nearing pitch, but her veins brighten similar to her eyes, and create a twisting, spindly visage through the skin. This form, while perhaps intimidating, offers no underlying defense, and past her telekinesis she is no more physically volatile than in her passive state.

Anya is not possessed of a figure that inspires terror. She is perhaps unnerving to behold, but on even the basest practical consideration there is not much to fear at a glance. She is short for her age, a trait of her father, with glassy blue eyes wide as a doll’s nestled into her skull. Her face is gaunt and like a raindrop turned upward, with contrastingly full hair that, were it not for her mutation, would fall fair about her shoulders.

More drastically, she is alarmingly narrow–thanks as well to her mutation. Her thin skin, like her hair, seems utterly drained of life and color. The blues of her veins bulge along her arms, and as she walks, one might strain to even hear it. It is not uncommon to see her bruised, angry winds can set her tumbling and though she tries to avoid bumping into things, any wayward encounter with a “push/pull” door could easily leave her shoulders purple for a time.

She tends to chill and so will often dress generously. Long pants and jackets with hoods to keep her hair in check, a scarf for the chilly nights–or even the not so chilly nights–and gloves or arm warmers are not out of the ordinary. Even casually, she’ll usually keep a beanie on, with her hair tucked as away as she can remember to keep it.

Anya’s cold and diminished appearance might render her unapproachable altogether, were it not for how often she smiles, and how warm those smiles tend to be.

While she may look ghastly, cold, and distant, Anya is in fact a stark opposite to her mutation. One might get this idea first by her smile, which manages to light up her face unaided by her dull eyes. But, supposing otherwise, one might think through a conversation with her, that she’d no idea the state the world, or even she herself, was in.

With Anya, everything is “how’re you doing?” and “can I help?” She’d give the shirt off her back if it meant someone else could be warm, and finds herself running errands for others almost compulsively. She enjoys the feeling of a job well done, but especially revels in the accomplishments of others, and so tends to put aside her own goals.

Unfortunately, be it with naiveté natural to her age or to herself, Anya is rather gullible. It does not take much to get a lie over her head, even without proof, and sob-stories especially will capture her with ease.

In addition, while good-intentioned and warm-hearted, growing up Russian in a country at war with Russia has taught her to be reserved with her own life. Should one feel inclined to ask her about herself, they would receive conservative responses, and could expect a deflection to another topic. Perhaps it is no longer the case that such caution is necessary, but it is a habit, and a hard one to break.


-Mother’s Knife
A simple knife, with a cross guard and ebony-wood hilt. The initials “A A” are carved at its base.

The “sweet” to the bittersweet gift that is her mutation. Anya is quick and quiet as a result of her diminished being, and is difficult to hear even when she isn’t attempting to be silent. While by no means an experienced sneak, having the practical tools necessary for being subtle lend themselves to a degree of natural stealth.
+"Fleet of Foot, Fleet of Mind"
Anya considers herself a good problem solver, at least when not under extreme direct stress. In regards to her mutation, this might mean that, since she can't move people, she might try to move what they’re holding, or say, yank their shirt over their head. Likewise, though she can’t lift herself, she might instead lift herself via her clothes or the thing she’s on–which might prove impossible for her to do with someone of an average weight while her abilities are yet budding.
+"Mother Knows Best"
Having a former soldier for a mother had its perks. Anya received crash courses on many aspects of surviving in unideal situations, and while not all of it stuck–she never took too firmly to things like “this is how you hold a gun” or “this is how you break an arm”–she knows basic first-aid and navigation well enough, is well disciplined, and could handle a knife with a small degree of practice.

-"Glass Bones"
An exaggeration, to a degree. This would be the “bitter” to sweet flitter. Anya might well move like a wisp but she’s brittle and easily overwhelmed. This often leads to an array of injuries, a generally warmer wardrobe, and a habit to stand in places where she can avoid bumping into people.
-"Serial Apologist"
When one’s very body is as frail as Anya’s, an apologetic, non-confrontational nature should come as no surprise. However the truth is Anya has never had fierceness in her blood, and if something could have conceivably been her fault, she’s likely to take the blame. She may go out of her way to make excuses for others, especially if they face trouble for their actions. But at the end of the day, whatever aggravations or inconveniences she may cause can be preemptively handled with a stern “be quiet.”
Something else people might attribute solely to her mutation is Anya’s tendency to scare easily. Rather than list her phobias, she prefers to just say she’s “jumpy” and the truth is she’s always been that way. All the mutation did was heighten her sense of fear, turning some which would have once been baseless into true threats.
Anya's sole survival skill, aside from attempting to run, is her mutation. In that same breath, she lacks the understanding, control, and even fundamental possibility to do much with it as it stands. Moving things that are small or lightweight has its uses, but until her abilities develop, in kind words, she does best with others around.
-"My Own Worst Enemy"
While fortunately Anya's telekinesis suffers no direct counter (such as water to fire, or light to dark) her greatest-or more accurately, her closest or most constant-danger is herself. In her case, there is no exertion without repercussion. This drawback escalates corresponding to effort and mental preparation, so, if she moves a small object around for no great extended period of time, she'd likely suffer nothing, especially if she'd had a chance to prepare beforehand. However if she had to, say, force a heavy door open, depending on the effort exerted, she would instantly receive mental feedback in the form of a painful throb or jump in vision. Overexertion can be met with instant effects ranging from dizziness or disorientation, to minor hemorrhaging, loss of consciousness or, in the worst case, a major, fatal hemorrhage in the brain.

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