Mcmolly

Garden of Shadow (Horror, Human Mutations, and Monsters)

A N Y A E C K E R D
^{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.

“One…two…”

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.

Garden of Shadow (Horror, Human Mutations, and Monsters)

Hider

A N Y A E C K E R D
^{f e m a l e - e i g h t e e n - AB p o s i t i v e}

_{Ｍ Ｕ Ｔ Ａ Ｔ Ｉ Ｏ Ｎ Ｓ}

-Telekinesis

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.

-Banshee

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.

-Wraith

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.

_{Ａ Ｐ Ｐ Ｅ Ａ Ｒ Ａ Ｎ Ｃ Ｅ}

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.

_{Ｐ Ｅ Ｒ Ｓ Ｏ Ｎ Ａ Ｌ Ｉ Ｔ Ｙ}

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.

_{Ｂ Ｉ Ｏ Ｇ Ｒ Ａ Ｐ Ｈ Ｙ}

Hider

Mother had made a mistake.

Her entire life, Anya had been aware that she and her mother were no explicitly welcome in the United States. She knew she had been born in Russia, and she knew her family name was not Eckerd, but not what it truly was. She knew she could not speak Russian outside of the house, and had learned English as her first language, then how to mask her accent–which was admittedly much easier given how minimal it was.

All of this had come to her naturally and without grief. Her mother did not mourn her old home, and Anya had been too young to remember it. They’d spent years building their life in New Windsor, settling into a community that knew her mother as “Alexis” and herself as “Ana” and for the most part it had been easy. There had been times growing up that Anya was afraid she’d slipped, but if there’d ever been cause for suspicion, it was never acted upon or even acknowledged.

And so, when she’d fumbled a plate to the floor at a neighbor’s dinner party, she was shocked when her mother openly scolded her in Russian.

As they hurried home, Anya learned it had not been some act of protest, or a pent up release of guilt, but a simple fluke of memory meeting the fickle nature of habits learned young.

Mother locked the door, they began to pack.

“We’ll stay with Uncle Anton, hide out in his butcher shop,” she said. Anton was not uncle to either of them, but he’d come to the states on the same trip and had been kind. Anya hoped he would not be inconvenienced.

She did not get to pack much before the knocks came, angry and many.

“Go, Anya,” mother said, and gave a knife to her. “I will talk to them, and be at Anton’s tonight.”

Anya believed her for the first two days, but her mother was a good liar. Anton pretended to be surprised, but he must have known when she arrived alone that she would be staying alone.

The worry made her antsy, and without school to fill her time, eventually she started running errands for Anton. They were far enough from home that anyone searching would be caught up elsewhere, and she kept herself discreet regardless.

She kept her hopes up, all the way to the First Day. All it took then was the brief time returning from one Anton’s errands for the world to fall apart. She walked at first, avoided the commotion where it was isolated, but before long she was sprinting back to Anton’s butcher shop, terrified.

Anton was dead, or maybe he wasn’t. He was something, something else, not Anton. He grabbed her wrist, and it felt like her arm might shatter in his hand. When he shoved her against the counter, growling like some horrible animal, she reached out on instinct for the knives dangling above. Her reach should not have been great enough, it wasn’t, she looked, but when she did, the cleaver flew to her wildly. It missed her hand, missed her altogether, but sank deep into Anton’s skull, and he fell away limp.

The shock didn’t set immediately. She managed to get upstairs before collapsing, and from there it wasn’t long until she glanced into the mirror, and saw what was happening to her. She looked hollow, sick, and the color was all but draining out of her from head to toe. Her hair began to drift, and when rubbing her eyes failed to resolve the issue, she thought she might have been losing her mind.

Outside everything was chaos, from her window Anya could see people running, either away from or after others. She turned off her light and huddled into a corner, quiet as she could, despite the burning in her wrist. She didn’t sleep, but time blurred before she checked outside again. It was dark, things were quieter but only just, and she knew she could not stay put for very long.

_{Ｅ Ｑ Ｕ Ｉ Ｐ Ｍ Ｅ Ｎ Ｔ}

-Mother’s Knife

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

_{Ｐ Ｒ Ｏ Ｆ Ｉ Ｃ Ｉ Ｅ Ｎ Ｃ Ｉ Ｅ Ｓ}

+"Flitter"

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.

_{Ｌ Ｉ Ｍ Ｉ Ｔ Ａ Ｔ Ｉ Ｏ Ｎ Ｓ}

-"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.”

-"Boo!"

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.

-"Dependency"

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.

_{Ｃ Ｏ Ｍ Ｐ Ａ Ｎ Ｉ Ｏ Ｎ Ｓ / Ｆ Ｒ Ｉ Ｅ Ｎ Ｄ Ｓ / Ｒ Ｅ Ｌ Ａ Ｔ Ｉ Ｏ Ｎ Ｓ}

TBA

Garden of Shadow (Horror, Human Mutations, and Monsters)

CS

Hider

A N Y A E C K E R D
^{f e m a l e - e i g h t e e n - AB p o s i t i v e}

_{Ｍ Ｕ Ｔ Ａ Ｔ Ｉ Ｏ Ｎ Ｓ}

-Telekinesis

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.

-Banshee

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.

-Wraith

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.

_{Ａ Ｐ Ｐ Ｅ Ａ Ｒ Ａ Ｎ Ｃ Ｅ}

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.

_{Ｐ Ｅ Ｒ Ｓ Ｏ Ｎ Ａ Ｌ Ｉ Ｔ Ｙ}

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.

_{Ｂ Ｉ Ｏ Ｇ Ｒ Ａ Ｐ Ｈ Ｙ}

Hider

Mother had made a mistake.

Her entire life, Anya had been aware that she and her mother were no explicitly welcome in the United States. She knew she had been born in Russia, and she knew her family name was not Eckerd, but not what it truly was. She knew she could not speak Russian outside of the house, and had learned English as her first language, then how to mask her accent–which was admittedly much easier given how minimal it was.

All of this had come to her naturally and without grief. Her mother did not mourn her old home, and Anya had been too young to remember it. They’d spent years building their life in New Windsor, settling into a community that knew her mother as “Alexis” and herself as “Ana” and for the most part it had been easy. There had been times growing up that Anya was afraid she’d slipped, but if there’d ever been cause for suspicion, it was never acted upon or even acknowledged.

And so, when she’d fumbled a plate to the floor at a neighbor’s dinner party, she was shocked when her mother openly scolded her in Russian.

As they hurried home, Anya learned it had not been some act of protest, or a pent up release of guilt, but a simple fluke of memory meeting the fickle nature of habits learned young.

Mother locked the door, they began to pack.

“We’ll stay with Uncle Anton, hide out in his butcher shop,” she said. Anton was not uncle to either of them, but he’d come to the states on the same trip and had been kind. Anya hoped he would not be inconvenienced.

She did not get to pack much before the knocks came, angry and many.

“Go, Anya,” mother said, and gave a knife to her. “I will talk to them, and be at Anton’s tonight.”

Anya believed her for the first two days, but her mother was a good liar. Anton pretended to be surprised, but he must have known when she arrived alone that she would be staying alone.

The worry made her antsy, and without school to fill her time, eventually she started running errands for Anton. They were far enough from home that anyone searching would be caught up elsewhere, and she kept herself discreet regardless.

She kept her hopes up, all the way to the First Day. All it took then was the brief time returning from one Anton’s errands for the world to fall apart. She walked at first, avoided the commotion where it was isolated, but before long she was sprinting back to Anton’s butcher shop, terrified.

Anton was dead, or maybe he wasn’t. He was something, something else, not Anton. He grabbed her wrist, and it felt like her arm might shatter in his hand. When he shoved her against the counter, growling like some horrible animal, she reached out on instinct for the knives dangling above. Her reach should not have been great enough, it wasn’t, she looked, but when she did, the cleaver flew to her wildly. It missed her hand, missed her altogether, but sank deep into Anton’s skull, and he fell away limp.

The shock didn’t set immediately. She managed to get upstairs before collapsing, and from there it wasn’t long until she glanced into the mirror, and saw what was happening to her. She looked hollow, sick, and the color was all but draining out of her from head to toe. Her hair began to drift, and when rubbing her eyes failed to resolve the issue, she thought she might have been losing her mind.

Outside everything was chaos, from her window Anya could see people running, either away from or after others. She turned off her light and huddled into a corner, quiet as she could, despite the burning in her wrist. She didn’t sleep, but time blurred before she checked outside again. It was dark, things were quieter but only just, and she knew she could not stay put for very long.

_{Ｅ Ｑ Ｕ Ｉ Ｐ Ｍ Ｅ Ｎ Ｔ}

-Mother’s Knife

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

_{Ｐ Ｒ Ｏ Ｆ Ｉ Ｃ Ｉ Ｅ Ｎ Ｃ Ｉ Ｅ Ｓ}

+"Flitter"

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.

_{Ｌ Ｉ Ｍ Ｉ Ｔ Ａ Ｔ Ｉ Ｏ Ｎ Ｓ}

-"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.”

-"Boo!"

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.

-"Dependency"

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.

_{Ｃ Ｏ Ｍ Ｐ Ａ Ｎ Ｉ Ｏ Ｎ Ｓ / Ｆ Ｒ Ｉ Ｅ Ｎ Ｄ Ｓ / Ｒ Ｅ Ｌ Ａ Ｔ Ｉ Ｏ Ｎ Ｓ}

TBA

Garden of Shadow (Horror, Human Mutations, and Monsters)

Interested as well! Will be fixing up a sheet very soon

Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown

Wanted to drop a line saying I'm ducking out of this, just more than I can manage at this time and I've been holding up a few players long enough. Apologies to @Snagglepuss89 and @Polaris North for the continued delays, and best of luck with the future of the RP!

NCQ — Polaris

V E R A

Corridors, New Anchorage
[[ Around 0200 Hours]]

Vera wasn’t sure if they’d been running for seconds or minutes. Fear had a strange way of stringing out time, dragging out the slightest of instants, passing days like blinks, Vera had felt it leading up to her surgery, and she felt it much more potently now. Their footsteps were like alarms, and she worried each one might catch the attention of someone looking to make it their last, but she dared not to voice it. Madison for the time being had lived this side of the facility, surely she knew what she was doing, where she was going. Perhaps they’d barricade themselves in the wards, but then what about the others? Maybe there was an armory of sorts this way, though she’d never heard of it, and she wasn’t likely to prove well with a weapon anyway.

Her confidence waned in what she felt couldn’t have been more than a minute, and she found herself tugging against Madison’s grip before she even had words ready. At this point she figured it might just be best to wing it.

”Madi--Madi! Wait we— where’re we going?”

”I don’t know!!! Everyone just started screaming, they were all running, there were shots being fired, and now they’re all dead!” Madison’s frantic speech was just pure fear. She just wanted to run away, she didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire, she didn’t want to feel any more pain, she didn’t want to die.

Vera realized quickly that her faith in Madison, while certainly optimistic, might have been momentarily misplaced. Could she blame her? She was right. People were screaming, people were running, and as much as she wanted to put it out of her mind, people were dying.

It took some effort, and even more to make the assertive action gentle, but she managed to pull Madison to a halt, if only for a moment. There were no bullets flying by their heads right then, no screams for them to put their hands up, or otherwise worse, it wasn’t a peaceful moment, but it was still, still enough to think. She tried to pull a mental map from her memory, but got nowhere, she hadn’t spent enough time wandering in the dark, even if she’d made an early habit of exploring.

Madison dropped to the ground and curled herself up, wrapping her hands around her knees and leaning against the cold wall. She didn’t want to deal with this anymore, she didn’t want to keep running for her life. Slowly, the tears started to well up under her eyes as reality began to hit her hard.

“Alright we just gotta...just think what’s down that way? You came from the hospital place, so…” It came slowly, but nonetheless, staring down the dark corridor, eyes well-adjusted enough to make out patterns in doorways she’d meandered down plenty of times before, especially in recent weeks, Vera understood where they were.

“Lofgren!” She only just managed to hold her voice to only a whisper. “Okay, I know where we are! A little!”

Looking down, Vera saw that Madison had collapsed, and her heart skipped a beat. Was she hit? Dead? No, if only as a faint, murky blur she could see the other girl’s form shuddering with breath, and soon after could hear the faint beginnings of a crying spell. Casting another glance behind them, she got low once again and settled her hands atop Madison’s knees, craning her neck for an angle that let her meet eyes. Vera had no illusions about understanding how to handle every type of panic attack, every bout of anxiety or stress induced shutdown, but for the moment it didn’t matter, she didn’t need to, she couldn’t. Right now they needed to keep going, it was her fault they’d stopped in the first place, but now they needed to go.

It took a moment for her to work the tremor out of her voice, another to make sure it stayed down, but at length she managed to turn her hushed, hurried whisper into a familiar, gentle murmur.

“Madi? Hey, it’s okay—”

Madison gave a short nod and reluctantly agreed with her.

“— we’re okay. We’re gonna be okay, I promise.” Vera gave Madison’s knees a firm grip, more to prove she was there than anything, that there was someone else present. “I know right now you really don’t wanna keep going, it’s okay, I’m scared too, but we’re almost safe, okay? Right down there, we’re gonna go down there and find someone, and we’ll be safe, I promise. Can you do that?”

Though she asked, Vera knew that it rarely enough to leave it up to the other person. She got to her feet, moving to take Madison’s hands with hers, and gently pulled up. “Just down there, c’mon, you can do that I know you can.”

Madison could feel herself gradually being pulled out of her small slump. It wasn’t nearly enough to make the day better but the comfort of knowing that someone was there made all the difference.

”Just down there?” she motioned towards the end of the hallway.

Vera felt a wave of relief, the first step was the toughest. She smiled, nodding and pointing with her. ”Not even— not even. See, almost right there.”

They were up. Good. Running would have been the best, but she’d take it. Vera heard another distant round of gunfire and knew if they took too long her promises wouldn’t hold too much. At least their walk was quickly-paced, and she had no trouble keeping Madison’s remaining hand clutched tight, or at least tight as a girl her size could.

She watched the doors as they passed by and was glad to see that she’d been right. This was Lofgren’s hall, and they came up to her office before long, but that was only half the battle. Vera hesitated for another agonizingly long moment, debating whether or not to knock. If Lofgren wasn’t there, no harm, but the potential for the room to be occupied otherwise was far from small. The door could open to rifle fire and the next wave of screams could be theirs.

In the back of her mind she could hear her own panic bubbling up.

’You can’t keep stopping, you’ll be running on luck.’

Once again, the very real, very nearby terrors jolted her from thought and forced her to act, only she wasn’t given the time. The door opened, and while it wasn’t to a group of angry soldiers, they were met with faint lights and the barrels of guns. Vera gasped and pushed herself close to Madison. If she’d had the thought to scream, she might have done just that.

The weak light moved away from her eyes, towards the ground, allowing her to see the faces of Dr. Lofgren and Orry. The boy’s silhouette had jumped in time with Vera’s, but his expression now was one of immense relief, a smile on his face; he almost looked like he wanted to hug the two girls.

”Are you two okay?” He asked quietly, taking a shaky step into the doorway as he quickly glanced down the hall.

“Orry, Lof!” Vera would have hugged them as well if she didn’t have Madison’s hand held within her own. She instead settled for a relieved grin, and an exhale that made her feel pounds lighter. “We’re okay yeah, we came from, uh, down there, the place where Madi was.”

Vera looked to the other girl, a brief sadness flashing through her. “I think everyone else that way is… but we don’t know. We just ran. Is it safe in there? Madi needs to sit down.”

“It won’t be safe for much longer; our intruders will be upon us soon enough, and I’m not going to be an easy target if I can help it.”

It’d been a long-shot anyway, but Vera was let down all the same, partly for herself and partly for Madison. She eased her grip, patted her hand, then looked back to Orry and Lofgren. “We gotta find somewhere to go then, hide somewhere, right?”

“Correct. There’s a service tunnel a few meters northward, near the base of the medical wards. We get the doors opened manually or we get cornered like rats before they kill us. We will need to be quick and decisive.”

Orry bit the corner of his lip, his concerned, darting gaze—which had settled on the frayed-looking Madison for a moment—moved back to the depths of the hallway, towards the nearest sounds of violence. He seemed reluctant to be moving anywhere, but he nodded quickly following Lofgren’s words.

”Let’s go then, please.” He said tightly, as though trying hard not to let his voice crack. He stepped out into the hall, moving to bring up the rear of the small group and let Lofgren lead.

Vera nodded along with him. Lofgren’s stark words were as jarring as they were painfully true, they needed to be moving sooner than later. She turned to Madi, again to meet eyes with her, and again smiled softly.

“We can’t stop quite yet, we’re gonna follow them, alright?” Gently pulling along a lead, Vera meant to coax her through once more. She’d promised safety, and even if it was delayed, at least now their chances of actually finding it were much better now. Orry seemed to be steeling himself, and Lofgren didn’t show any cracks at all - as good a pair as any to find, given their circumstances. Madison did not look as if she was having the best of days by any stretch of the imagination.

NCQ — Polaris

E L I

Personal Quarters, New Anchorage CC
[[ Around 0200 Hours (2:00 AM) ]]

Eli held the bunk with a deathly grip, stiff and only just suppressing the shudders crawling their way up her arm. She couldn’t pry her eyes away from the empty cot, the thrown off covers, the dent in the pillow where the girl’s head must have been only a short time ago.

Then she began to hear the gunshots again, only this time they were harsher. Every single one felt as though it were fired off by her ear, cracking against the wall near her head, she felt death hanging off of every moment, every half moment, every fraction of every rapid panicked blink. Only it wasn’t hers.

Vera is gone.

Vera is gone.

It took every last miniscule bit of self control for her not to rush immediately out of the barracks, and even then she might have gone anyway, had she not spotted the empty bunk below Vera’s. The empty bunk that ought not have been empty.

It’s Styles’.

The thought was hardly conscious, but registered in full all the same. Vera shared her bunk with the former Red Star pilot, something Eli was not particularly happy about. She’d seen Red Star, she’d fought Red Star, she’d killed Red Star. As far as she was concerned Tahlia had been on thin strings from the get go.

It’s a coincidence.

No.

She looked around the barracks again, as if the last vestiges of reason were hoping to find Tahlia standing there with the group, ready to go out and defend New Anchorage. Then just as quickly she felt a horrid wave of guilt, the realization that she hadn’t hoped see Vera first was one she was quick to deny as stress-induced. That didn’t stop the anger from rising though, nor did she hesitate to direct that anger at the absent Tahlia.

She took Vera. She betrayed New Anchorage.

Traitor.

Eli dropped down, cold, deft. Her hands were steady, her thoughts collected, every trace of panic and terror vanished, or at least suppressed. The knife was clutched so tight it might have been a part of her hand, which was for the better, being her only weapon. If Tahlia was still in the base, she’d likely be armed, and she might have Vera with her along with however many invaders there still were. It could be a fickle task.

You have help.

You have distractions.

Shaking that thought off was tougher. The others, even if they might not shoot her in the back, likely wouldn’t support her if she outright planned offensively. They’d doubt her, or worse they’d trust Tahlia, and from there things would only go from worse to catastrophic.

So, rearing up near Stein she decided to keep her worries vague. “Vera’s gone, so is Tahlia.”

Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown

♚ E Z R A N ♚

Accompanied by Ser Mara

♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚

@Polaris North@Snagglepuss89

”Oh boy.”

Ezran heard Mara before he saw Haytham, and for a moment wondered if something about the boy or his charge might have caused her alarm. He wasn’t Aladori, that was for certain, but given his approach he doubted there was any immediate threat of danger.

It struck him then that her exasperation was perhaps more directed at him. Indeed, after the momentary confusion he felt himself grow nervous again at the new face, bringing with it the promise of more interaction and more introductions, more opportunities for him to squander a rapport that didn’t even exist. Mara knew he’d collapse on himself even before he did, and could see from a glance that she’d turned away again to observe the crowd. Preemptive disappointment, even if she wouldn’t admit it. It would have been easiest then to just resign himself to it, stay quiet, let the two other boys talk and just listen.

But then, he already had a good thing going. Even with an extended silence, he’d been conversing with Brendan and thus far, things were nice. The boy had indulged his quieter demeanor, hadn’t belittled him or anything of the sort, would he really botch that so quickly?

”Hello.” Evidently not. Ezran extended a hand in greeting as well after Brendan had finished. He restrained the urge to apologize, as it stood the continued conversation also seemed on a more light-hearted track.

This new boy, whoever he was, was already more casual than most people he’d met in his life, with quite a tongue on him for the Grand Keeper. Brendan seemed to share the opinion, and to be honest, Ezran couldn’t blame them. The speech was long, even if it was livelier than most of the ones he’d heard back in Darkthrone, and it would have been a lie to say he’d preferred that to the social aspects of the day. He found himself smiling along, quiet still, but adjusting himself to stand at least in the conversation.

One last glance back at Mara showed a much different expression. She smirked, but kept herself occupied with the rest of the room.

NCQ — Polaris

E L I

Personal Quarters, New Anchorage CC
[[ Around 0200 Hours (2:00 AM) ]]

Get up, Elizabeth.

And she did.

Eli’s eyes were open upon at the first echo, after which there were two reactions she had a split moment to decide upon. On reflex alone the hand beneath her pillow closed tight around the handle of the blade she kept there, which influenced her choice only somewhat.

Threat or inconvenience.

I can’t tell yet.

Figure it out.

I’m trying.

Elizabeth–

The sounds of distant violence continued only a moment more, and the decision was made. In routine long-practiced, long burned into her mind from morning after morning of trial, she moved. A quick, fluid motion altogether, her free hand slid beneath the pillow and briefly braced itself against the rough leather sheathe, just long enough to assure the blade was pulled free when she rolled. There were advantages, she knew, to sleeping above the covers. Being on the bottom bunk was an advantage, she was sprawled like a hunter on the hard ground without so much as a thud to tell it, but for the moment it didn’t matter.

Her eyes scanned the room, and she saw that she wasn’t alone in her alarm. Stein was awake and mobile, Agatha, albeit slower, was as well, there was Ryn’s voice in the distance, and she heard Joshua too. Nothing hostile, at least not immediately.

People are missing.

They left weeks ago.

Eli cursed herself as she rose, thoughts addled by her first waking moments. The empty bunks weren’t a concern, the people present were. Her first concerns went to Graham and the NC’s; aside from themselves, those seemed like the most likely targets, unless there was an attack on the settlement itself.

A chill like rigid lightning ripped up her spine, a sudden tremor rocking her shoulders.

Mother.

They’d have hit it first if it was their real target.

She’s in danger.

Focus.

The armory was the best shot. She’d spent countless hours of the past weeks plugged into that damn simulation preparing for this exact scenario. Well, it wasn’t the mess hall, but it was close enough, and it was time to see how much of what she’d learned holding simulated firearms translated over to actual combat, and not just a meager test.

Wordless, Eli moved to follow Stein, and couldn’t help the shaky thoughts that came to her. Her squad CO was calm, which was good, but even then it was hard to place faith in her.

It’s her.

No it isn’t.

A passing thought, another reflex, and one she put no stock in. If Stein had wanted them dead, she’d have done it in their sleep. If anything, the people up and present were, if not trustworthy, the least likely to put a knife in her back. Even some that weren’t present she could at least write off as allied. Percy was fine, Ana was fine, Graham was a non-variable, which left few options outside of the staff and administration. With a silent dread she found herself hoping the traitor wasn’t someone she knew. Lofgren, Kat, there were many options, none of them good.

There might not be a traitor.

There’s always a traitor.

Again she stopped, but this time it wasn’t out of distrust or caution. She whirled around on her heel and headed the other way down the barracks, towards Vera’s bunk. In all honesty, despite technically sharing a room, the stark division had been somewhat jarring for her in the first days. In personal quarters, even back home, the girl had been in arm’s reach through the night, which she viewed as a comfort both ways. If anything wanted to get to Vera, it had to get through her first, now it was a bit more complicated. Besides, she wasn’t sure how she felt about her sleeping above Tahlia.

The thought alone made her draw the woman’s immediate loyalty into question, but she quickly repressed it. She clambered up the end of the bunk and dragged Vera’s sheets away even before she all the way up. Any deep urge to wake the girl slowly, run a hand through her hair and whisper good-mornings, was overcome by the raw instinct to protect her. Even still, she kept her voice to a low whisper, soothing as she could manage on the back of silence being a necessity.

“Vee, get up we–”

Eli froze. Vera was gone.

‖ ‖ ‖ ‖ ‖

V E R A

New Anchorage CC Halls
[[ Around 0200 Hours (2:00 AM) ]]

“Ow. Ow. Ow.”

Vera dabbed the paper towel against her neck, and eventually pulled it away unbloodied. Only a few stray spots, but it had been enough of a nuisance to deal with in bed. Craning her head around brought more dull, groaning pain with it, like her bones were trying to push past each other, but it was something she’d gotten used to in the weeks since her surgery. Indeed, the raw flesh around her neural plug had ceased to bleed.

What she hadn’t yet gotten accustomed to was sleeping on her stomach. Lizzy had since they were young, and Vera never knew how she could deal with it. She’d heard once that sleeping that way caused bad dreams, something she now knew was likely false, but back then it seemed to make sense. Regardless, now sleeping on her back simply wasn’t an option. Too much pain, and even if there wasn’t, the plugs had her head on an arch that was more than a bit uncomfortable. So she tried her side, her stomach, and found the latter had her rolling onto her back far less often. Strange, and it kept her up late some nights, but it made incidents like this far less common.

Satisfied, she tossed the paper in the trash, and slowly brought her head back around, catching her face in the mirror. For the most part, she was unchanged. Lizzy told her the hunch was a natural response and would wane away soon, and she caught that certain movements and tics made her face twitch in minute pain, something else she’d been told would wane. Her eyes were more sunken, but that was from the odd sleep habits, and it had been tough showering for a while after the surgery, so her hair was a bit more unkempt than usual. Not that she often saw it like this, undone from the ushanka in the barracks. But the smile was there, even in the ticks, she’d grimace like she’d been told a bad joke, but still thought it was funny.

Stein’s words played in her head again, so often now it usually felt like the girl was there. “This is nothing if you want it.”

”This is nothing if you want it.” She whispered to her reflection, but the small, tiled room echoed it anyway.

She started to laugh, felt the giggle bubbling up from her middle and working its way up. She covered her mouth out of decency, it was late, she didn’t want to wake anyone, and made her way out of the bathroom, down the hall. At first she was headed straight back for the barracks, but a passing entrance caught her attention, and her eyes, slowly adjusting to the dark, could make out the long shapes of tables that filled the mess hall.

It was almost involuntary the way her feet redirected her, an aspect of wanderlust so common she hardly noticed it anymore. Residual pains had kept her up at night, but it hadn’t leant to any explorations, and so the big, sprawling rooms were things she knew only by how the daylight painted them. Looking around, everything was foreign, she couldn’t even place her regular seat for a good handful of moments. The dark never really got to her, even when she was younger. Not to say she particularly liked it, but growing up she rarely had anything to be afraid of when the lights went out. She could sit there at one of the tables, rest her head on her hands and relax without any fear of the odd supernatural, unexplained chill that plagued scores of children and adults alike. Would it have been so bad to fall asleep there? It was arguably more comfortable, even if she was sure she’d wake up sore, or more sore than usual. Already the pleasant numbing provided by the stim injections was beginning to fade, and she knew by then the throbbing would only get worse until her next dose in the morning. Suddenly the prospect of trudging back to the barracks, climbing into her bunk, and trying to fight with her position for a few hours of sleep. It was almost enough to get her eyes shut.

Almost.

The sudden crack made her jump to her feet, would have teased a yelp from her had she not already been making an effort to stay quiet. At first she thought a door had slammed shut, but the sounds continued, and the realization that came to her was slow, but with every piece put together she found herself getting lighter, her stomach twisting tighter, the aching in her neck started burning and all at once she remembered how familiar the feeling was.

”Oh my god.”

The panic began to settle before she could leash it in, and she found herself momentarily frozen there. Lizzy had told her about this, long ago and not so long ago. It wasn’t quite preparation, nothing could have already prepared her for this, but she had points, a list almost, to go on.

Don’t stop moving. Don’t make noise. Don’t approach anyone that isn’t me. If someone sees you, run. If you see someone, run. If you get hit, run. You do not try to save anyone. You do not try to help anyone. You stay alive.

The sounds of gunfire tore through the hall on the back of horrible screams. It jolted her, sent a harsh breath through her teeth and into her lungs, as close a chance as any she’d have to give into fear and scream, scream for help, scream for Lizzy, scream for anything.

Her lips sealed shut, she ducked low. Back home she used to play like this, crouched and nimble, scouring shelves and mounting piles of boxes, precarious cliffs of thick books that only tolerated her weight so long as she didn’t trouble them long. She’d climbed the jagged, jutting and lopsided building too many times to count, all beneath the unaware eyes of her mother and Lizzy. She’d once heard Celina refer to her as a rascal, a scurrying child, and found herself now thankful for it.

The pilots, she wanted to bet, would be safe. Lizzy would be among them, so would Stein, they’d survive. Who did come to mind were Ana and Percy. Separate from the rest, alone, but she didn’t harbor the same doubts about Percy that most of the others seemed to. Something told her that if anyone tried to lay a finger on Ana, they wouldn’t be getting it back.

To her left, more gunfire, more screaming, her hastily gathered composure began to slip. Percy and Ana were too far away, every sharp echo pounding that further into her mind. She could risk going back into the hall to the barracks, but it was also towards the gunshots, and there wasn’t much in the way of things to hide behind and under out in the open. She could stay put, but hiding was a much more risky choice than running. Lizzy hadn’t told her to hide, she’d told her to run.

To her right there seemed to only be echoes of shots from the left. She racked her mind to remember what laid that way; halls, elevators, and offices. The doctors were that way, people she knew she could trust despite Lizzy’s warnings. She figured if they’d tested her and opened her up with knives and and tools and things, they probably didn’t have any sinister plans. Besides, Lofgren was among that crowd, someone she not only trusted, but liked, and in a fit of worry couldn’t help but wonder if she was okay. Would she even be in her office so late? Where did the administration sleep? Maybe she was back in New Anchorage and safe, if it was even safe there. Briefly she worried for her home, the library and Ms. Jackspar, but for now there was nothing she could do for it.

So, her options weighed as closely as she could manage, Vera went right.

’Lizzy’s gonna kill me.'

Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown

@Polaris North Ay so just wanna apologize I'm not sure why but I did not see your reply and given that it was days ago I absolutely should have said something sooner. Will have a reply up for Brendan and Haytham tomorrow.