strangelyliteral

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[Waking up unceremoniously in Luceti with no idea of where she is and what she is doing there is of course a disorienting experience. Anya finds herself out on the beach, lying prone on the sand. It could be Sunnydale, except the area she's been deposited in doesn't have much surrounding it besides sand and blue skies.

Her back hurts, and by the time she sits herself up and reaches back there...] Wings? Is this a joke?

[Some more time passes with her half-ranting to herself, trying to get oriented and squinting at the placement of the sun. She almost misses the fact that the journal is there completely, save when she finally starts to walk and nearly trips over the thing, half buried in the sand.]

[Accidental voice]

- Ow! I have sand in places that I don't want to think about, there's no sign of anyone - what is this, a book? I don't even get a pair of shoes, or even suntan lotion, I just get a lousy book? [She turns the journal over in her hands, pages rustling, her image still not visible, though there's the sound of the ocean's waves in the background.] ... my name is on this book. This just entered a new level of creepy.

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I said that there is always a way. I never said I was going to be the one to find it.

There's a narrow closet by the room. It should still have linen and things, so long as James hasn't gone and reorganized the whole place. There's a washroom there, as well. But -- careful, no hot water.

Thanks for the tip.

[Still studying the house curiously, she'll take the walk down the hall, still trying to situate herself. Mentally, it wasn't working; being able to change her clothes and wash up, at least, would give her something to do. Something solid, real. As real as that sword had been in her hands just before she woke up here.]

The majority has this as their only way of entertaining themselves. Sad, right?

A phone? [ She's kinda clueless as to what a phone is. Despite her year and a half in Luceti, no one has ever mentioned a telephone. ]

[ buffy nudged her foot into the fireplace's ashes. really, she should be getting a glass of water. or something. she'll wait -- double-check with anya over whether that's what was wanted. otherwise, she tried to come to terms with this revelation.

she wills herself to be sour over it all. to wish someone else had come, instead. but she finds herself coming up empty on bitterness. it's hard to resent someone who has -- known or not -- been given a chance to live again.

the slayer sighs. turns 'round. surveys the room that housed so many memories of when she and sparrow had just been starting out. maybe she might half miss those days.

called down the hall: ] Was I right? Was it a linen closet?

What, they don't have TVs?

... you know, a phone? Telephone? Ring ring?

[The three rooms ahead (almost disappointingly) were laid out just as the Slayer had said; spare room, with a chair that she had propped the supplies and journal on, linen closet, though a little sparse - after some scrounging she does find a handkerchief -]

Yes, it's a closet!

[Before stepping over to the washroom. No hot water, but hadn't she had centuries of no running water? This was nothing. Not with the way signs were dangerously pointing toward something she might not want to hear.

No real answers. What did she want to hear?]

She wrings out the cloth and heads back toward the spare room, the door closing a little harder than necessary. Not quite a slam, but something more than a little click. Frustration.

It still doesn't take as long as she'd like. Five minutes, maybe, give or take. The wings were the hardest part - were those... holes in the shirt for them? They were such bizarre appendages. There may be small grunts of frustration overheard as she wrestles the shirt on.]

The number of TVs in this town can be counted on one hand.

[ buffy surprises herself by flinching at the not-quite-slammed door. the sound seems to echo through the concrete-and-wood house. it always seemed so cold, this place. even in the summer. even with the fire lit. it had never been entirely welcoming, though she suspects its once-owner had done his best.

she peers out a window and sees jack's boat in the distance. she thinks about how she missed sailing with him -- proper him -- and made a mental note to go again soon. maybe ask james along if he...

she hears noises. is anya having trouble? buffy crosses the room on quiet footfalls and hovers outside the closed door. ] ...Everything okay in there?

In other words, you're satisfied as long as something entertaining enough happens?

No, it takes a lot more to satisfy me these days, which on the whole, makes a lot of things a lot less satisfying. So I wouldn't use that word at all.

That's not something you hear everyday.

[Anya bristles. She doesn't want to ask for help. Especially not from Buffy.] Why are these wings so important again?

[At least in the summer, she had backless halters which could make this easier. But for the now? It so wasn't worth it.] They keep getting in the way. I feel like I should be carrying around a harp.

That depends on the century and the world you're in. But either way, it's plain un-American.

I see. So you shall be part of the audience! [Part of him was really hoping she'd have some magical way to bring them home immediately. It'd be an odd change of pace.] You will have to find somewhere to stay until such a way is opened.

They used to have radio dramas before the TV, do the books get used like that? Or is it just 'Our Boring Lives, listen in to our private conversations for free'?

What kind of places do they have here? ... Don't say nests.

[ she leans against the closed door. ]

Think of them like...genetic camouflage, I guess. In order to fit in with the rest of the world, we need wings. They're a part of us, now. Vital.

... so an adaptation to survive in the dimension. Probably due to some wish gone awry.

[She gets it. One of the pros to being a demon is understanding the weirder stuff more easily than the mundane stuff.] There has to be some trick to these holes that I am missing.

Ah... [A light smile as he tries to process the joke.] Noting of the nesting variety; our similarities to bird go no further then the wings! But there is a village elsewhere in this enclosure. There are a variety of houses and community houses one can choose to reside in!

Just one village?

Bingo. Tragic, isn't it?

Mm. So what else passes for entertainment here? Clearly, I need to be prepared.

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