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[strangelyliteral]

[Action]

[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.

Comments

[strangelyliteral]

... He's ... gone?

[She had said something about not getting out under their own steam, but...] It's just... us? How did they get out, then?

[herotypical]

[ she tilts her head towards the kitchen, leading anya there for a brief hydration stop before she dares to venture back out onto the shore. luckily, norrington still keeps the cups in the same place. ]

Just us. And as for the how? Who really knows. It's not a case of them getting out as it is them just...being sent. It feels a little like a lottery. Unpredictable. Messy. But...[ -- sigh ] I'm dead certain he'd be kicking himself for missing you.

[strangelyliteral]

Even when I was really, really angry at him, I could never imagine that there would be a world without him in it. [She really could use that glass of water, even if she doesn't ask for it, just allowing Buffy to take the lead while she ... processes.] What did his look like? His wings?

[It's not something really important, some silly, asinine detail as she tries to deal with the fact that he isn't here. But it's something she doesn't know.]

[herotypical]

[ buffy almost smiles at the memory -- so recent and so laughable. ] They were like a...bright and awful blue. Teal, I guess? They were never gonna match with anything and I think he was a little miffed by how much they stood out. And not in an edgy and-slash-or cool way.

[ she fills two glasses with water and hands one to anya. ] He wasn't here for long. A month and a half, maybe.

[strangelyliteral]

[She takes the offered glass, scrunching her brows as she tries to picture it; Xander with wings. Xander with bright, teal wings that would clash horribly with things around it.

But it seemed to fit, in a way. It just wasn't terribly easy to imagine.]

... That's all? [It's surprising in other ways. Xander always seemed to be the one stuck at Buffy's side, no matter what happened to the rest.]

[herotypical]

...It happens. I guess this place gets more greedy with some than it is with others. You, for example. This is the first I've seen of you, here.

[strangelyliteral]

I'd know if I was here before, wouldn't I? Or does that go back into the whole weird... time thing.

[She remembers that there's a cup of water in her hands and lifts it up to sip from.]

[herotypical]

Sometimes folks know. Sometimes they don't remember a thing. Sometimes it slowly comes back. I don't think there's any known rhyme or reason.

[strangelyliteral]

Well that blows.

[Short and to the point.] So ... is there a plan? Anything?

[herotypical]

[ DEEP BREATH.

you can do this, summers.

just be honest. try not to flinch. don't slouch. ]

No. Not...nah, no plan. Per se.

[strangelyliteral]

What do you mean, no plan? What have you been doing?

[herotypical]

Surviving. [ she drains her water glass in one great gulp. ] Look, it's not easy for me to say -- okay? But better brains than mine have been sloshing themselves around this problem for years. I can't even begin to describe the things that've already been tried. Some of them as recently as last month.

[strangelyliteral]

... So what are we doing here, exactly? We're just - stuck? Playthings for the commandos?

[herotypical]

Guinea pigs. Lab rats. Mavericks. Take your pick.

[strangelyliteral]

You've got to be kidding me. [Except this is Buffy. She doesn't kid. Anya knows that. And knowing that, she just... decides to finish off her water.

Maybe something stronger would be better.] Keep talking.

[herotypical]

Every two months -- like clockwork -- New Feathers arrive. That's what you are, currently. A newbie. This has been going on for...oh, God. A long time. But it wasn't always so regular.

[strangelyliteral]

What, there are different titles for seniority? Is that how I have to introduce myself here? "Hi, I am Anya. I am a New Feather. How old are your feathers?"

[herotypical]

The way I see it? You're a New Feather until the next batch shows up. Or until you start reacting to every new reveal with indignant surprise. That second one can sometimes take a while.

[strangelyliteral]

And then what?

[herotypical]

You find somewhere to live. You make friendly with the other captives. You...try not to get killed.

[strangelyliteral]

And who are the big bads around here?

[herotypical]

That depends on who you ask. Most of us would say the Malnosso -- they're the ones that keep us locked up, experimented upon, and stamped. The Malnosso would say it's the Cultists. Which...they're not wrong. The Cultists do want us dead. And other times? The big bads are among us.

[strangelyliteral]

Are there any here now?

[herotypical]

...There's a guy named Loki that no one's quite too sure of.

[strangelyliteral]

Took out all the others, huh?